Stories from Everybody's Magazine, 1910
by Unknown
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman

THE LAYING OF THE MONSTER

BY THEODOSIA GARRISON

Dorothea reposed with her shoulders in the shade of the bulkhead
and her bare feet burrowing in the sun-warmed sand. Beneath her
shoulder blades was a bulky and disheveled volume--a bound year
of Godey's Lady Book of the vintage of the early seventies.
Having survived the handling of three generations, this seemed to
take naturally to being drenched with rain and warped by sun, or,
as at the present moment, serving its owner either as a
sand-pillow or as a receptacle for divers scribbled verses on its
fly-leaves and margins.

It was with a poem now that Dorothea was wrestling, as she
wriggled her toes in the sand and gazed blankly oceanward. Under
the scorching August sun, the Atlantic seemed to purr like a
huge, amiable lion cub.

It was not the amiabilities of nature, however, in which Dorothea
found inspiration. A harp of a single string, she sang as that
minstrel might who was implored to make love alone his theme.

Given an imaginative young person of eleven, who, when not
abandoning herself utterly to athletics, has secret and continual
access to the brand of literature peculiar to the "Seaside
Library," and the result is obvious. Dorothea's mother read
recipes; her father was addicted to the daily papers. It was only
in her grandmother that Dorothea found a literary taste she
approved. On that cozy person's bookshelves one could always find
what happened to Goldie or what the exquisite Irish heroine said
to the earl before she eloped with the captain.

In this knowledge Dorothea's parents had no ambition that their
daughter should excel. In fact, an uncompromising edict on the
subject had been given forth more than once to a sullen and
rebellious sinner. But how should the most suspicious parent,
when his daughter sits in his presence apparently engrossed in a
book entitled "The Girlhood of Famous Women," guess that
carefully concealed in its interior is a smaller volume bearing
the title "Muriel's Mistake, or, For Another's Sin?"

Having acquired knowledge, the true student seeks to demonstrate.
Dorothea had promptly and intentionally fallen in love with the
son of her next-door neighbor. Amiel--fresh from his first year
in college-- was a tall, broad-shouldered youth, with kindly
brown eyes and a flash of white teeth when he smiled. In contrast
to the small boys and the sober-going fathers of families in
which the summer colony abounded, he shone, as Dorothea's
favorite novelists would have expressed it, "like a Greek god."

It was this unsuspecting person whom Dorothea had, at first
sight, elected to be the Hero of her Dreams. She trailed him,
moreover, with a persistency that would have done credit to a
detective. Did he go to the post-office, he was sure to meet
Dorothea returning (Lady Ursula, strolling through her estate,
comes upon her lover unawares). Dorothea, emulating her heroine's
example by vaulting a fence and cutting across lots, could be
found also strolling (if slightly breathless) as he approached.

She timed her day, as far as possible, with his. Would he swim,
play tennis, or go crabbing--there was Dorothea. Would he repose
in the summerhouse hammock and listen to entire pages declaimed
from Tennyson and Longfellow, the while being violently
swung--his slave was ready. She read no story in which she was
not the heroine and Amiel the hero. At the same time, she was
perfectly and painfully conscious in the back of her brain that
Amiel regarded her only as a sun-browned, crop-headed tomboy, who
had an extraordinary facility for remembering all the poetry she
had ever read, and who amused and interested him as his own small
sister might. Outwardly she kept strictly to this role--a purely
natural one--while inwardly she soared dizzily from fantasy to
fantasy, even while her physical body was plunging in the waves
or leaping on the tennis court.

Could Amiel have had the slightest insight into the fancies
seething in his small neighbor's mind, he would have been
astounded to the verge of doubting her reason. Little did he
know, as he stood now on the bulkhead and looked down at her,
that at the moment Dorothea was finishing mentally a poem in
which with "wild tears" and "clasping hands," he had bidden her
an eternal farewell--by moonlight. She was, moreover, perturbed
by the paucity of her native language. There appeared to be
nothing to rhyme with "love" except "shove," "above," and "dove."
Of these one was impossible and two were trite. Scowling fiercely
at the ocean, she finally gave the bird to the hungry line and
repeated the final couplet doubtfully:

   " `Farewell,' he said. `Ah, love, my love,   
   My heart is breaking for thee, Dove.' "

"Look out!" said a voice above her. "I'm going to jump."

Dorothea sat up delightedly, with her bare, brown legs tucked
beneath her, Turk-like, as she welcomed him. ("Ah! Beloved," said
Lady Ursula with her hand on her fluttering heart.) "Hello," said
Dorothea, with a wide grin.

He flung himself down beside her and surveyed her with amusement.
"Been digging holes with your head?" he asked affably. "Your hair
and eyelashes look it. Been here all the afternoon?"

"Yes," she said. "I saw you go riding after lunch. I've been here
ever since. I love to be on the beach when there isn't a lot of
people bothering around. Then"--she made a wide gesture with her
brown hand-- "all of it seems to belong to me, not broken up in
little bits for everybody." She shook her cropped head
vigorously, and the sand pelted down her shoulders.

"Well," he said, watching this operation, "you came near taking
your little bit to the house with you to keep, didn't you? How
long have you worn your hair cropped like that, Dorothea? Was it
when you decided to be captain of a ball team?"

He drew a box of chocolates from his pocket and tossed it over to
her. She caught it neatly on her outstretched palm, as a boy
would have done, and nibbled squirrel-like as she talked. She did
not resent being teased by Amiel--she liked it, rather, as
representing a perfect understanding between them. Also, once
removed from the high hills of romance, she was not devoid of
humor.

"It was cut in June--before you came. They didn't want me to, but
I just begged them. It was such a nuisance bathing and then
flopping about drying afterward, and being sent upstairs all day
long to make it smooth."

"You funny kid," he said. "You don't care how you look, do you?
You ought to have been a boy. What have you been doing down here
all by yourself?"

"Reading--and--listening," said Dorothea vaguely. She folded
Godey's Lady Book tightly to her chest. Lady Ursula or no Lady
Ursula, she would have died--with black, bitter shame at the
thought of any eye but her own falling upon the penciled lines
therein. The horror of ridicule is the black shadow that hangs
over youth. That strange, inner world of her own Dorothea shared
with nothing more substantial than her dreams.

"Listening?" he inquired.

"To the ocean," explained Dorothea. "It was high tide when I came
down, and the waves boom-boomed like that, as though it were
saying big words down in its chest, you know."

"And what were the wild waves saying?"

"Oh, big words like--" she thought a moment, her small, sunburnt
face serious and intent. "Oh, like

   "Robert of Sicily, Brother of Pope Urbane
    And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine."

she intoned deeply. "You see?"

"Absolutely," he said enjoyingly. "And so you weren't lonesome?"

Dorothea, who had spent her afternoon in a region peopled with
interesting and exquisite figures, shook her head.

"You don't get lonesome when you think," she said--"imagine" was
the word she meant; she used the other as appealing to his
understanding. Suddenly the vague, introspective look left her
face; she turned to him with the expression of one imparting
pleasing tidings. "My friend is coming to-morrow to stay a week,"
she said. "You remember I told you that mother had asked her.
Well, she's coming down with father to-morrow. She has never been
to the seashore before. You'll take us crabbing, won't you,
Amiel? And if we have a bonfire you'll ask father to let us stay
up, won't you?"

"Sure," he said good-naturedly. "What's her name?"

"Her name is Jennie Clark, and she lives next door to us in the
city, and we're going to have fun--fun--fun," chanted Dorothea.
"Come on." She sprang lightly to her feet and dug her shoes and
stockings out of the sand. "We can have a game of tennis before
dinner."

Clutching her book with her shoes and stockings, she raced with
him to the steps that led to the bulkhead, and from that
eminence--with the air of one performing an accustomed act--she
clambered on the fence that separated the green lawns from beach
to avenue. This, with a fine disregard for splinters, she
proceeded to walk--her property tucked under her arm.

Amiel strode beside her on the lawn. She was as sure-footed as a
goat; but when he clutched her elbow as she performed a daring
pirouette, she offered no opposition, but proceeded sedately
beneath his hold. Why not? She had ceased to be Dorothea on her
way to a tennis game ("Lean heavily on me, dearest," whispered
Reginald, "the chapel is in sight. Bear up a little longer").
With a weary sigh the Lady Ursula slid finally from the gate-post
to the ground and proceeded to put on her stockings.

Jennie Clark arrived duly and was received, if not rapturously,
at least hospitably. To be frank, Jennie Clark was not among
those first suggested by Dorothea as a prospective visitor. Of
her own private and particular friends some five had been
rejected by a too censorious parent, mainly, it seemed, because
of a lack of personal charm--Dorothea preferring a good sport
from the gutter, as it were, to a dull fairy from a dancing
school.

Jennie had been near, perilously near, the end of Dorothea's
list. Her sole claims to Dorothea's friendship were that, living
next door, she was available on rainy days when greater delights
failed, and that Dorothea, by a dramatic relation of a ghost
story, could hypnotize her into a terrified and wholly fascinated
wreck.

Jennie was thirteen, a very young thirteen--pretty and mindless
as a Persian kitten--but developing rapidly a coquettish instinct
for the value of a red ribbon in her dark curls, and the set of a
bracelet on her plump arm. Beside her curves and curls and pretty
frilled frocks, Dorothea, in her straight, blue flannel playing
suit or stiff afternoon pique', with her cropped blonde head,
suggested nothing so much as wire opposed to a sofa cushion.

She was in white pique' this afternoon. To meet one's friend at
the station was an event. Dorothea was honestly excited and
happy, and she was not at all pained that Jennie Clark's first
greeting was a comment on her short hair and her sunburn.

By what might have seemed to the unobserving a happy coincidence,
Amiel, strolling from his house to the beach with his after-
dinner pipe, was hailed by Dorothea from the summerhouse. She had
run the unsuspecting Miss Clark very hard to arrive at the
psychological moment. Joining them there, he was duly presented
to Jennie Clark, and Dorothea, accepting the courteous fashion in
which he acknowledged the introduction as an indirect compliment
to herself, was elated. Jennie was certainly very pretty. She
tossed back her long curls and talked to Amiel with an occasional
droop of her long lashes, and Dorothea, beaming upon them both,
had no notion that, hovering above her in the quiet twilight, the
green- eyed Monster was even then scenting its victim and
preparing to strike.

Presently Dorothea's father and mother and Amiel's stout and
amiable parents joined their offspring in the summerhouse. One of
the affable, if uninteresting, neighbors came as well and,
promptly introducing a banjo as a reason for his being, lured the
assembled company into song.

Dorothea, snuggled into her corner, blissfully conscious of
Amiel's careless arm about her shoulder, gave herself up to
happiness. The night was soft as velvet, sewn with the gold
spangles of stars. The waves whispered secrets to each other as
they waited for the moon to rise. Dorothea, rapturously using the
atmosphere as a background for Lady Ursula, became suddenly aware
that the singing of "Juanita" in six different keys had ceased,
and that Jennie, having been discovered to be the possessor of a
voice, was singing alone. She had an exquisite little pipe, and
she sang the dominating sentimental song of the year with ease if
not with temperament. Its close was greeted with instant and
enthusiastic applause. Jennie became instantly the center of
attraction.

It was Amiel who urged her to sing again, Amiel who seized upon
the banjo and accompanied her triumphantly through a college
song, turning his back squarely upon Dorothea the while.

Dorothea sat up straight, a sudden, bewildering anger at her
heart as she watched them. In the midst of the song she announced
casually that the moon was coming up. No one paid the slightest
attention to her except the calling neighbor, who said "Hush!"

An instant later, the instant that saw Amiel lay a commending and
fraternal hand on Jennie's curls, the Monster struck. Jealousy
had no firmer grip of beak and talons on the Moor of Venice than
on the crop-headed Dorothea. In absolute self- defense she did an
unprecedented and wholly unexpected thing. Without warning she
burst into song, even as Jennie was coyly preparing for an
encore.

   "O fair dove, O fond dove.  
   O dove with the white, white breast,"

shrilled Dorothea to her startled audience. This was the same
song with which Lady Ursula invariably brought blinding, bitter
tears to the eyes of those assembled at picnics and hunt balls.
It had an opposite effect upon Dorothea's auditors. With
apparently one accord they burst into hilarious mirth, comment,
and expostulation.

"My child!" "Where did you get that absurd song?" "Dorothea,
never try to sing again. I forbid it." This last from her father.

It was Amiel who commented admiringly on the fact that Dorothea
with practice might go through an entire song without once
touching upon the tune and time, and Jennie who giggled
enjoyingly and said, "Oh, Dorothea, you're awfully funny."

Dorothea sat out the rest of the evening in stony silence, which
nobody regarded. She refused to join in the various choruses-- no
one noticed the omission in the least. When at last she walked to
the house with Amiel between herself and Jennie, and haughtily
shrugged her shoulder away from his hand, he continued listening
to Jennie's prattle without giving the slightest attention to her
aloofness.

Long after Jennie was asleep, Dorothea, wide-eyed, communed with
the Monster. This was not an imitation Lady Ursula jealousy at
all. That was an interesting game at which one played when Amiel
occasionally walked and talked with some stray damsel in the
colony. She had no real jealousy of the young ladyhood that at
times intruded. But this was different; here she was out- ranked
in HER OWN CLASS. In that lay the sting. She reflected dismally
that this was only Tuesday and that Jennie was to stay until the
following Monday.

She was perfectly and miserably fair in recounting Jennie's
attractions as contrasted with her own. She, Dorothea, could, at
demand, which was seldom, reel off pages of poetry; Jennie could
sing--to appreciative audiences. Dorothea could swim and dive;
Jennie had curly hair. Plainly, Jennie had all the best of it. It
remained only for Dorothea not to forget the courtesy due a guest
and, above all, oh, above everything, not to show the slightest
trace of the jealousy that consumed her. Lady Ursula had several
times been the life of the party when her heart was breaking. Her
proud smile had never faltered in the presence of her rival.
Well, neither would Dorothea's. She assumed it instantly in the
darkness by way of immediate practice, and fell asleep with the
result plastered upon her face.

In the morning the Monster, wearied perhaps by his session of the
night before, seemed to lie dormant. Dorothea woke jubilant as
the morn and, having roused her friend by the gentle method of
half stifling her with a pillow, rushed her through her dressing
and led her forth.

The ocean welcomed them with rapture; it caught the sun for them
and threw it back in millions and millions of living, rainbowed
diamonds. The world was all gold and blue and tremulous with
clean salt winds. It seemed ridiculous that one could be unhappy
on such a day. Dorothea danced pagan-like at the wave edge while
Jennie watched demurely from the bulkhead.

However, it appeared that even on a day like this one could carry
black envy at one's heart. It was during the bathing hour that
the Monster again asserted himself--this time for no indefinite
stay. As a rule, the bathing hour was one in which Dorothea
reveled. Arrayed in her faded bathing suit, guiltless of skirt or
sleeves, her prowess as an amphibious creature had been highly
commended by that one for whose praise she would gladly have
precipitated herself from the highest pier.

In vain to-day did she perform feats of daring and agility that
would have done credit to a flying fish. No one had eyes for her
except an agitated mother and grandmother, who finally ordered
her summarily out of the water and into the bath house.

Amiel had occupied himself in coaxing Jennie into the water and
giving her primary instructions in swimming. Jennie, in the
daintiest red and white suit that could be imagined, skirted and
stockinged, with her curls escaping from a coquettish red
handkerchief, timorously advancing and drawing back from the wave
rush with little, appealing cries, was as fascinating as a
playful kitten.

Dorothea regarded her with the disgust of the seasoned veteran
for the raw recruit. This, however, her erstwhile friend might
have been pardoned for not suspecting, seeing that whenever she
caught Dorothea's eye she was immediately the recipient of a wide
and beaming smile that even one less vain might have accepted as
a tribute to her attractions. It never wavered even while Jennie
shook down her long curls ostensibly to let the sun dry a single
lock that in some unaccountable way had felt the touch of a wave.
Beamingly Dorothea heard Amiel humorously contrast this brown
glory with her own short crop. Beamingly she fell into the plans
for the crabbing party that afternoon. However, it was this
lightsome expedition that laid the last straw upon the Monster's
back.

The gentle art of crabbing involves the carrying of a
long-handled net and a huge basket, and a stop at the butcher's
to purchase unsavory lumps of meat for bait.

Hitherto Dorothea had always proudly and vehemently insisted upon
carrying the basket the long, hot mile to the bay. To-day, as
Amiel dropped the bait in and handed it to her as a matter of
course, she accepted it with the look of the proud spirit that
will not cry out beneath indignities. She hung the basket over
her blue flanneled arm and trudged valiantly before them.

The afternoon was one of long and unprecedented martyrdom.
Dorothea reviewed it as she changed into her white pique' for
dinner, the while beamingly advising Jennie as to the selection
of hair ribbons. SHE had vaulted fences; Jennie had been
assisted. SHE had baited lines; Jennie's had been baited. The
fact that a week before the offer of help in that delicate
operation would have been regarded as an insult to her
intelligence failed to occur to her to-day. She burned with
humiliation as she remembered that after a half hour of seeing
Jennie's line carefully prepared, she had handed her own to Amiel
with the air of one doing only what was expected of her. Amiel,
in return, had stared at her, and in the tone he might have used
to a younger brother had said briefly, "Well, go on and bait it.
What's the matter?" She had baited it. Also, she had carried home
the net while Amiel had borne the spoils and protested
courteously when Jennie offered an assisting hand. It was dreary
consolation to realize that never for a moment had the proud
smile wavered. She was beginning to feel as though an elastic
band had been stretched for hours under her nose and behind her
ears, and the sole comment her lofty amiability had drawn forth
had been a reference to the famed animal of Cheshire.

From her window she presently saw Jennie, all rosy muslin and
tossing curls, strolling beachward with Amiel. The sight nerved
her to demonstrate an idea that had occurred to her inspiringly
during the day. Once by simply placing a dewy rose in her golden
torrent of hair, Lady Ursula had brought the ball room to her
feet. In emulation, Dorothea extracted a hair ribbon from
Jennie's stock and, failing other means, tied it bandage-wise
about her head. The result was not coquettish. It suggested only
accident or disease. She removed it wearily, and sat down on the
edge of the bed to think. Plainly, she could not compete with
Jennie on the grounds of beauty or accomplishments. Apparently
the fact of being able to swim, vault, and leap from vast heights
constituted none of these things. And yet, before Jennie
arrived--and doubtless after Jennie departed--after these five
interminable days that stretched before her--but why five?

The dinner bell rang insistently. Some one was calling her from
the stairs. Dorothea sat still, with her arms folded on the
bedpost and a new thought playing like summer lightning in her
brain. The thought gradually resolved itself into a problem. It
was well enough to decide that Jennie must go--the problem was
how to make her go. A telegram or a letter summoning her home? A
good idea if there were any one in the city to send it. That was
obviously impossible.

Dorothea walked downstairs with her brows knitted in thought
above the unchanging smile, and in her eyes the look of the rapt
soul momentarily expecting inspiration.

The inspiration arrived during that hour  when the denizens of
the little colony sat ring-wise about the beach fire.

The neighbor with the banjo had done his worst, and desisted;
Jennie had piped through her repertoire and was now graciously
accepting the support of Amiel's arm. Dorothea and the Monster,
somewhat withdrawn from the circle, watched a crooked moon lift
itself above the horizon and lay a trail of opal glory on the
waves. Still awaiting inspiration, she regarded it with as little
interest as Lucretia Borgia might have given the sunset that
preceded one of her little poisoning dinners.

Presently, as befitted the atmosphere and hour, the talk of the
little circle fell upon things ghostly and mysterious--strange
happenings and prophetic dreams. Dorothea, who had a love of
horrors, lent a suddenly attentive ear; but Jennie, though
plainly fascinated, uttered a protesting plaint. "Oh, please
stop! You don't know how you frighten me! Dorothea has had some
awfully queer things happen to her, and it scares me almost to
death when she tells about them."

Mirth followed the announcement of Dorothea's occult powers,
which, needless to say, had come as a surprise to her immediate
family.

Dorothea paid no attention whatever. Instead she rose to her feet
and, flinging her arms wide, yawned elaborately. It was a
delicate suggestion, which caused the men to look at their
watches, and the party forthwith dispersed.

Dorothea, for all the sand in her shoes, seemed to walk to the
house on air. The inspiration had arrived, fully accoutered, as
it were, on the breath of Jennie's complaint.

The work in hand called for the dexterity of the true artist.
With managerial instinct, Dorothea, repelling any attempt at
conversation, waited only until Jennie was comfortably ensconced
in bed, to turn the lamp down so that it glimmered in sickly
fashion, before beginning proceedings. Then, seating herself
beside the bed--an eerie figure in her straight, white gown--she
shook her head dismally and indulged in a heartfelt sigh. Jennie,
her nerves already on edge with the ghost stories of the hour
before, turned startled eyes upon her.

"What is the matter? What is it?" she inquired anxiously.

"I--feel--strange," said Dorothea. She turned upon her victim a
face full of uncanny suggestion. Divested of its perpetual smile,
it seemed to Jennie as unfamiliar as a room from which an
accustomed piece of furniture had been moved.

"I feel--strange. Something terrible is happening somewhere.--I
can tell--I always can--I am going to have a vision--I can feel
it--It always comes like this." With a quick hand she
extinguished the lamp. "It will come in a dream," she muttered.
"Let me sleep, oh, let me sleep!"

She made a sweeping pass with her out- stretched hands and, after
a dramatic pause, fell heavily on her pillow, where she instantly
proceeded to fall into a deep and trance-like slumber--a slumber
that prevailed through the terrified questionings, whimperings,
and agitated shakings by her friend.

It is an awesome thing to seek repose beside one wrapped in
trance; it is worse to traverse unlighted halls and ghostly
stairs in an effort to awake the gifted medium's family. Wrapped
in terror as in an icy sheet, after divers Herculean efforts to
rouse the log beside her, the responsive victim fell into a
troubled slumber with her head well under the bedclothes.

The gray dawn was in the room when she was awakened by what
seemed to be muffled sobs from--the figure beside her. In an
instant wide awake and palpitating, she fell upon Dorothea. "What
is it? Oh, what is it?" she cried.

"I have had it," said Dorothea in a sepulchral whisper. "The
vision. Oh," she turned dramatically from the instant question,
"I can't bear to tell you!--It was about you."

"Dorothea, you've GOT to tell me! I think you're HORRID. I'm
going right downstairs to tell your mother."

"Of course I'm going to tell you," said the sybil crossly. She
resumed her chest tones hurriedly. "I must tell you. It was sent
to me to tell you. I wanted to prepare you."

"Prepare? Oh, Dorothea, what WAS it?"

Dorothea stood upright on the bed, and her eyes assumed the
expression of those that see inward--Jennie stared at her,
hypnotized, breathless.

"I saw a room," chanted the inspired one, "a room in a large
city. I can see it now. It is a bedroom. There are blue rugs on
the floor, and the furniture is oak. It has two windows. There is
a canary bird in one, and the other has a seat with blue
cushions."

"Why, that is my mother's room, Dorothea! You know it is."

"In the bed a woman is lying. She is sick. She is turning from
one side to the other--she says, `Oh, where is my daughter? I
want my daughter! Why doesn't she come back to me?'"

"Oh, Dorothea!" Jennie, tearful and excited, began to draw on her
clothes. "That was my mother! It must have been! Oh, Dorothea!"

The sybil drove in the fine point again. "`Why doesn't she come
back to me?'" she reiterated.

The program that had proceeded so smoothly now received an
unexpected hitch. Jennie paused suddenly in her garmenting,
relief growing in her face.

"After all," she observed, "I don't believe mother had anything
more than one of her sick-headaches. She has them all the time. I
wouldn't go home just for that. I do believe that is it,
Dorothea."

It was time for rapid thought. Another moment and the fine
dramatic work of the morning would have gone for naught. For a
moment Dorothea staggered, but for a moment only. "I didn't tell
you everything," she said mysteriously. "Your mother is not alone
in the bed. She is holding something in her arms. She is
saying--" she paused to give her climax its full effect-- "`Oh,
why doesn't Jennie come home to see her little sister?'"

"Her little--?--Dorothea!"

It behooves the villain to be without conscience. No slightest
shame visited the brazen one's heart at the sight of Jennie's
instant joy and excitement. Modestly she accepted the tribute to
her uncanny power; obligingly she assisted her friend to pack;
martyr-like she acquiesced in Jennie's decision that the first
train after breakfast would be none too early to bear her to that
long-coveted delight--a baby sister. Moreover, she cannily
advised her friend as to the mode of proceeding. "If you tell
them downstairs why you are going, they may not let you. They
don't know about visions. Just tell them that you're going home
and NOTHING ELSE."

This advice, followed to the letter, produced no little agitation
at the breakfast table. Jennie simply announced her intention of
immediate departure; all questions as to her health, happiness,
and possible reasons were met only with a parrot-like repetition
of the fact. Upon closer pressing she gave way to hysterical
tears, Dorothea the while assisting the scene with round,
innocent eyes and the bewildered air of one suddenly made aware
of an impending event.

The solution was presently found by a sympathetic and consoling
circle--the child was homesick; she wanted her mother. Assuredly
that explained everything. The lure of sails and picnics having
failed, Dorothea's mother came to a decision with sympathetic
tears in her eyes and a glance toward her own innocent. "She
shall take the first train home if she wants to. The child
sha'n't be miserable. No, don't urge her, Bob. I was homesick
myself once, and I understand perfectly."

Dorothea reposed in the shade of the bulkhead, sand on her person
and a great peace in her heart, upon which the Monster,
departing, had left no scar. Under her head was the Godey's
Lady's Book, in which, over the picture of a brocaded pelisse,
she had recently finished a poem in which "lover" rhymed-- with
"forever." Amiel, cross-legged on the sand beside her, was
whistling gently as he industriously whittled at a bit of
driftwood, little suspecting that at the moment he was taking tea
in a bower with Lady Ursula.

Presently he drew a letter from his pocket and flipped it over to
Dorothea. "Your mother asked me to give you this," he said. "She
thought it might be from that pretty little friend of yours."

Dorothea opened the letter with some trepidation. Presently a
bland smile over- spread her countenance. The day of reckoning
that she expected to dawn upon her next meeting with her victim
melted cloud-like as she read:

Dear Dorothea:

I arrived home safely. It's just as well I did, because my aunt
was waiting to take me to Lake George, but you made a mistake in
the vision. It wasn't my mother. It was Mrs. Gray across the
street and hers is a boy, but I think that was very near.

I think the vision was perfectly wonderful, but I am glad I don't
have them. My mother says I can come again later if your mother
wants me. I didn't tell her why I came home, because she doesn't
believe in them either.

She presented her love to several people and added in a
postscript, "Let me know at Lake George if you have another."

Dorothea tore the letter into minute scraps and gave them over to
the sea breeze.

"Well," queried Amiel idly, "what does she say?"

"She says she arrived safely," said Dorothea.

*****************************************************************
Vol. XXIII  No.1 JULY     1910

{pages 44-55} THE GOLD BRICK AND THE GOLD MINE

Fake Mining Schemes that Steal the People's Savings

By EMERSON HOUGH

Author of "The Mississippi Bubble," "54-40 or Fight," etc.

EDITOR'S NOTE.--It is time vigorous efforts were made to stop the
cruel frauds perpetrated on the name of one of the world's
greatest industries. Mining is a legitimate and honorable
enterprise. It contributes immensely to the national wealth. It
has been the source of some of our great fortunes. Because there
is something magical in the suggestion of gold or coal or copper
taken out of the ground, sharpers have made mining an instrument
of successful deception. They have tricked people into investing
their savings in worthless or even non-existent mines. Perhaps
you who read this have bitten at an advertisement in a reputable
publication, which pretended to place the wealth of some western
El Dorado at your feet for a few hundred dollars. Doubtless your
money has disappeared. It is for the purpose of giving you the
protection of a knowledge both of legitimate mining and of the
ways of thieves that this article is published.

AMERICA is the land of the free and the country of opportunity
for all. Incidentally, it is free hunting-ground for sharpers,
and a land of opportunity for the unscrupulous. No such chances
for fraudulent business exist anywhere else in the world.
Americans are the richest people on earth, and the most easily
parted from their money. Those whose sole ambition is to get rich
quick very frequently help some other man to get rich quick.
Society owes no debt to either of these. It is obliged to support
them both. This is wrong both as a moral and as an industrial
proposition. Once, a dollar was spent to mine a dollar. To-day
two are spent: One dollar goes into blasting powder, the other
into advertising and office furniture.

No doubt you have heard the age-old legend of the Mother Vein of
Gold, which appears and vanishes, now and again, in this corner
of the world. Superstition regarding this great original vein of
gold is found wherever men seek the precious metal. The feverish
Spaniards called this phantom lode the Madre d'Oro, or "Mother of
Gold." Now it is located in Mexico, now in India or Peru,
California or Australia. Tradition says that Montezuma got his
gold from this great vein, which lay in a secret valley whose
where-abouts was jealously guarded by three priests of the war
tribe, sole possessors of the knowledge. Any intruder who by
chance or design looked down into this valley was smitten
absolutely blind. Tradition among the successors of the Aztecs
says that when Montezuma passed, the Madre d'Oro sank back again
into the earth, and has been seen no more. Men still follow the
phantom vein. Those who see it, even in their dreams, still are
smitten blind.

Gold! There is no other word that means quite so much. We want
gold; indeed, we must have it. Malleable, divisible,
indestructible, rare, it is the indispensable medium of exchange.
It is our chosen unit of power and success, the measure of
civilization and human attainment. Hence it has always been the
object of human desire. The Golden Fleece very probably was the
sheepskin bottom of an old-time sluice-box, in a day when they
used wool, instead of blankets, below the rocker troughs. In the
vast ruined civilization of Southeast Africa unknown men once
mined probably $400,000,000 worth of gold. There are mines
profitably operated in Greece to-day which the Phoenicians opened
1,200 B. C. Sixteen hundred years later the Romans owned all the
mines in Europe. Hannibal once paid his warriors in gold coin of
Carthage. Egypt was settled by the Semitic races 2,500 B. C.,
because of the gold that was found there. A thousand years later
Job knew about gold, and five hundred years later still, King
Solomon showed what an abundance of wives and what a reputation
for wisdom a man can get when he has unlimited gold mines back of
him. Columbus found America when he was searching for the wealth
of Ormus and of Ind. Cortez and Pizarro toiled and slew in the
hope of finding the Madre d'Oro. The great discoveries of the
world have been made by men in search of gold. The great voyages
of exploration were in part piratical voyages made in search of
gold already found and mined by others.

HONEST MINING IN HANNIBAL'S TIME

But there is to be said about gold mining ways of the old time,
that Tyre sought gold with actual ships, with actual men and
mining implements. The peninsula of Sinai did not sell stock, but
mined actual gold. Gold in those days meant actual risk and
courage. Perhaps even then fraudulent promoters weren't unknown;
but he who ventured, in the days of Vespasian or Hannibal or
Hiram, too prominently to gild the gold brick certainly lost his
head. The mining of gold was then a sober and serious and honest
matter.

In America we place the gold brick ahead of the gold mine. We mix
alloy of duplicity and greed with the virgin metal of our
standard of value. By improved mining methods we nearly double
our output of gold, and so cheapen it by well-nigh a half. This
shrunken gold dollar is small enough; but that is not all. We
adulterate and divide it by, say, another half when we falsely
double its cost. This we certainly do when we issue counterfeit
promises as against good coin; for in civilization and commerce
always the genuine coinage has to pay the cost of the
counterfeit. Your tailor charges you a stiff price for your suit
of clothes. That covers the clothes of the dead beats who did not
pay. To allow the sale of a fraudulent mining stock is to
depreciate the basis of this country's values. Such a wrong ought
not to be allowed in a country claiming an enlightened
government.

It is the thief who is protected in America, not his dupe. The
old law of caveat emptor protects the SELLER of fake mining
stocks, not the BUYER of them. There is little or no actually
enforced law to protect the latter. That is to say, there is
little or no actually enforced law to protect those who most need
protection, those of small incomes, orphans who have no
guardians, wage earners who have little education, widows whose
life insurance is not quite enough to support them, women engaged
in the desperate battle of life and needing more money, quick
money, better to protect themselves. The fence between these and
the natural perils of the world is slight enough. In America we
break it down entirely.

We offer these helpless ones freely as victims to the greater
cunning and strength of men wholly without sense of business
honor or personal decency. When we do this, we also attack the
whole system of savings banks, which is, or should be, the very
bulwark of a nation's financial safety. Says the wolf to the
widow, to the busy professional man, to the clerk, the
stenographer, the wage earner: "Take your money out of the
savings bank. What is three per cent. a year, when I can make you
three hundred per cent. a year? Give your money to me!" We permit
that. Our national government does not undertake to put a stop to
it; our states do not undertake to do so; and this fact is more
possible through actual lack of proper statutes than through any
misinterpretation or lack of enforcement of the law.

The field is one devised by nature for the trickster. His success
does not depend altogether on human gullibility; part of his
argument rests on the conditions which surround the industry of
mining, one which never can be free of extreme risk. All men know
that gold is found far away, where living is high and means of
transportation are scarce; that it costs large sums to find and
dig it, and that such sums are more easily raised among the many
than among the few. None of these attending features has weight
to stop the capitalization of bona-fide enterprises. These latter
are used as bait by men who have nothing bona-fide to offer, and
who make their fattest profits out of their shallowest shafts.

THE "SUCKER LIST" IN WALL STREET

Methods vary among such fraudulent operators, but new victims
continually are found. The "sucker list" of one firm in Wall
Street numbers 110,000 names, selected as those of persons who
will bite more than once at a mining scheme, and whose records
show that they have so bitten. This operator proudly declares
that the only way a sucker can get his name off that list is to
die. In the reorganization of the firm of Douglas, Lacey & Co.,
of New York City, it was discovered that 20,000 persons had money
invested in stocks of the company.

The best bait in this particular operation was a "trust fund"
established for the benefit of stockholders. The proceeds of the
better-paying mines were to be applied to pay dividends for those
which were less successful. In this way, the various directors of
the many Douglas-Lacey Companies explained, it was impossible for
the investors to lose. But they did lose. The reorganization,
intended to save some of the better properties, wiped out more
than seventy per cent. of the small stockholders--widows,
schoolteachers, stenographers, washwomen, scrubwomen--all who
once had a dollar in the stocking.

Burr Brothers, Inc., of New York, used the effective bait of the
instalment plan of payment. Their literature and advertising
offered sudden wealth at twenty cents a share, payments to be in
instalments, "the best twenty offers" to be accepted. It was
pointed out that if one made one's weekly payment large enough to
be included among the fortunate twenty, one could have a nice,
clean certificate sent to one immediately, and pay for it at
one's leisure. If you think the operators could not afford to do
that, you are ignorant. There was an old negro woman in the South
who often importuned her white friends for funds to build a
certain somewhat mythical church. They asked her what she
received for the time spent in collecting. "I has what I gits,"
was her frank response. She enunciated a great modern mining
principle which has made fortunes in Denver, Butte, New York,
Boston, and many other places where handsome lithographic work is
done, and where advertising space can be bought in journals
considered reputable.

NEW ENGLAND "DONE" BY AN INSANE MAN

Sometimes there are victims in enterprises of this sort where
there probably was no deliberate intent to deceive or to defraud.
Not long ago, in Boston, one Henry D. Reynolds, formerly
president of the Reynolds Alaska Development Company, was brought
before the United States Circuit Court on the charge of using the
United States mails with intent to defraud. Three alienists are
said to have declared him insane. In 1907 ex-Governor John G.
Brady, of Alaska, endorsed Reynolds and his schemes, and is
reported to have collected in New England about $450,000 for
these Reynolds projects. Brady gave "lectures" and stereopticon
exhibitions in New England churches. Reynolds took out an
excursion of Boston and New England investors to Prince William
Sound, at one time, and showed them the seacoast of Alaska,
practically all of which he claimed to own. At Boulder Bay he
took his party into a long tunnel, the face of which they were
told was composed of solid copper ore. When they emerged into the
garish light of day, each was given a bright copper nugget, said
to have come from the mine.

ALASKA REYNOLDSIZED

Really, according to local report, these nuggets of native copper
had been taken from sluice boxes on Chittitu Creek, 235 miles
inland. Reynolds, so ran the story, had treated them with an acid
bath to brighten them, knowing that bright bait is better. At any
rate, the good, sober New Englanders went back home and sent him
$300,000 more, which set him entirely "dippy," in local phrase.

Reynolds's scheme was to run all the barber shops, laundries,
bars, and pretty much everything else on the Alaskan coast. A
certain Sam Blum had a store and bank; Reynolds wanted it; and
Blum, it is alleged, annexed $50,000 of the New England money as
a forfeited first payment on his property. A steamship company,
it was said, got $75,000 of money on a forfeit. So the good New
England savings merrily disappeared, in one of the most
spectacular farces ever known in Alaska; which latter is too good
and valid and valuable a national possession to permit to be
Reynoldsized, as it has been. Reynolds, in the belief of one who
knew him well, was a combination of the ignorant enthusiast, the
wild promoter, and the crazy man; and as for Brady, another
Alaskan called him "nothing worse than an innocent old ninny."
Yet, even with so sorry a mental equipment, these two took
something like half a million out of conservative New England!
The ease with which money can be raised for such enterprises by
the deliberately fraudulent or the unintentionally insane
continues one of the wonders of our civilization.

Another kind of bait offered is that of the "prominent name."
This has proved more useful in England than in this country.
Whittaker Wright was able to secure members of the nobility for
his boards of directors, and the English public swallowed his
schemes one after another, bait, hook, bob, and sinker. In this
country we have no lords whom we dearly love, so the names of
prominent literary or scientific men sometimes are employed by
wise promoters. A "prominent mining expert" is excellent bait.
Some good men have been used in this way, and the bait of their
reputation in other lines of activity has served to make ignorant
and innocent people of small means swallow the hook hid in the
lying statements which they have perhaps innocently, certainly
ignorantly, fathered. We are all familiar with the literature of
this class, sent to us under the guise of personal and intimate
confidence. Always that part of the communication is followed by
the blackfaced type where the stinger lies concealed. The words
AT ONCE usually come in capitals, as do LAST CHANCE, and PRICE
POSITIVELY WILL ADVANCE AFTER TEN DAYS. Millions and millions of
dollars have been extracted from the public by these means. There
is no law against it.

"ADJOINING" MINES--GOOD BAIT

Then there is the same old argument about wonderful properties
"adjoining" such and such a dividend-paying property. Very often
the properties are miles apart. They might be within twenty-five
feet of each other, and one still might be worthless and the
other rich. The profits of old and famous properties very
frequently are given in advertising literature of this class, "to
show what money there is in mining." The "property" sold may be a
ten-foot hole in a sand-bank two thousand miles from any of
these; yet this absurd argument is sufficient to extract coin
from the pocket of the American buyer. You can use Michigan to
tout him on to Arizona; Utah to land him in California; Mexico to
interest him in Alaska. Is it not true? There is no law against
it.

Again, the appeal to your mining pocket may come, not through the
advertising page, but in the proper person of the promoter or
owner himself. For instance, not long ago a gentleman from
California came into my office. He owned a mine on the old and
well-traced Mother Vein, of Tuolumne County, California. It had
been well opened, and showed, in development, according to a
reputable engineer's report, three million dollars' worth of ore
in sight, with many tons of the best ore already in the dump,
stuff which would run very high in value.

At the proper time the gentleman carefully produced from his
pocket a little ingot of pure gold, product of one test-mill run.
He gave the best of references as to his responsibility. He
offered to guarantee ten per cent. dividends on all money
invested, and declared that he had a banking proposition and not
a mine.

WHEELBARROW VS. $72,000

"My Christian friend," said I to him, "you seem to have a good
thing. How far is it from your mine dump to the nearest bank?"

"About five miles," he answered.

"In that case," said I, "it seems to me you don't need to sell a
hundred thousand dollars' worth of stock to build a stamp-mill.
You need only enough to buy yourself a good, strong wheelbarrow.
In two or three months you can thus build your own stamp-mill and
pay for it with ore, and still have your mine all in your own
hands."

He could not see it that way, and, pursuing his own method, he
took $72,000 in two weeks out of the city of Chicago, from some
of the best business men of that city. Now, perhaps he had a real
mine. I have no right to doubt that he had; but the point of
interest to the small investor is this: NEITHER HAVE I ANY RIGHT
TO BELIEVE THAT HE HAD. The thing for me to do, had I wished to
invest in this way, would have been to send an expert to see the
property personally.

ENTER THE FINANCIAL AGENT

In this game of plucking the dollars of the poor and the
ignorant, there has been a gradual improvement in methods. The
constant aim has been, first, to increase the amount of the
harvest; second, to reduce to a minimum the risk the reapers run
of detection and punishment by the authorities. Experience in
most lines of commercial activity has shown that the middlemen
often gather in the largest profits and have the smallest losses.
Many of those working the mining game--and by this is meant
selling stocks on wind and water--have made use of this fact.
To-day in the majority of cases we have, in place of the
prospector or the company selling stock direct to the suckers,
the financial or fiscal agent. He operates either under the name
of a banking firm or as a security company, which is generally a
registered trade-name intended as a cloak to cover the names of
individuals not desirous of publicity.

The financial agent of this description is in reality the
organizer and promoter of the mining company whose stock he
sells. But should trouble come along, he is the first to assert
that he has been deceived as well as his customers. He sells the
shares of the mine on a commission basis so large that
practically nothing is left for development. He takes out of the
money secured large salaries and the entire expense of
advertising and carrying on the exploitation. He prepares all the
literature. One of the advantages he claims for his proposition
is the wide distribution of the stock as a safeguard against
assault by wicked Wall Street interests.

CULLED TWO MILLIONS IN FOUR YEARS

In this wide distribution, however, lies one of his own greatest
safeguards against either criminal or civil prosecution.
Scattered over the country are his investors--the mill hand, the
poor seamstress, the humble artisan, whose total investments,
comprising perhaps all their savings, seldom exceed one hundred
dollars each; and, with their savings gone, there isn't money
left to pay carfare to the office of the financial agent, let
alone to undertake a civil suit or enlist the aid of the
authorities. The poor seamstress has no way of knowing any of her
fellow unfortunates. Hence the utter impossibility of cooperation
in seeking to get back their savings.

As an example of the fiscal agent, there may be cited the concern
of Douglas, Lacey & Company, already mentioned, a concern which
in four years, through its operations in this country and in
Canada, culled from the people of this country, according to its
own statement, over $2,000,000 in exchange for stock certificates
in more than forty varieties of mining companies. Here is a
letter written to a woman by this concern four years after she
had invested all her savings in the stock of one of these
companies through this concern, showing the advantage of the
fiscal agency plan:

DOUGLAS, LACEY & CO.     
Financial Agents   
66 Broadway.  
New York Cable Address "Douglacey"--Anglo-American and Bedford
McNeil Codes Telephone, 790 & 791 Rector

DEAR MADAM:                         June 2, 1908.

Replying to your favor of June 1st would say that we do not find
in our files any recent letter from you, and your letter
addressed care of 44 Wall Street has probably gone to the Dead
Letter Office, from which you will in time receive it.

Now, in reply to your question, we think if you are at all
familiar with business procedure, you will see that it would be
impossible for the fiscal agents of any of the companies to
return money which had been paid for shares and which had been
turned over by the fiscal agents to the treasury of the various
companies and expended in development work on the different
properties.

It is true that we have sold stock for our customers at various
times and we are glad to do so when it is possible. At the
present time, however, as this company is in process of
reorganization, there would be no market for its stock and for
this reason we are unable to help you in the way you request.  

Very truly yours             Douglas, Lacey & Co.

In pursuing this method, few promoters have had the success of
Dr. John Grant Lyman. He is credited with having gathered in a
half million dollars in his International Zinc operations. This
company was supposed to have valuable zinc properties in the
Joplin district of Missouri. To unload its stock on the people of
this country Lyman organized the firm of Joshua Brown & Company,
Bankers, incorporated under the laws of West Virginia. Through
them the stock was sold until the collapse of the scheme in 1901,
when the investors found that what property it did own was
heavily mortgaged. While the firm was taking in the money, Lyman
maintained a racing stable, had a reputation as a daring
automobilist, and even invaded the sacred precincts of the New
York Stock Exchange.

LYMAN'S SCHEME TO GET STOCKING SAVINGS

Three years ago the papers throughout this country were filled
with the advertisements of the Union Securities Company, selling
the stock of the Boston Greenwater Copper Company. It was stated
that the mine had cost $200,000 and that so much ore was in sight
that an offer of $400,000 had been refused. The Union Securities
Company, with offices in New York and in Goldfield, Nevada,
started the stock at forty-five cents and lifted it to a dollar.
It was merely another name for John Grant Lyman. Not only did the
Union Securities company sell the stock to the public, but it
also offered it to brokers at thirty-seven and a half cents, on
their guarantee that it would not be sold by them at less than
forty-five cents. The brokers began getting contracts for the
stock and then were told that the Union Securities Company was
all sold out.

Shortly thereafter, confederates of Lyman came to these brokers
and offered stock to them at fifty cents a share; and the Union
Securities Company at the same time telegraphed the brokers that
it wanted all the shares it could get at sixty cents. That forced
the brokers to buy of confederates; but when they shipped on the
stock to the Union Securities Company, expecting to get sixty
cents a share for it, Lyman was gone. It had not cost him much.
He owed the newspapers of this country $150,000 for advertising,
which went unpaid. He reaped $300,000 profits. Boston Greenwater
Copper stock can still be found in many a stocking--of humble
folk.

"SALTING" WITH A CIGARETTE

It is not, however, always the city promoter who furnishes all of
the crookedness. He himself may be deceived by those who sell him
the mine. Some of the most thrilling stories in literature might
be written about salted mines. The sale of the Bear's Nest Mine,
and the special train expedition to the salted Bear River placer
field; the sale of the Mulatos Mine to a set of Chinamen, and
scores of other instances in American mining history, have been
regarded rather as big jokes than as great lessons. And as to
such large jesting we advance in finesse. The old way of salting
a placer or a quartz vein with a shotgun is now antiquated.

A little while ago a party of capitalists bought a Nevada placer
on what they thought to be strictly a "cinch" basis. With their
own hands they collected the specimen dirt from all over the
claim, and they watched a Mexican miner pan the dirt at the
creek. The pans showed up beautifully. They bought the claim.
Later, it proved worthless. Afterward they remembered that the
Mexican smoked cigarettes all the time he was panning, and that
he was careless in expectorating, as well as in knocking the
ashes off his cigarettes. The truth was that the highly
intelligent Greaser was using the cigarette trick in salting the
pan. There was much fine gold in his cigarette and under his lip!

THE MULATOS MINE SALTING SCHEME

All sorts of methods of salting mines, even to the injection,
with a hypodermic needle, of strong solutions of mineral salts
into a mining engineer's carefully sealed sample bags, have been
worked. The most honest, careful, and expert mining engineers
have been deceived time and again, and salted right under their
own eyes. Even a bland Chinee may be fooled. Take the instance of
the Mulatos Mine: The bunch of Chinamen who proposed to buy it
insisted on a mill-run test on fresh-mined ore, taken out BY
THEMSELVES, for a five-days' run. They were not taking any
chances, in their own belief. The owners of the mine, however--so
runs the story--had a platform of plank arranged above the
timbers at the top of the drift where the Chinamen brought out
their ore cars. On this planking a man lay face downward where he
could see each ore car that passed. He had a rather hard life for
five days on the sandwiches and water which he took up there with
him, but he managed to drop a pinch or so of nice gold dust into
every car of ore that came trundling under him. The mill-run was
an entire success from the viewpoint of the sellers, although not
from that of the buyers.

There is no working law, let us repeat, which actually protects
the investor against this sort of thing, nor which always
protects even the promoter, though he be honest. The game is
risky all the way along the line, in spite of state laws against
the heinous crime of salting, which latter hath as yet by no
means lost its savor.

      THE MAIL AND MINING THIEVES

As matters stand to-day, the man selling mining stock on a
fraudulent basis fears the Post Office Department much more than
he fears the District Attorney. That is the main protection which
the public has against such schemes. But to depend upon it is
like trying to stop Niagara with a dam of reeds. The man who
induces you to take your money out of the savings bank in
exchange for stock in a mine, through such operations as have
been described, thrives by reason of his use of the United States
mails. It is a mail-order business pure and simple.

Let us see what machinery the Government has to protect you and
prevent the letter-carrier from bringing daily to your door the
flamboyant literature intended to lure your money from the bank.
There are five hundred Post-Office inspectors employed in
watching Uncle Sam's mail wherever it is carried, in keeping the
vast and complicated machinery of the Post Office Department
oiled and working smoothly, in running down Post-Office robbers
and mail thieves and, lastly, in keeping the mail free from
frauds. Ninety per cent. of this force is required to do the
routine work of the inspecting branch; that is to keep the
machinery running smoothly and to prevent delays. That leaves
just ten per cent. for actual detective work such as is necessary
in running down thieves and in tracing frauds. In the New York
district, which comprises the state of New York as well as New
York City, there is a force of twenty-five men working under a
chief inspector. Of the ten men assigned to work in New York
City, by no means all have special detective ability, and the
time of these is taken up almost entirely in catching actual
thieves.

   POST-OFFICE PROTECTION INADEQUATE

It is only the biggest and most barefaced scheme that under these
conditions can receive any attention whatsoever from the
department, and even then its force is hopelessly inadequate and
incompetent for the work in hand, work requiring the
highest-class detective ability.

About twelve years ago the Post Office Department ran down and
convicted a swindler, Stephen Balliet, who was selling stock in a
mine full of water in Oregon and was known as "the mining genius
of the Northwest." He was tried three times, finally convicted,
and sent to prison. That case cost the Post Office Department
$18,000, took a man's entire time for two years, and required two
trips across this continent. The Government has not tried since
to get many such convictions.

Perhaps because of the pressure of other work, perhaps for other
causes, investigations of this nature are allowed to languish.
Some years ago, when the firm of Douglas, Lacey & Company was
reaping its harvest, an inspector was assigned to investigate the
concern's operations. He was one of the ablest inspectors of the
service, a man with real detective ability and a knowledge of the
devious ways of certain kinds of financing. He made a trip to
Mexico and subsequently sent in a report to Washington
recommending that a fraud order be issued against the concern and
that its use of the mails be stopped. He waited a long time and
then got word from Washington that more evidence was required. He
made another investigation and sent in another report,
recommending in even stronger language that the mails be barred
and the public protected. While on this work he was constantly
assigned also to other matters and finally was shifted to a
station in the South. The concern collapsed some years later,
leaving thousands of people in this country and in Canada bereft
of their small savings. There was no fraud order ever issued
against this firm, though shortly before it closed up it was
informed that if it continued to sell stock its use of the mails
would be stopped.

The burden of proof is on the buyer. If he turns to the District
Attorney he finds perhaps a sympathetic official, without power
to assist him. The man selling bogus mining stocks knows all
this; therefore his harvest goes on. It is better than the
green-goods game, better than the wire-tapping swindle, safer
than selling any other form of gold bricks. A few years ago a
reporter who was engaged in investigating the schemes of Cardenio
F. King--now in Charlestown jail, but then posing as "the apostle
of the golden rule in finance" and selling his stocks by the
barrel in every mill town in New England--made a call on the late
John B. Moran, then District Attorney in Boston and widely known
as a reformer. He asked Mr. Moran's help in proving that King was
a swindler.

"Young man," said Boston's reform District Attorney, "if King was
selling corner lots in heaven and advertising them in the
newspapers, I couldn't stop him, because I haven't anybody to
send up there and prove that they are not there."

King wasn't selling corner lots in heaven, but he was selling
stock in a Texas company that was the next thing to it, so far as
tangibility is concerned. It was only when he actually took from
investors money sent to him to buy real stocks, and pocketed it,
that he was put in jail.

LAWS TO PROTECT INVESTORS

A plan for the protection of the investor by statute is embodied
in a model law drafted by the American Mining Congress of Denver,
and recommended for general passage:

AN ACT.

To Prohibit the Making or Publishing of False or Exaggerated
Statements or Publications of or Concerning the Affairs,
Pecuniary Condition or Property of Any Corporation, Joint Stock
Association, Co-partnership or Individual, Which Said Statements
or Publications Are Intended to Give, or Shall Have a Tendency to
Give, a Less or Greater Apparent Value to the Shares, Bonds or
Property, or Any Part Thereof of Said Corporation, Joint Stock
Association, Co-partnership or Individual, Than the Said Shares,
Bonds or Property Shall Really and in Fact Possess, and Providing
a Penalty Therefor.

Section 1. Any person who knowingly makes or publishes in any way
whatever, or permits to be so made or published, any book,
prospectus, notice, report, statement, exhibit or other
publication of or concerning the affairs, financial condition or
property of any corporation, Joint-stock association,
co-partnership or individual, which said book, prospectus,
notice, report, statement, exhibit or other publication, shall
contain any statement which is false or wilfully exaggerated or
which is intended to give or which shall have a tendency to give,
a less or greater apparent value to the shares, bonds or property
of said corporation, joint-stock association, co-partnership or
individual, or any part of said shares, bonds or property, than
said shares, bonds or property or any part thereof, shall really
and in fact possess, shall be deemed guilty of a felony, and upon
conviction thereof shall be imprisoned for not more than ten
years or fined not more than ten thousand dollars, or shall
suffer both said fine and imprisonment.

This law has been enacted in six states and a campaign for its
general enactment is under way. But let not the credulous
investor suppose that even such a law would guarantee him against
loss. The Secretary of the American Mining Congress, Mr. James F.
Callbreath, offers the following comment:

CAMPAIGN OF THE AMERICAN MINING CONGRESS

"I do not believe that any one law can effect protection to
mining investors, nor that the protection afforded through the
Post Office Department forbidding the use of mails for fraudulent
advertising matter can fully cover that ground. The greater part
of mining frauds are perpetrated without the use of the mails.

"The proposed law, in our judgment, is the longest possible step
toward preventing mining frauds. A second step has been taken in
the form of a publicity law. My belief is that no system of laws,
either state or national, will prevent men from gambling in mines
more effectually than such laws now prevent gambling in its more
common forms. These may restrict and furnish protection to those
who are wise enough to open their eyes, but it will be impossible
to protect all the fools all the time. It is the purpose of the
American Mining Congress, after having secured the enactment of
laws providing penalties for fraudulent representations and
requiring publicity, to perfect an organization to SECURE
EXECUTION of these laws, and also to carry on campaigns of
education showing to investors, first, that mining is a
legitimate business and not a gamble; second, that mines are
found and not made; third, that investments in mining should be
made with the same care and prudence exercised by business men
when embarking in other business enterprises. . . . The next work
of our organization will be along the line of developing some
manner of control of corporations by which paid-up capital stock
shall represent actual value."

Mr. Callbreath would seem to be one fore-doomed to his own
troubles; yet it is clear that he and his organization stand for
legitimate mining as opposed to prospect-selling. In strictly
accurate phrase, it is the prospect which is found, and the mine
which is made and investment cannot properly begin until a body
of ore has been blocked out in a proved prospect. Add to the
glamor of risk the haze of fraud, and the foregoing will show the
nebulous condition of mining investments in relation to mining
laws in America to-day.

What we really need is a Bureau of Mines at Washington. Nobody
protects the mining investor. Nobody guards the widest open gate
into the savings deposits of this country.

The American Mining Congress, it should be stated, had a quasi
pre-inaugural pledge from President Taft in favor of a Federal
Bureau of Mines. Toward this we have made a start. A bill
establishing this Bureau has already passed both the House and
the Senate, and bids fair to become a law. But the activities of
this new department will be confined to safe-guarding
mineworkers. The next step should be to enlarge the province of
the Bureau so as to include the supervision of the mining
industry for the protection of investors.

It seems quite likely that the states and the nation will need to
unite if adequate protection to the investing public is to be
expected. But when did state and nation unite to solve a great
popular problem? When did section ever unite with section or even
resident with nonresident? This is America.

THE ENGLISH WAY OF MINING--HONEST BUSINESS

Back of any movement of this kind there must be popular interest
in popular education. Thus far, the greater publicity idea is of
more value than anything at hand. We may perhaps. best do our own
little part by offering some studies in the theory of mining,
showing just WHY it is risky, and just HOW we ought to tabulate
the risk. In addition to this, we can present, and should perhaps
first present, some of the results of intelligent mining as
pursued in other countries.

Take the Rand Mines of South Africa, operated on the English
basis--mines which turned out more than $12,500,000 in one month
not long since. The English method of operating on the Rand is
this: A corps of experts is sent to examine a proposed
property--that is to say, a proved prospect. If their report be
favorable, an estimate is made of the cost of a five-or
seven-compartment shaft, to be sunk, say, 3,500 feet. The cost of
producing a year's supply of ore for the mill is then considered.
The cost of the mill and the cyanide plant is also figured. The
total cost is then cast up, and the company is ready to be formed
for a half million to five millions of dollars, according to
existing conditions. This money is paid in, and is ready to start
operations. These men mine carefully, using all possible
scientific knowledge and practical experience as guides. The
operation may have risk, but it is perforce honest.

THE AMERICAN WAY--A GAMBLE

Now let us examine conditions not infrequent in the United
States, by no means assigning wings to all English mining men, or
hoofs to all Americans:

A prospector discovers mineralized rock. He locates one or more
claims as controlled by the laws of the district where he is.
Perhaps others also locate more ground. A little work is done,
and then the claims are up for sale. A claim is perhaps sold for
a few hundred to several thousand dollars; sometimes the seller
receives in addition stock in the company to be formed. No
attention is paid to the geology, but a company is formed
ostensibly for the purpose of mining, with a capital of one
million shares at one dollar par. Perhaps four hundred thousand
shares are placed in the treasury to be sold for development
purposes. Of course the whole thing is as yet on a wholly
gambling basis. The property is still a prospect and not a mine,
and hence it is not possible to put it on an investing basis.
Comparatively few companies have ever used the services of a real
expert, although very possibly the company furnishes a report
made from a purchasable local "mining engineer," one of the
cheapest commodities in any mining district, where the wide hat
and the high-laced boot often take the place of a mining
education and a reputable character. This is the stage at which,
this is the basis on which, most of the mining "investments" of
America are made.

In this state of affairs grafters find their opportunity. Prices
in a boom camp are always above any sort of industrial warrant.
There were literally millions of dollars poured into Goldfield
and Tonopah for claims which never had any careful examination by
competent men. Fortunes were made by local promoters and
"operators" out of claims which could not show ten feet of actual
work. Sometimes the entire capitalization was sold out, and the
promoters put the money in their pockets. One operator of this
kind sold $130,000 worth of stock, and omitted the precaution of
putting even ten per cent. of it in the treasury. Fortunately, he
got into the penitentiary. Many of his fellows never had actions
brought against them except under the postal laws, which
naturally are inefficient. There was one shaft of a hundred feet
which cost twelve thousand dollars, charged up to the
stockholders, the names of dead men being used on the pay rolls
as "laborers." The mine boss and the local officers got big
salaries to keep their mouths shut. The real mine was in the
savings banks of America, in the pockets of non-residents. In
Nevada alone, in the past four years, more than twenty million
dollars have been invested in WORTHLESS properties. One engineer
with a government certificate could have saved the clerks,
stenographers, widows, washwomen, and orphans of America fifteen
million dollars at the cost of, say, five thousand. Would that
have been a good investment? What could a dozen do? What could an
efficient corps do? Is there here yet one more future task for
our patient and long-suffering United States Army? What police
work would pay better dividends?

THE PROMOTER AND THE CREAM

Even when the mine wins, the small stock-holder rarely wins. The
promoters often take the cream. Suppose a company is organized
for three million shares. One million is put in the treasury for
sale. Of this million shares, say, two hundred thousand are
offered at twenty-five cents. This raises a working capital of
fifty thousand dollars. Let us be very glowing, and suppose that,
with this fifty thousand dollars, we really uncover five million
dollars' worth of ore. The net profit would not exceed three
million dollars; so that the man who put in twenty-five cents
might, after a long time, get back a dollar. In the meantime, two
million dollars would have gone to promoters, in "commissions,"
and so forth. There are thousands of such cases, and still the
people continue to bite on such bait.

THE PUBLIC = THE MINE

Instances of actual Nipissing rises caught in time by the lamb
are very rare. I rom first to last, the PUBLIC is the mine, AND
THE RETURNS COME OUT OF THE SAVINGS BANKS. In some mines "high
grading"--the carrying away of valuable pieces of ore by the
miners themselves--is fought as sternly as the diamond stealing
by the Kaffirs in a Kimberley mine. In yet other mines, far more
numerous, high grading is encouraged among the miners. The report
gets out that the ore is so rich that the miners steal it in
their dinner pails. That booms the stock. WALL STREET MAKES THIS
MONEY OUT OF THE MARKET AND NOT OUT OF THE MINE.

In spite of all warning and all examples, the average American
will to a certain extent persist in gambling in mining stocks.
Supposing this to be true, it is of value for the investor to
learn something of the theory of mines, something enabling him to
pass on the natural value of any mining stock which is offered to
him. What, then, is a mine? What are some of the inevitable
features in developing a mine?

In the first place, there must be prospecting. This is sheer and
unavoidable risk on the face of it, and it is attended with
economic waste which cannot be avoided. Of a hundred prospectors,
ninety-nine die poor. The failures must be charged off to
industrial waste attendant upon inherent conditions of the mining
industry.

Again, in the development of a mine after it is located and
proved in part, there is more unavoidable economic waste. The
rock is blank and silent. It can only be explored by means of
expensive drifts and drillings. In one mine at Bisbee, Arizona, a
shaft was sunk which had drifts at the 600-and 900-feet levels,
all without result. Later on they found a blanket of copper
between those two levels, from which six million dollars were
taken. Even in old established mines there is something of a
chance, and there are often unwittingly false standards of
values. Which is no argument for making all gamble that which
originally was part gamble.

Any mine, no matter how rich, or how large, begins to be
exhausted from the time the first pick is stuck into the ground
and all its profits ought to be figured on the basis of
diminishing deposits. When your deposit is drawn out, your bank
does not honor your check. A mine is the reverse of a mortgage or
a bond. The security does not remain stable nor increase in
value, but, on the contrary, CONTINUALLY DECREASES in value. In a
mortgage, six per cent. is wisdom; in a mining return, it is
folly. A mine, instead of being figured on the basis of a
mortgage, ought to be figured on the basis of a term annuity.
That is to say, on the basis of a wiping out date. When the mine
is done paying dividends, there is no return of the face of the
principal invested. Yet the great and gullible public forgets
this all-important fact, which differentiates mining from every
other form of business.

CRACKER-BOX INVESTORS

There is every probability that the average investor never heard
of a proper "amortization charge" in the management of a mine.
Until he shall have heard of it, until he shall have learned
something of the terms of life annuities, he ought never to
invest a cent in any mining stock. After he actually has learned
the theory of amortization, he will observe that ALMOST EVERY
MINING STOCK LISTED IN PUBLIC PRINTS IS SELLING AT AN INFLATED
VALUE. That is to say, even the best and most stable of mines are
overrated, not to mention the purely wildcat ventures. Some mines
may naturally be long-lived, others short-lived; yet, if either
pays a good, stiff dividend, THE PUBLIC MAKES NO DISTINCTION
BETWEEN THE TWO and will buy the stock of either. In this
investing, the public has no protection on the part of the
government, on the part of honest publicity, or on the part of
its own careful education.

In the MAJORITY of cases, a mine ought to pay annually perhaps
twenty per cent. of the investment, to be profitable. That is to
say, the actual value of any mine is rarely over five times
actual dividends paid after expenses of operation. How many mines
are capitalized on any such real basis as that? The answer lies
in our own ignorance, and in the shrewdness of the men who sell
us mining stocks. Stocks that are the best dividend-payers often
sell at TEN or TWELVE times the face of the annual dividends. Let
the mine hit a brief streak of bonanza, and the stocks will climb
yet higher. We buy such stocks, or worse; but even a fundamental
acquaintance with the theory of mines would show us that such an
investment is usually a bad one. In a mortgage we do not look to
the interest to pay us back our principal; in a mine we MUST look
to DIVIDENDS to pay us back our PRINCIPAL AND INTEREST also. When
the mine is done, our principal is gone. But how many mining
investors ever thought of that? And how many, when offered a ten
per cent. "guaranteed dividend" for five years on their money,
ever stop to reflect that, for instance, I could take your money
and put it in a cracker box, and myself make money by paying it
back to you, ten per cent. a year for nine years--and then
explaining what had happened to the cracker box! Now, most of us
are just such cracker-box investors. We pay out millions and
millions annually, just that foolishly. And our nation, our
states, allow us to do it. They even--as recent legal proceedings
prove--allow the "inside" operating stockholders to borrow money
to pay dividends to the "outsiders." That keeps up the "values"
in the market. It does not enhance the real value in the mine.

ENGLISH VS. AMERICAN MINE REPORTS

Again, granted even a valid and a well-managed mine, how much
information regarding it does the average investor in the stock
secure? In a general way, he knows in advance that all mining,
whether placer or quartz, is very expensive. Beyond that, he gets
the annual report of the officers, which will tell perhaps the
names of the men who are spending his money, the total earnings,
the total output, the balance sheet, the statement of capital
stock issued--and little else. All of which means nothing!

A well-regulated English company is obliged to go much farther
than this. A good annual report will show the advertisement of
the general meeting of stockholders, the list of directors and
officers, reports of directors, giving details of the condition
of property, including the development work, the tonnage of
production, the values recovered from such tonnage, the costs of
operation, the profits for the period covered, the balance sheet
of accounts, the profit and loss statement, including a working
cost estimate, the appropriation list showing what has been done
with all the earnings, the reports of managers giving details of
the development work, the estimated values of ores EXPOSED ON
THREE SIDES, the probable values of ores not so well exposed, the
working expenses, the construction account, general remarks on
the physical condition of the property, and a map of the property
itself.

What American promoter would trouble himself to make such a
showing as that to the American sucker? Even if such detailed
information existed in the records of the average American mining
concern, the sucker could not get access to the books even did he
have the temerity to demand it.

Professor H. S. Munroe, of the Columbia School of Mines, when
asked whether such a thing as general supervision of mining
investment could be possible, answered: "Yes, if some
philanthropist will give us ten millions to endow such an
institution, and maintain a corps of engineers in the field who
will do work similar to that accomplished by J. Curle under the
auspices of the London Economist. Such work should, of course,
cover all incorporated mining companies, not merely a few hundred
of the more prominent gold mines; and it should be continuous and
not spasmodic. Such a plan is of course Utopian, but I feel that
anything less would be likely to do little good. Even Curle's
opinions began to lose their value within a month or two after
they were written, and are of less value every year. Mining can
never be put on the same basis as agriculture, for the reason
that the risk of failure is infinitely greater, and that it is
impossible to prove the value of any mine or mining region
without spending a large amount of capital, the greater part of
which will inevitably be lost in this work of initial
development."

Those are the sober words of an expert who spends his life in
studying the theory and practice of mining. If such words shall
teach us a little wisdom, so much the less need for laws. But let
us consider what the laws ought to do in order to protect you for
the sake of your family, and for the sake of society, and for the
sake of the savings which lie back of the prosperity of this
country.

Let us agree that no government can guarantee the safety of any
investment. Let us admit that digging gold can never be put on
the same amortization basis with digging potatoes, for instance,
because the soil remains for more potatoes, whereas the ore of a
mine is exhausted and does not raise more ore. Nevertheless,
although the industries of potato growing and ore digging are not
the same, the principles lying back of them ought to be precisely
the same; and our governments, both state and national, ought to
see to it that they are kept precisely the same, and controlled
on the same plane legally. If it be true that no government can
watch after every mine, none the less any enlightened government
can establish general conditions for engaging in mining or
engaging in the sale of mining stock; and, perhaps with yet
better results, it can establish a general supervision over the
mining intelligence of the public, just as it does over the
agricultural intelligence of that public.

NEEDED: A FEDERAL BUREAU OF MINES

The enactment of good mining laws, punishing the proved intent to
commit a fraud as well as the fraud itself, and seeing to it that
capital stock shall be paid up, seeing to it also that all moneys
spent by a mining corporation shall be traceable from start to
finish, is the natural first step toward the purification of
American mining methods. Beyond that, the national government
could take a hand in the game through a federal Bureau of Mines.
There must be some clearing-house of intelligence and of values
in this country, some place from which our intelligence may start
and to which it may return. The public must have accessible
reports of engineers, state or federal, of a sort entitled to
confidence.

The nest of vermin in our large cities, inhabited by those who
make a living out of the ignorance and eagerness of small
investors, must be smoked out once and for all. In this work,
state and national governments, popular education and
intelligence, and the aid of the better class journalism of
America, all must be enlisted. The pages of our press might well
be far cleaner than they are. The publication which prints the
advertisements of a fake-mining enterprise is itself a party to
the fraud. A Bureau of Mines chief can sit behind the desk of
every advertising manager in the counting-rooms of every
newspaper and magazine in America. The press of this country,
when it likes, can, by taking thought, somewhat dim the splendor
of the mahogany in many an elegant suite of offices in New York,
Boston, or elsewhere. It can reduce the reckless and senseless
expenditure of ill-gained wealth which is making civilization a
mockery in America, and branding our republican form of
government as a failure.

We will have a different way of life, or another form of
government. We will have a better administration of law in the
United States or we will have another political party, possibly
another political system. We will clear up this rotten society,
or we will try how we like a different organization of society.
The people of America are beginning to murmur. The burden of the
murmur is that they have long enough been betrayed. Unspeakable
injustice has been done the people of America under the forms of
law and government. It is coming to be said that our law and
government have not an even hand for all, that a few are allowed
to despoil the many. When a people murmurs, let a government
beware. Meantime the more that certain unspeakable things are
reduced in, and eliminated from, Wall Street and the other
"financial centers," the better for our schools, our taxes, our
farming, our industry, our living, our CHARACTER, our country.

After all, the government of this country, as we now have it
organized, depends on the CHARACTER of its average individual
citizen. The end of this abuse of fake-mining enterprises begins
now, here, with you and me, in OUR intelligence, in OUR love of a
square game. By taking thought we can add a cubit to our OWN
stature, and so add to the stature of OUR laws and of our
national morality.

WHAT YOU AND I CAN DO

As for you and me, when next we see the flaming advertisement
advising us that the Madre d'Oro, Montezuma's fabled Mother Vein
of Gold, has once more come to the surface of the earth on
Manhattan Island or near Plymouth Rock; when next we read counsel
that because mining pays in Michigan it ought to pay in Nevada;
when next we are advised to get into the game at once because
this is our LAST CHANCE--we might at least ask to see the report
of the engineer, likewise the record and antecedents of the
engineer; and many, many other things. Perchance we might write
and ask the mining promoter what, in his belief, is the proper
amortization charge in his particular mine. At which the average
mining promoter would probably fall dead.

*****************************************************************
Vol. XXIII  No.1 JULY     1910

HOW THE MAN CAME TO TWINKLING ISLAND  {page 64-73}
By MELVILLE CHATER

OUT of the great world came a man to the wooing of Susanna Crane.
From the vague southwest he came, now skirting the chimneyed
towns and elm-bordered village streets, now exchanging the road
for the bright rails and perhaps the interior of a droning
freight-car, now switching anew through the edge of odorous pine
woods, yet leaving behind him always a wary, broken trail.

The man was tall and strong, with hair that gleamed red in the
sun, and eyes of a reddish brown. He walked with the free swing
of a world wanderer, yet always his heart strained for a glimpse
of the Canadian border; for some hundreds of miles behind him lay
the Vermont marble quarries whose dust still faintly blanched his
clothes, and there, in a drunken flight, he had killed a man. He
did not know that in fleeing from justice he was rushing into the
arms of love; he did not even know that he was in the Ragged
Woods, with Twinkling Island just off the coast; he only studied
the tree bark and snuffed the breeze, and knew that the sea was
near. At length, well satisfied with the distance he had come
since dawn, he cleared a space among the pine cones, then lay
down, and, lulled by the ancient whisper of the wind in the
treetops, closed his eyes.

He was of the Ulysses breed, this man, a wanderer of the earth,
acquainted with many cities, one whose shipwrecks and misfortunes
had but whetted his love of life; and even while he slept, there
came upon him, as of old Nausicaa came upon Ulysses, a woman.
She, too, was straight and strong; her dark face was framed by a
blue-checked sunbonnet; she carried a large basket filled with
blackberries, and her lips as well as her hands were stained. She
saw the man lying in a shaft of the sunset, and started back,
then, tiptoeing past, bent forward slightly to examine his face.
In that lingering gaze a twig cracked beneath her foot. He sat up
instantly, tense, expectant; then for a silent space their eyes
caught and clung. Thus the first pair might have gazed when Adam
wakened to find her who was bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh,
standing over him.

"Did I scare you, Miss?" at length asked the Man. "I
thought--well, I didn't know who you might be at first." His gaze
deepened into unconcealed admiration. "I wouldn't scare YOU for
anything!"

"I ain't so easy scairt," the girl returned defiantly. "Ef I
was," she went on in her fresh, young voice, full of queer,
upward inflections, "I wouldn't be a-berryin' in Ragged Woods
after sundaown."

She marched onward, her head thrown well back. Twenty steps later
the Man was again at her side.

"Pardoname, little one!" he said. "But, seein' you ain't scared,
an' thar bein' no blaze in these yere parts, maybe you'd put us
on the trail. Guess I'd a-gone on siesterin' till midnight if you
hadn't a-happened by--gracias a Dios!"

Her glance shot suspicion at him as though she scented banter in
the strange, foreign phrases; then she said:

"Ef you mean you wanter git to Potuck, whar the railroad starts,
you've got to walk three miles back to the Potuck Road; then it's
three miles west to Potuck taown."

"An' what lies on ahead, whar you're goin'?" he asked.

"Why, nothin'," she returned with a child's surprised simplicity.
"Nothin' but Twinklin' Island an' father an' me."

There was silence then, but the Man watched the strong, straight
lines of her face, her keen black eyes, her wealth of black hair
tumbled into the back-fallen sunbonnet. At length he said
quietly:

"Think I'll g'long over with you to your island, camarada. Maybe
your father's got a bite o' something for a hungry man. I pay the
freight, sabe? 'Twon't take me more'n a couple o' hours to make
the railroad to-night."

To this she vouchsafed nothing, but swung onward, shifting her
heavy basket from one hand to the other; then a strong grasp
intervened, and she found herself burdenless. In the village
streets of Potuck and Nogantic, shamefaced lads had offered such
help a hundred times, and she had accepted it, flattered by their
homage; but the quick, silent action of this big, red-haired man
thrilled her with strange anger.

"I don't want no help," she said proudly, "I kin carry that."

"Not while I'm here, chiquita mia!" He smiled downward, and his
body seemed to loom over her like a shield. "Say, when I woke up
an' seen you, do you know what come into my head? A little Navajo
squaw I knowed once. Her name was Moonlight Water, but the
fellers called her Little Peachey. But she was twenty-five, and
you--well, now, how old might you be?"

"Goin' on eighteen," she would have answered nonchalantly to any
one else; for him there woke from the depths of her nature a
fierce retort:

"Give us that basket! I ain't a-goin' to let you carry it a speck
further."

"ALL right," he acquiesced with broad, kind humor, vet without
relinquishing his burden. "ALL right, chiquita mia! Never you
mind me, Little Peachey!"

They gained a bare tongue of land lapped by water. She stepped
into a canoe, the Man following. Very quickly he took the paddle
from her and put forth with strong, practiced strokes, cheering
himself onward with snatches of a queer, guttural burden which he
had picked up from a negro chantey-singer on some Southern
cotton-wharf.

Straight ahead lay the island, breasting the Atlantic swell. Seen
from the distant hills, the red sunset strikes its outpost cliffs
for a moment's splendor, and so it is called Twinkling Island.
The girl said not a word, nor indeed was it necessary. He found
the beach without trouble, helped her ashore, and carried the
canoe up the slope on his back. A hundred yards onward they
encountered a low, rambling house and the vague shape, in the
twilight, of an elderly man smoking his pipe on the steps.

The stranger set down the canoe and gave an account of himself.
But even as the great Ulysses was wont to name a false lineage
and give a feigned story to his hosts, so this man said his name
was McFarlane--which it was not--and told a wily tale of having
been directed to a logging camp where hands were needed, of
alighting at the wrong station and losing his way in an attempted
short cut through the woods. Meanwhile his listener, a man of
weather-beaten face and a great shock of gray hair, observed him
with shrewd attention. At length he replied:

"Thar's few strangers git to Twinkling Island; but so long as
you're here, you're welcome to our plain victuals. The money's
neither here nor thar. Git supper, daughter. Seems you're mighty
particular to git that canoe high an' dry to-night."

The girl wheeled abruptly and strode indoors, flashing at the
stranger a covert, half-defiant glance.

"Gals are queer cattle," mused old Crane, drawing off his
fisherman's boots. " 'Pears to give 'em a kind o' satisfaction to
set a man to work. Her mother was just the same, before her."

The guest said nothing; but the realization that the girl who had
grudged his taking her basket had afterward suffered him to carry
her canoe quite an unnecessary distance, seemed to yield him no
unpleasant thoughts.

They sat down to supper in a low'ceiled room of smoked rafters.
The stranger ate hungrily and with few words, yet always his gaze
followed the girl's slim figure as she moved to and fro, waiting
on the board. As the food disappeared, the talk sprang up. The
girl brought in a huge pitcher of cider and left the men by the
fireplace, while she passed back and forth, clearing away the
dishes. Crane set out a decanter of whisky, which spirit he mixed
sparingly with his cider, as did also his guest--none too
sparingly.

Now was the Man's heart loosened, and he told of all he had seen
and done and lived; of his spendthrift youth, passed aboard tramp
freighters between Lisbon and Rio, Leith and Natal, Tokyo,
Melbourne and the Golden Gate--wherever the sea ran green; of
ginseng-growing in China, shellac gathering in India,
cattle-grazing in Wyoming. He spoke of Alaskan totem-poles, of
Indian sign language, of Aztec monoliths buried in the forest. He
sang "Lather an' Shavin's," "La Golondrina," "The Cowboy's
Lament," and, clicking his fingers castanet-wise, hummed little
Spanish airs whose words he would by no means translate.

Crane marveled that this man should be still on the hitherward
side of thirty; and as the stranger sat there, his very clothes,
poor rags of civilization, seemed to bulk with heroic lines, his
face to reflect man's primal freedom, while his every word rang
with the sheer joy of the things he had seen and known.

At a break in the talk, the girl, who, though she had constantly
busied herself about the room, had missed not a word, nodded
significantly to her father, then walked from the house and out
into the night. He glanced after her for a moment, then turned
with a queer smile.

"We're all 'baout the same, I reckon," he said, "so far as furren
countries is consarned. That's to say, a man allaways conceits
thar's a heap o' promise waitin' for him, somewhar over yonder.
Naow, you've seen sights enough for a hundred men. Contrariwise,
thar's my gal--never been further'n the Caounty Fair. But that
don't stop her; no sirree, human nature can't be stopped. Every
night, fair or storm, she walks daown an' sits on the rocks,
lookin' seaward, before she turns in. She's done it ever since
she was SO high. Why, thar's nothin' to see but the Atlantic an'
a piece o' foreland to the northwest! But her fancy is, the sea's
a-bringin' her somethin'--that's what she used to say as a
kid--somethin', she don't rightly know what. _I_ say it's just
furren countries--pieces she's got outer story books, an' yarns
she's heard the fishermen tell--that's what's she's hankerin'
for, Mr. McFarlane. So ye see, as I say, we're all 'baout the
same, that way."

"When I first seen her," began the Man tentatively, "I could ha'
sworn that--See here, now! Ain't thar still the leavin's of a
redskin outfit up this way?"

"Why, yes," returned the other, with some compunction. "I don't
talk much 'baout it--not that it's a thing to he ashamed of; but
I wouldn't give the gal a handle to think herself different from
any one else hereabout. The truth is, her mother's mother was
pretty near to a full-blooded Ojibway--not the kind you've seen
plaitin' baskets for summer boarders, but a clean,
straight-backed red woman, an' she claimed descent from one o'
their big chiefs. I'm English stock myself, but the wild breed
mixes slow: it's in her blood, Mr. McFarlane, and sometimes it
worrits me. Thar's days she won't speak nor eat, but just goes
off to the woods an' makes little trinkets out o' pine needles
an' bark, and then I know the fit's on her. And proud! Thar's not
a man hereabout she'd lift an eye at, and one feller that
wouldn't take "no" got his head split open with an oar. Sometimes
I've thought that ef she was married to a strong man--strong AND
kind, d'ye see?--'twould be the best thing for her."

At this the stranger, who had missed no word, leaned quickly
forward, the firelight striking his firm face. With the poise of
conscious power he said quite simply:

"I'm the man!"

They eyed each other a moment, Crane measuring the Man who had
come, the Man inviting measurement.

"You mean--?" asked the father. He paused as if welcoming
interruption, but it was not in this man's slow, sure nature to
interrupt. "Tell us what you do mean!"

"I mean," repeated the other slowly, "that I'M THE MAN! I love
that little gal, I want to marry her. O' course you objeck:
that's natural, that's right. I like your objectin', an' I'm
going to fight it to a show-down. First you'll say, `You're
verruckt--crazy.' See hyar now! I've lived life, I have, and I've
seen a drove o' women, hither an' yon, but not one of 'em could
hold me, no more'n an ordinary slipknot could hold stuff on a
packsaddle. I'm no lightweight, an' I need the diamond hitch. But
to-day, when I seen Little Peachey in the scrub over yonder, why,
it was different, and I knowed it right quick. Ever broke a
horse, have you? Well, before you've got your lassoo coiled, the
critter's eyes'll tell you just what sort o' tea-party you're
goin' to have. Thar was a man once--a hoss wrangler--an' the
easier a hoss broke, the more he'd mouch around an' hang his
head, real melancholy and sad-eyed. The only minutes o'
slap-bang-up joy that came his way was when he corralled a bucker
whose natural ability to roll on him an' kick his brains out left
no percentage o' chance in the player's favor. Maybe that's what
I seen in Little Peachey to-day. Just now you said the wild breed
mixes slow. It does: for it sticks out, waitin' for its own kind.
And by that same token, blood talks to blood--aye, even without
no Indian sign-language. Maybe all these years Little Peachey,
settin' out on them rocks, has been a-watchin' for more than
foreign countries."

"Aye, mebbe that's all right." Crane paced the floor, and his
voice rose savagely: "Don't know but what your palaver mightn't
win plenty o' foolish gals. But who are ye? What's your trade?
Whar's your folks? Thar's lots o' rogues afoot. Do you allow I'd
let the first stranger in Ragged Woods talk marriage to my
daughter? What have you said? What's between you? Out with it, or
I'll have you in Rockledge Jail by to-morrow morning!"

The Man who had come nodded response with imperturbable gravity.

"I like your talk," he said. "It comes straight off the hip, an'
it calls for a straight answer. What have I spoke to her?
Nothin'! What's between us? Nothin' but the makin's! Next,
touchin' myself: Since sixteen I've been kickin' up the dust o'
the earth till my home is anywhar immediately convenient. Once I
had a brother in New Orleans, another in the Northwest, and
another who drank himself accidentally into the British army an'
died in the Sudan. We were wanderers, the lot of us. I'm
Scotch-Irish, and my old mother used to claim we harked back to
the kings o' some outfit I've forgotten. But blood-facts is no
more proof than specimens from an unprospected claim. Friends? I
make 'em everywhar: any one on the top o' the earth who's got the
makin's of a man kin call me friend. Yet right here an' now I
wouldn't touch the twelve apostles for an assay on my character.
'Cause why? 'Cause I hold that, just like a man lays in his own
little square o' earth, so a man stands alone on his own little
piece o' reputation. Good or bad, friends or no friends, it's
his'n; and the Almighty files a pretty good chart of it right on
his face. I want you to size me up accordingly."

Again the father gazed deeply at the Man who had come, and again
the Man gave him the full of his eyes. Crane's glance shifted
suspiciously from the other's face to the decanter and back
again; the Man immediately responded by lifting his glass.

"Fill that up three times raw," he said, "and I'll swaller it in
three breaths, just to show you what a drink IS. No, sir, it's
hot your picayune drop o' spirits that's talkin'--it's me.
Acabado! Finished!" And, tossing the contents of his glass into
the fire, he replaced it upside down on the table.

"Yes," said Crane wonderingly, "you're sober--and you're honest.
You certainly are honest!" He paused as if to steel himself. "But
what o' that? Why should you come between me and my child in one
night, after these twenty years we've spent--we've spent--"
Simultaneously his words failed and his shoulders drooped. "See
here, now: Stay along and work for me awhile. I'll give you half
shares in the boat. But just wait, wait awhile. Some day you'll
speak to her about it, and then--then mebbe I'll see it
different."

But the Man rose restively.

"It comes hard on you," he mused, "aye, mighty hard; but it ain't
all my doin', Mr. Crane, nor yet Little Peachey's. It's something
bigger'n the lot of us: it's nature. You might as well put your
back up against a landslide. As to stayin' on here, 'tain't in
me: I must hit the trail to-morrow morning. But to-night thar's
somethin' in here"---and he struck his breast--"that won't keep:
it's got to be said. I've spoken my little piece, an' you say you
size me for a man. Bien! Bein' a man, I take no favors. No sir, I
ain't no empty-handed brave. Little Peachey bein' the squaw for
me, an' I havin' told you so, an' smoked your tobacco an' drunk
your whisky, I hereby deliver."

He drew out a roll of bills and tossed them upon the table,
observing whimsically:

"Two hundred an' thirty-odd dollars, honestly come by, an' all
the estate, real or otherwise, whereof I stand possessed. Money
talks. Take it; it's yours. An' now I'm goin' to find Little
Peachey."

He strode out into the night and toward the forelands, his ears
guided by the monotonous crash and moan of the long Atlantic
swell.

Standing on the cliff was a wind-fluttered figure that turned at
the sound of his step, with eyes defiantly alert.

"You knew I'd come," he said simply, drawing close to her.
"Peachey, little Peachey, what's them waves a-sayin' to the
rocks? It's: `ME! YOU! ME! YOU!' Ain't they always been a-sayin'
it? Kin you stop 'em, little Peachey? And that's the words I'm
a-standin' here now fer to say to you."

"I ain't a-goin' to listen," she cried sharply, drawing back. "I
don't want none o' your words. You just leave me alone, now,
Mister--Mister----"

"Why, names don't count between us, chiquita," said he, with his
great-hearted smile. "I'm just a man, I am, an' you're just a
woman; and rightly I don't know no name for the thing that's been
a-callin' between us ever since I seen you in the woods. But I
kin see it in your face, Peachey, an' you kin see it in mine;
it's a-lookin' at me through them eyes o' yourn----"

"Don't you look at me!" she cried, flinging an arm across her
face. "I hate you, you--Man. Don't you come near me, naow! I hate
you, I could kill you!"

But he only smiled down upon her kindly, understandingly.

"That's what the father said--aye, or somethin' mighty like it;
but I told him, I wrastled with him till he savvied. And--makin'
no secrets between us, Peachey--I paid him two hundred dollars
down, to call it quits. Why, what's a few dollars? They don't cut
no figure between you and me, 'cause I love you, little Peachey,
an' I know right down in your heart you love me, too."

His voice quivered deeply as he drew near and laid his hands on
her shoulders.

Instantly she raised her face, and their glances met in one quick
flare. He felt her shiver in his grasp like some panic-stricken
animal, then she turned and fled from him.

He followed, calling after her to stop; yet the lust of the chase
swelled within him, and he knew he but loved this woman the more
that she was not lying tamed within his arm. Breasting the house,
he saw that she had swerved toward the island's long, leeward
neck, from whence there was thrown a narrow pile-bridge
connecting it with the mainland. His feet rang on the planks as
she gained the opposite shore; and his heart laughed with joy,
for he divined the instinct that had called her, not to her
father's side, but to the mysterious heart of the woods.

Now he felt beneath him the soft pad of pine needles, little
twigs switched his face, and warm, odorous airs breathed their
welcome. Through the dimness he saw her gain the crest of a
ridge, running lightly with long strides, and, as he reached the
spot, from the hollow beneath there rang her voice flung back in
mocking laughter. By the trail's wide curve and the shelving land
he perceived that they were skirting the edge of inland waters;
more than this he knew nothing save that, through vista after
vista, mile by mile, her flying feet beckoned him onward, and
that her heart was singing to his the last wild defiance of the
almost-won.

At a sharp turn he came suddenly upon a cleared space shoring
along the water's edge, lit by a blazing camp-fire. Within the
circle of the glow she stood, a spent, panting figure, half
supported by two men. A hunting-dog dashed forward, menacing the
oncomer with stiffened back and bared teeth. The man strode into
the group and said with quiet courtesy:

"Good evening, gentlemen. I am glad you rounded her up, for both
consarned. Peachey, my hat's off to you an' all your tribe: you'd
have run till you dropped. I see, gentlemen, that you're sizin'
me up, which is natural an' gratifyin'. But things is square an'
satisfactory between me and her, I do assure you."

The younger of the two--a tall, keen-faced man of city-bred
appearance--turned to the girl and said with irritation:

"I don't understand. What does he mean? Are you his wife?"

She was leaning against a tree, her face averted. "No!" she
panted vehemently. "No, no!"

"Tell yer it's Crane's gal," insisted the second man. "They live
over yonder on the island. I pointed it aout a-comin' through the
woods, the day you landed up here, Mr. Hemsley."

"Have you any claim on this girl?" demanded Hemsley, wheeling
upon the stranger.

"Touchin' claims," returned the other, with sure emphasis, "I am
not for filin' mine with the first party immediately convenient.
The claim is filed O. K. elsewhere, and at present, as you're
prospectin' on the hither side o' my line, I'll put one straight
question to you: Did, or did not, Little Peachey ask you for
protection?"

"Why, no," retorted Hemsley, a trifle confused, "she didn't--not
in so many words." He turned to the girl. "Who is this man? Tell
me everything; you needn't be afraid, Miss Crane."

"I'm not afraid!" she flashed sullenly. "He was a-layin' in
Ragged Woods this afternoon, an' he carried my berry basket home
an' stayed to supper. And afterward he caught hold o' me, he did,
an' tried to kiss me; an' I ran away 'cause--'cause I hate him. I
hate him!"

Her shrill cry ended in a passionate gesture. Wheeling, she
marched down the slope to the water's edge, where she stood
looking out into the night. All at once the man threw his face up
to the sky and burst into a great roar of laughter.

"Right you are, Little Peachey!" he called. "Thar ain't no more
to be said than that--just you an' me in the Ragged Woods at
sundown. An' now--Blessed if we ain't downright stampeded! It's a
reg'lar round-up, Peachey!" And he laughed again uncontrollably.

"Well," said Hemsley at length, "I don't like the looks of
things, and I'm going to make it my business to take Miss Crane
home to her father. I advise you not to make any trouble until
you've proved who you are. Rockledge County Jail is only six
miles away."

The other sobered to a statue, then turned, regarding Hemsley
with mild fixity.

"Gentlemen," he said, "gentlemen both. I ain't askin' for your
help, and, as far as I can see, neither is Peachey. I mean it.
Gentlemen, a mule is a most onsafe critter. Even when you go to
his funeral, you'll do well to sit at the head of the coffin."

Then all three turned quickly, for there had arisen from below
the sound of a grating keel.

"That settles it," said Hemsley with dry satisfaction. "Miss
Crane has gone home in the canoe. So much the better: I'm not
looking for trouble." And he turned away.

But the Man gave one great laugh, then he was off like a shot,
down the slope and into the water. At shoulder-depth he overtook
the canoe and clung to its stern.

"Go up forward, Little Peachey," he cried, "an' sit mighty still
till I swing in, else we'll be swimmin' in another minute.
There!"

And drawing himself up over the stern, he seized the paddle,
while the canoe leaped forward beneath his powerful strokes. From
somewhere along the shore came the sound of voices, but the
camp-fire blazed deserted. Gradually its light diminished to a
twinkling spark in the blackness. For a while no word was spoken,
the man bending to his task, the girl crouching with averted face
in the extreme bow. Then a little new moon peered over the
distant pine tops, the heavens spread their starry veil, and the
hour of Susanna Crane's wooing had come.

"Me! You!" intoned the Man, to the sweep of his paddle. "Me! You!
That's what the waves were sayin', that's what you kep' a-callin'
to me through the woods, that's what the stars are writin' on the
sky--Me! You! Big Chief, oh, you heap Big Chief, somewhar up
yonder, ain't you l'arned me some things this day? Peachey, me
and another man, down in the marble quarries, got fightin' in
liquor, an' he drew a gun on me, an' I killed him with it. Then I
got away quick and careless-like; but the Big Chief he leads me
up here an' sets me in the woods, an' sends you along the trail.
An' while I'm lyin' thar asleep, He tells me in a dream, `You
proud man! You unbroke bucker! Maybe you kin kill a man, but I've
got my own good way o' tamin' you and bringin' you home.' Blood
for blood I thought He meant, but I wakes up and--Que
gracia!--thar you stands. And your face it says to me, `Come on,
you wicked, red-handed man. God's a-callin'.' And I says to
myself real sudden, like I was at a camp meetin', `Praise God!'
Then, when we ran into the camp, just now, who was thar but
Hemsley, the county sheriff, whose deputies have been after me
for a week! Maybe the Big Chief's savin' me to l'arn me something
more. So again I says, `Praise God!'

"Will you travel with me, camarada?" he went on. "The whole big
world's waitin' for us. I kin read an' write, an' my arms are
strong. We'll ride the plains an' climb the hills an' swim in the
rivers, and when you're tired I'll carry you on my shoulder. Then
we'll take in the big, flat cities, Little Peachey, an' walk
around 'em at night, lookin' on friendly. Yes, we'll drop in at
all of 'em, stringin' out across the country like sideshows on
the old Chicago Midway. And one o' these days, when we're gittin'
real old, we'll pull up stakes an' start off to locate our last
campin' ground. Thar ain't no maps nor surveys to it; it's just
somewhar over yonder, and we'll know it on sight, Little Peachey.
Maybe it's some picayune island chucked into the middle o' the
ocean, with one high rock whar we can sit and watch the sun
a-risin' an' the sun a-settin', an' the seagulls flyin'. And
we'll talk over old times, Little Peachey, an' we'll just sit an'
watch an' wait thar together till--till thar ain't nothin' left
at all, only the rocks an' the sky an' the gulls a-screamin' at
the sea.

"Peachey, a man read me some pieces out o' a book once, and I
wrote 'em down an' learned 'em.

" `For springtime is here,' it says, `thou soul unloosened--the
restlessness after I know not what. Oh, if we could but fly like
a bird! Oh, to escape, to sail forth as on a ship!' Camarada,
give me your hand. I will give you myself, more precious than
money. Will you give me yourself? Will you travel with me? Shall
we stick by each other as long as we live?"

The chant of his voice died away upon the night, and there was no
sound but the soft ripple of the water under keel. In the bow sat
the girl, motionless as a crouched Indian, her face fixed upon
the nearing shore.

As the water shoaled, the Man stroked powerfully, landing the
canoe sternforemost; then he stepped forth, drew it along the
bank, and said:

"Camarada, give me your hand!"

But already the girl had risen, steadying herself with the bow
paddle. With a sinuous movement she eluded his arms, and fled;
then voices woke amid the pines, and the Man strode forward, to
find his way blocked by two men holding the sobbing girl between
them.

"I've seen enough of this," said Hemsley, facing him, "to know
what you are. Miss Crane, can you find your way home alone? Jim,
you and I will walk this man over to Rockledge."

"Peachey!" called the Man, retreating instantly. "Come on over
here; thar's goin' to be trouble. Git behind me, Little Peachey!"

In the landing place there was driven a heavy stake. He drew this
forth, then advanced, saying earnestly:

"Gentlemen both, you size me up wrong. Now, I ain't lookin' for
trouble, but don't you bank too strong on takin' me anywhar with
you to-night."

Hemsley's right hand drew backward, then came the level glitter
of a long revolver barrel. "Drop that!" he began.

But suddenly something flashed before his face, and the keen edge
of a boat-paddle bit numbingly into his extended hand; then the
girl darted forward to where the revolver lay glistening among
the pine needles.

"Well struck, Little Peachey," cried the Man; and he stepped
protectingly in front of her, with upraised stake. But she stood
from behind him and leveled the revolver full at Hemsley.

"I don't want your help," she said. The words came torn from her
in sobbing whispers. "Git! Don't you come back no more. Don't you
send no one lookin' for this man. I kin take care o' myself, I
guess."

And the look in her eyes warned them to go. Now the Man and the
Woman were alone in the black hush of the pine woods.

"I saved you," she said at length; "now go away from here. Yes,
go!" And as her face lifted defiantly to his, her voice slid
upward like the lonely, untamed wail of some wild creature. "Go
back from whar you come! Don't you never let me see your face
again, nor hear you speak; don't you never touch me no more, you
Man! 'Cause I'm scairt o' you, I am; 'cause you're big an'
strong, an' you'd forgit a gal like me. 'Cause I hate you, an' I
hate myself!"

For an instant the man gazed at her, perplexed, irresolute; then
he took her right hand and guided it until the revolver muzzle
touched his forehead.

"Peachey," he whispered tenderly, "you hate me--but could you
kill me; Little Peachey?" And he smiled his great, full-hearted
smile.

Then her hand fell, her head sunk upon his breast, and a strong
shuddering filled all her young body.

"Oh, Man, Man!" she breathed, as his arms closed about her.

*****************************************************************
Vol. XXIII  No.1 JULY     1910 {pages 74-83}

By Alice MacGowan and Grace MacGowan Cooke

Authors of "Return, A Story of the Sea Islands," etc.

"Is Ellen worse to-day?" The opening and closing of the front
door brought in a swirl of red and yellow leaves from the porch
outside. There came, too, a breath of sharp, sweet October air to
tired little Mrs. Kendrick where she paused, foot on stair, the
tray steadied in her hand, looking back at her husband.

"No. It's just that I got Mary Louise Jackson to come over and
play with her. I can't ask Aunt Dicey to wait on a negro child
like Ma'Lou is, and she's got to eat with Ellen; so I'm----"

"So you're waiting on her yourself," supplied Kendrick, hanging
up a shabby overcoat on the hall rack.

"I'd do more than that to keep her here," his wife returned
almost fiercely. "I tell you nobody knows till they've tried it
what it is to have a child like Ellen, always lonesome and pining
for company, and quarreling with every girl that comes about her.
Sometimes I think it would be better if we moved away from
Watauga. Everybody pities her--they all notice that she's
backward in her studies--how can she help it, poor dear, with
that hip joint the way it is?"

Kendrick came closer; he laid a kind arm along the frail, bent
shoulders of his wife, and her senses were aware of the fresh
outdoor air as he put his cool cheek to hers. "Don't you grieve,
Fanny," he said. "Ma'Lou's a good companion for Ellen. The kid's
better trained and better educated than half the white girls of
her age in Watauga. If things go well, in a year or two we'll
send Nellie to Baltimore and see what the big man there can do
for her. You shall have a daughter that can dance like you used
to, honey," and he patted her shoulder gently.

She turned with a little, gasping sigh to put up her tired face
for his kiss. "You're good, Scott," she murmured, then went more
cheerfully upstairs and to Ellen's room, glancing as she entered
at the two girls, who were playing happily with paper dolls.

"Here's your feast," she called to them in the gay tone we use
with sick children. "Come, Ellen. I'll go down and give your
father his dinner, and you two can play any kind of party you
want to with this."

The little girl with skin like white cotton cloth rolled her big,
gray eves toward the tray and asked listlessly, "What you got for
dinner, ma?" The brown-skinned one, tidily dressed from her
carefully combed head with its crisp, black mass that was
scarcely hair, held in place by spick-and-span hair ribbons, to
the toes of her stout, handsome shoes, got up quickly and came
forward to arrange the meal.

"They's molasses pie, Nell," Ma'Lou said joyously. "Oh, I'm going
to bring it over there and fix it by the side of the lounge.
We'll play you' a sick lady, and I'm you' trained nurse. Just
wait till I fix my handkerchief into a cap like they wear."

Mrs. Kendrick turned away and left the children at their play.
Mary Louise Jackson had been kept at home from school that she
might come over and spend the day with Ellen. For when Ellen
Kendrick was ill, her cry always was, "Oh, send for the
doctor--and Mary Louise."

The old Kendrick place sat back in its grassy yard and concealed
behind voluminous chinaberry trees such shabbiness as time had
brought it; but on the corner, the home of Ezra Jackson perched
proudly above its stone wall and added a considerable touch of
elegance to the street.

It was in the early eighties, and the Queen Anne style of
architecture was just coming into great popularity in the South.
Jackson, who could well afford it, had let an architect have full
sway in producing for him a dwelling in the new mode. Ezra
Jackson, a full-blooded negro born a slave, had been a teamster
on his master's Georgia plantation, and after the war that
master, who still maintained friendly relations with his
ex-slaves, gave him a start in life with a mule and a dray. From
this the honest, industrious, and enterprising man had built up a
transfer business which was the best of its sort in town. There
were many teams and drivers now, and Ezra could walk in the garb
of other men of means about him; yet he still wrote his name in
the manner of the kings of old--he produced it as a sort of
landscape effect without any idea of what the separate characters
meant. He was a good citizen, a dignified man; and, except for
his black skin, he would have been an acceptable neighbor to the
Kendricks, and a desirable resident in their quarter of town. The
young wife whom he had married rather late in life, and to whose
taste the Queen Anne house catered, had a good grammar-school
education, gained from those first devoted teachers that the
Freedman's Bureau sent to the Southern negroes in the years
immediately following the war. At first she had kept his books
and made out his bills; and she always insisted on the best of
schooling for their children.

Of these latter, only Mary Louise concerns this history, since
she chanced to be very near the age of Ellen Kendrick and had
become a necessity in the life of that peevish little invalid.
The negro girl had smooth features, and her mother saw to it that
she was always spotlessly dressed and that her manners were
perfect. The children of her race take to good manners very
readily, being usually amiable and eager for approbation. Mrs.
Jackson undoubtedly took pride in the connection with her
aristocratic white neighbors, and Mrs. Kendrick was forced to be
glad of the chance to have the Jackson child come over and play
with Ellen. A nurse she could have hired, but a child near the
afflicted girl's age, a sound-natured, sweet-tempered, well-bred
little girl, was not to be had for money--love was the only coin
current that could pay for that.

And the two girls loved each other--of course they did. Did not
Ellen need Ma'Lou and is not service the basis of all love? The
flame on the altar of their affection burned always clear and
strong, unshaken by the peevish gusts that extinguished many a
less sturdy light of friendship for the Kendrick girl. So that
existence to Ellen--the pleasant part of it, anyhow--meant a
great deal of Ma'Lou, and there was scarcely an object in her
room, a game or a pursuit of her days, that was not associated
with the brown girl. The pair grew up in a companionship closer
than that of some born sisters.

The mere fact of this intimacy was not regarded by the Kendricks
with any disfavor whatever. Scott and Fanny both had played with
negro children, both had been reared by negro mammies. Neither
realized that conditions were changed, that the negroes with whom
they had associated were no longer an enslaved people, hopeless
of any equality, nor that, with the coming of freedom, and still
more with the growing ferment among the blacks, such association
was different from the intimacy of slavery days.

And Ezra Jackson's wife watched jealously that the preponderance
of gifts and favors should be always on her child's side. If any
present were given Mary Louise in the Kendrick house, her mother
always retorted instantly, as one might say, with something
better or handsomer. Mrs. Kendrick was a slow woman, and such a
point would naturally have been obscure to her; yet she finally
came to be aware of the fact, and at last it vexed her a little.
She turned the question in her mind and sought for some
substantial favor or patronage which she might offer to the
Jacksons, to quiet once for all her offended sense of fitness.

It fell out that about this time she was passing their home on
her way to her own, loaded down with bundles from the market
because her cook, Aunt Dicey, was old and feeble and there had
been nobody else to go this morning, when she raised her eyes and
saw the Jackson back yard full of snowy wash on the line. Mrs.
Jackson stood in the kitchen door, and, at the juxtaposition of
the dark skin and the well-washed clothes, an idea promptly
occurred to the lawyer's wife.

"Good morning," she called in a friendly tone. "I wanted to ask
you something; I guess I'll come through the gate and go out your
front way, if you don't mind."

Ezra Jackson's wife ran down the steps and put out a hand to help
the tired woman with her packages. Mrs. Kendrick rested them on
the railing of the back porch.

"Your clothes look lovely," she said meditatively. "You get them
out so early. Aunt Dicey's too old to do the washing and cooking
both any longer. I've been thinking for some time that I would
really have to get me a washerwoman."

"It is hard to have the person who cooks wash also," said Mrs.
Jackson, choosing her words carefully, and speaking in that
serious tone which the new generation of colored people are apt
to use toward their white neighbors. It is always as though they
were on guard, or perhaps on parade is the better word,
determined not to be guilty of lapses which would be excusable in
those whom they address, but which are not permitted to the
inferior race.

Fanny Kendrick looked at the handsome, well-kept house and its
dignified, serious-faced mistress, and a feeling of irritation
rose within her.

"I thought maybe you--I want a washerwoman--and seeing your
clothes looked so nice made me think that maybe you----"

She came to an uncertain halt, and glanced again half impatiently
at the other woman. After all, Ezra Jackson's wife was just a
negro, and there was no use in feeling embarrassed or in
supposing you didn't know how to deal with negroes. Good
gracious! what was the world coming to if you couldn't offer work
to folks without blushing? But she did not complete her sentence.
The Jackson woman waited for a while that she might do so, and
finally said, still in that slow, correct utterance which was in
itself an offense:

"You thought I might tell you of some one? Mrs. Payson does mine.
As you say she does it very nicely, and is quick about it. Her
prices are high. I pay her half a dollar, and she gets done, as
you see, a good deal before noon. But the work is satisfactory,
and I think it pays better. I don't know whether she has a free
day--but--shall I send her to you when she comes next week?"

Mrs. Kendrick blushed burning red, and took up her bundles with a
jerk.

"No, thank you," she said shortly. "I couldn't any more afford
that than I could fly. I didn't know Sally Payson had got to
charging like that--fifty cents for less than half a day's work!
I declare, prices are enough to ruin a body these days."

She went on to her own home smarting. She had called the washer
woman "Sally Payson," to be sure, in correction of Eliza
Jackson's "Mrs. Payson," which was a minor victory, yet it was
not enough to wipe away a feeling of stinging exasperation and a
curious sense of defeat. And when she told her husband about it
afterward, he received her recital with a sort of humorous
impatience.

"Good Lord, Fan," he broke in finally, "don't you know that every
woman with a black skin isn't hungry to do your washing? It's not
a question of complexion; it's money that talks. Ezra Jackson
could buy me out two or three times over. I'm trying to act all
his legal business. He's bringing a big suit against the
railroad. If he gives it to me I shall be able to send Ellen to
Baltimore this year instead of next."

"Well," said Mrs. Kendrick, submissively but acidly, "if you want
me to go and apologize, I suppose I can. The South is getting to
be a queer place when white gentlemen have to be under obligation
to negro teamsters. I certainly don't want to interfere with your
business in any way, Scott," she concluded plaintively. "We're
hard up all the time; I feel it deeply that poor Ellen is such an
expense to you."

Scott Kendrick's ready arm went round the weary little woman. "An
apology would be worse than the offense, Fanny," he admonished
gently. "It's just this. the Jacksons are in an absolutely new
position, and have to be treated in a new way. You wouldn't go
and ask Mrs. Ford or Mrs. Brashear to do your washing; and the
Lord knows that neither Jim Brashear nor Bate Ford makes half
what Ezra Jackson does. The world is changing, honey, and we have
to change with it."

II

As they grew older, the association of the two girls, in spite of
the affection between them--perhaps because of it--began to
present almost daily problems and embarrassments. Ellen's health
was worse, her nerves were shattered, and she clung with more and
more insistence to this one healthy companion, who responded with
a tireless devotion. Coming in from her wholesome outdoor life
and her triumphs at school--where she always stood high--Ma'Lou
brought to the sick room a very wind of comfort and cheer, which
Mrs. Kendrick had not the heart to deny her pining young invalid.
Once, when she spoke apprehensively of the matter to her husband,
Scott Kendrick answered with astonishment:

"Why, Fanny, it's only a question of health--a little bodily
improvement. We'd break it off to-morrow if Ellen was well.
You'll see; there would never be any more of it if I could send
her away for that operation."

But the white people had not, as they supposed, this anxiety all
to themselves. The timid, conservative, colored mother regarded
the friendship with growing anxiety. And before Scott Kendrick
got together the money to send Ellen to Baltimore, Ezra Jackson's
wife had coaxed her husband into letting Mary Louise go North to
school. The Watauga public schools, with a term or two of Fiske,
at Nashville, afterward, had been good enough for the other
children. But the mother craved wider opportunities for this, her
youngest; money was freer with them now; and Mary Louise went to
a preparatory school, then to Oberlin.

Ellen Kendrick returned from the hands of the surgeons in
Baltimore much improved in health. She was sent back twice
afterward for treatment. Finally she walked as well as other
girls, and hastily made up her arrears of education, as best she
might, at a private school in Watauga. She would always be frail;
the invalid habit had gotten into both mind and body; she would
continue dependent, demanding; and somewhat irritable; yet there
was a fragile prettiness about her, and her very childishness had
its own charm.

Mary Louise Jackson passed one of two vacations at home; but, as
time went on, there were opportunities for her to have trips of
an educational nature, and one summer was spent at a Chautauqua
taking a special course, so that after the first break in their
association the two girls saw almost nothing of each other till
they were women grown. There had been some letters; yet what the
white girl had always demanded and received from her friend could
not come through the mails, and the neglected correspondence
finally died a natural death.

There was one person in Watauga, however, to whom Mary Louise
wrote, and from whom she received letters regularly--Ulysses
Grant Payson, the washerwoman's son, with whom she had gone to
school. Grant Payson was a sober, ambitious, industrious fellow,
who seemed to feel from childhood the weight of responsibility
for his people. A widow's only boy, he had worked hard and
studied hard. With a very fair mental endowment, he was able to
get what the Watauga public schools could give him, secure a few
years training at Nashville, then read law.

And, when, after her graduation, Mary Louise returned to her
father's home, a very well-educated young lady indeed, wearing
glasses and looking older than her years, she found Grant
established in a good practice, and with some other prospects
that were, for a colored man, flattering. Both families knew that
Grant wanted Ma'Lou. Whether the girl would marry him and settle
down in Watauga had been a matter of anxiety, often talked over
between the two mothers. For they also knew of and discussed
Ma'Lou's opportunity to take a position as private secretary to
one of the instructors in her college. They understood that it
was a situation which would pay fairly well, and give her
associates who gained an added glory in the minds of these humble
folk by their distance. In short, it would be a foothold in the
white people's world; and Grant Payson's mother trembled for her
son, while the mother of Mary Jackson feared to lose, once for
all, her daughter. The two Southern-bred black women could see in
such things as the girl reported only the wiping out of all race
barrier, the sudden achievement of equality. Had Mary Louise been
asked, no doubt she could have told them of a social ban at the
North quite as definite as that in Watauga, if different; but her
father's daughter kept a silence that was not without dignity
over what she found irremediable, in the North as in the South.

To warm-hearted Mary Louise, Watauga meant, of course, father and
mother; but directly after them--perhaps before them, in the
calendar of youth--it meant Ellen Kendrick and Grant Payson. And
the colored elders, looking on, felt that as these twin idols of
the girl turned out, so rose or fell the chances of keeping her
with them in Watauga.

Grant instituted at once a courtship as ardent and eager as it
was open and avowed. His people, florid and colorful in
temperament, are natural wooers, free of the language of
affection and adroit in its use. Grant was very much in love with
the girl, and she meant even more to him than that, since in
aspiring to her his ambition stepped hand in hand with his
affections.

Mary Louise received his advances with curious reservations, as
though there were positions and premises she defended against
him.

It was when the girl's visit was three weeks old that the
fine-looking, broad-shouldered, young colored man in his
well-fitting business suit--a goodly figure in the eyes of the
mother watching from her own room across the hall--left the
parlor where he and Mary Louise had been sitting all evening,
with so doleful a countenance that the older woman had a quickly
suppressed impulse to go to him and speak. She did open the
subject to the girl next morning, approaching it obliquely. In
her own day a very progressive person, she felt that her daughter
had far outstripped her, and she offered advice but timidly to
this tall, perfectly dressed young woman who seemed so competent
in all the affairs of life, and who knew so much more than she
did upon many subjects. But after a little profitless skirmishing
she came out with:

"Looks like you must have said something hard to Grant last
night--he never came in to say good-by to me. Ain't you going to
have him, Ma'Lou? Don't you care anything about him?"

"I care a great deal about Grant," Mary Louise told her, in a
voice of pain. "I could love him dearly--if I'd let myself. But,
mother, I just can't settle down to live here in Watauga. There's
nobody and nothing here for me."

The woman looked at her child, and her mind misgave her sorely
that she had done wrong to send the girl away among an alien
people, where she would learn to despise her own.

"You're still grievin' about Ellen Kendrick," she said finally.
"If I were you I wouldn't let that go the way it has. Don't--"
she hesitated, with eyes full of helpless solicitude upon her
daughter's face--"honey, don't wait for any sign from Ellen,
because you won't get it. You just take those postal cards that
you got for her on your Canadian trip, and some morning you step
over to the side door and ask for her, if you want to see her. I
know she thinks a great deal of you. She's stopped me on the
street more than once and asked all about you and what you were
doing. I don't see why you shouldn't go to the side door and go
in and have a nice little visit with her."

Mary Louise considered this suggestion at some length. She had
the wider outlook which some travel gives, and, in Oberlin, she
had been where the race question was relatively negligible. Her
mother's way of putting it jarred on her; yet the hungry craving
she felt at this time for a touch of companionship with a girl of
her own age, her longing for the beloved Ellen of her childhood,
overbore all shrinking. That afternoon she brought the cards down
in her hand, and, full of an unwelcome timidity, made her way to
the side door of the Kendrick house and rapped. Mrs. Kendrick
answered and received her with a certain thin cordiality that
suggested reservations. The fact was that Ellen was having a
little party that evening, and the colored girl would perhaps be
in the way. Among the guests bidden were two young men, upon
either one of whom Mrs. Kendrick looked with a hopeful maternal
eye, and nothing could be less desirable than for her daughter to
seem to "even herself with negroes" in the eyes of these possible
suitors.

"Shall I stop and see Ellen a minute, or may I just leave these
with you, Mrs. Kendrick?" asked the tall, brown-skinned young
woman finally.

"Oh, come in--come right in here to the dining room and sit
down," said the mistress of the house, remembering with a twinge
how much she owed to this girl. "Ellen will be crazy about these.
She's got a postal card album, and she hasn't anything in it from
Canada. Ellen! Come downstairs, honey; Ma'Lou Jackson has brought
you something pretty."

But even as she called up the stairway, and heard the quick
response from above, it crossed Mrs. Kendrick's mind that her
daughter would not be willing to put these postal cards in her
album, for she would be ashamed to tell from whom they came.

She was annoyed when Ellen came flying down the stairs, her thin,
blond hair all about her shoulders, and caught both the
newcomer's hands--the mother feared for a moment that she would
kiss her old playmate.

"And then if somebody saw it through the window, and went and
told young Emery Ford or Mr. Hyatt, I don't know what on earth I
should do," reflected the careworn matron.

"Mamma, do come and look at these lovely postals," Ellen cried
effusively a little later, as her mother, plainly ill at ease,
passed through the room. "I'm going to pull out those that Cousin
Rob sent me from Texas, and put these in right after the
California ones. See here, mamma; isn't this one beautiful?
Ma'Lou was there a week. She's put a little cross over the hotel
where they stayed."

Mrs. Kendrick looked at the strong, well-developed figure of her
guest, and a certain dull anger arose in her mind. Why did health
and money both go to this inferior creature, when they were
lacking in higher quarters? Perhaps this prompted her query;
"That hotel? It's a big one, isn't it? Did they--could you----?"

She broke off, and Mary Louise supplied, innocently enough: "Oh,
they didn't let us travel during school term. This was a vacation
trip."

She had been long away from the South; in the protective
conditions of Oberlin she had been measurably free from the
wounding of race prejudice; and now she failed to realize that
Mrs. Kendrick's curiosity was as to whether she had been
permitted to go to a hotel with white people.

Old Dicey's place in the kitchen had long been supplied by a
negress of the newer generation--"the worst gossip and tattler in
town," if you might take her mistress's word for it. Mrs.
Kendrick now made her way thither, ostensibly to superintend the
preparation of the evening's refreshments, but in reality to try
to fix up an explanation of why Ezra Jackson's daughter sat
visiting in the dining room with the young lady of the house.
"Because if Penny goes out and tells her friends, every darky in
town'll be retailing the story to the folks that hire them, and
it'll soon be all over the place."

She came back into the dining room to find Ellen glowing with
enthusiasm. Yes, her mind was still that of a sick child; she had
dropped back into her old-time attitude toward Mary Louise.

"Mamma, Ma'Lou says that they used to give lunches at the
college, and fix the floral centerpiece so it would all come
apart, and each guest could draw a bunch of it with a ribbon. Oh,
I don't understand very well, but she can tell you--it's just
beautiful, and we could make it out of the chrysanthemums in the
side yard, she says."

Mrs. Kendrick looked uneasy. But there was no window in the
dining room which commanded the street except the side light of
the bay, and at it Ellen herself sat. Nobody passing would be apt
to see Mary Louise over in the room.

"I reckon we can't go into those things," she objected, a little
irritably. "I suppose Ma'Lou has seen a heap of fine doings up
North that we couldn't possibly attempt."

"But she's promised to make me a lot of cute little candies--like
potatoes, and put them in paper baskets--to go at each plate,"
put in Ellen, jealously.

The brown-faced girl nodded and laughed, with a quick flash of
white teeth. It was plain she was taking the attitude of an older
person talking to a child about a juvenile party to which there
could be no question of invitation, and Mrs. Kendrick's fears
rather subsided. She was safe, if only Ellen would show some
sense and judgment.

"Well, I must go on home, now, if I'm to make those candies and
have them ready by this evening," said Ezra Jackson's daughter,
getting to her feet. "They take a good while to harden properly."

Ellen went with her to the side door, clinging to her arm and
insisting on some last remark. Mrs. Kendrick, in an agony of
apprehension, hovered in the background.

"Oh, well," said the daughter of the house finally, "I won't
bother you any more about it now, Ma'Lou. It's hard for you to
explain just how to fix it, but you can show me when you come
over this evening. I'll have the chrysanthemums ready. You come a
little early--won't you, please?"

Mary Louise, in the doorway, glanced from mother to daughter in
some confusion. Would this do? Her own mother had cautioned her
to be certain to go to the side door.

"I--I don't know," she hesitated doubtfully. "I'll bring the
candies over, if you like, and I might be able to show you a
little about the table then." And again she looked from the face
of the girl who had been her childhood's most intimate friend and
associate to that of the woman who had accepted so much at her
childish hands.

"Why, I supposed you'd be here when I was giving the party,
Ma'Lou," argued Ellen petulantly. "I don't see why not! Isn't it
all right, mother?" she appealed sharply. "Shouldn't Ma'Lou come
over this evening?"

For one desperate moment Mrs. Kendrick sought to shape a policy;
Ellen's words sounded frightfully like an invitation to the
party. Would Mary Louise accept them so? Her worried, resentful
glance traveled over the tall, dignified figure, the correct,
quiet costume. Oh, it had no business to be as hard as this! But
she must make the girl understand; she could not run the risk of
injury to Ellen's belated social opportunities.

"Why--you see--we--" she began, in an agony of embarrassment, "we
can't--we can't--" Her voice failed her. She looked fleetingly at
Mary Louise, who returned the gaze with a look hurt, accusing,
difficult to meet. She drew her breath sharply, and began again
with more resolution. "We'll have an extra maid in to help with
the serving. If you don't mind staying in the dining room with
her--" She ceased and waited hopefully, to see if the girl
understood. There was an uncertain silence. She must finish.
"Ma'Lou, if you'd stay in the dining room with Tillie, and
wouldn't mind wearing a--cap--and apron like she does, why you
could come over and look on."

Ellen Kendrick had seen somebody coming down the street. It was
Emory Ford, and she flushed and dimpled and smiled as she bowed
to him, forgetting everything else, including the departing Mary
Louise, who, after one mute look at Mrs. Kendrick's flushed,
disturbed face, turned and walked with hanging head toward the
house on the corner.

Arrived at home, she went methodically to work upon the promised
candies and the little baskets that were to contain them. Ezra
Jackson's wife, noting the face of set misery, forbore long to
question her as she brought out the novel materials and pursued
her work.

The afternoon wore on. Mrs. Jackson was at work at her
sewing-machine in the front hall; but she could not keep out of
the kitchen, she made continual futile errands through it, giving
anxious, sidelong glances at the child over whom her heart
yearned.

Finally, when she could bear it no more, "Did--did something hurt
your feelings over there, Ma'Lou?" she asked huskily.

She spoke behind her daughter's shoulder. The girl set the last
finished basket in its place in the row before she turned to
answer. Then she showed a face so much more cheerful and composed
than the elder woman had dared hope for that the relief was
almost revulsion.

"Sit down, mother," said Mary Lou, pushing a chair with her foot.
"Sit there while I fill the baskets, and I'll tell you about it."

The mother sat and watched the deft brown fingers, and marveled
at the girl's collected manner, her quiet, even voice. For Ezra
Jackson's wife was shaken by alternate gusts of anger and hurt
pride, of shame and fear, as, with a judicial fairness
extraordinary in one of her years and sex, the girl went over the
details of that unhappy visit. The old teamster had given his
child a heritage of rare good sense. Early in the recital the
woman broke in bitterly with:

"And yet you're making candies for her party? Such as that is all
they want of you. I wouldn't do it. And I'd never step foot in
their house again!"

"Why, mother, I'd certainly make these. I promised them," said
Mary Louise mildly. She put the last tiny candy potato in place,
pushed back the basket, wiped her hands, and turned fully to her
mother. "But you're exactly right about not entering Judge
Kendrick's house again," she said, with increasing emphasis. "I
can't go in at the front door as a friend--that's true; I can't.
I certainly sha'n't go in at the back door as a
servant--and--I've thought it all out now--I see it plain--our
people make a great mistake when they hang around the side doors
of white folks. There's no way but----"

"Don't say it, honey!" gasped the mother "Wait a minute." This
was the end, and she could not quite face it. She was to lose her
youngest and dearest. Mary Lou was going back North to live among
the white people. Her head went down on the table the convulsed
face hidden in her arms. Then broke forth the cry of the blood:

"Oh, Lord! I reckon I'm just another fool nigger woman that's
raised a child too good for her own color. I wish I was dead--I
wish I was dead!"

"Mother--mother!" The girl flung herself on her knees beside the
chair, and caught at the other's dress. "Don't take on that way.
You don't understand. I'm--look around here--I'm glad of what
happened over there to-day. It's shown me the truth about a good
many things. We're all black people together. It's the only way
for us now. I'm not going back to be Professor Sheridan's
secretary--a black woman among white people. I'm going to marry
Grant--he's everything to me; these people are nothing--and
settle right down here in Watauga with him--and be happy and
useful. Mother, you didn't make any mistake in the way you
brought me up. I'll be a credit and a comfort to you yet."

*****************************************************************
Vol. XXIII  No. 1 JULY     1910

THE TRIAL BALANCE  {pages 83-94}

By MAXIMILIAN FOSTER

Author of "Corrie Who?" etc.

Like so many others of her class, Stella Willoughby was a
satisfied, confident woman, placidly aware of the station her
husband's money assured to her. For Willoughby was accounted
wealthy even in this lake town, where riches were so much in
evidence; and if the wife betrayed a cool superiority because of
his money, it was only natural, perhaps, since she and most of
her associates knew no other means of gauging success, or worth,
or the individual's place in life. Looking over her shoulder now,
she glanced nonchalantly across the club dining-room.

"You mean those people--the Severances, Mrs. Kinsman?" There was
a bland indifference in her tone that made the guest beside Mrs.
Willoughby look at her curiously, for she knew that Severance had
once been a suitor for Mrs. Willoughby's hand. "I believe we did
know them before they dropped out. He lost everything, didn't
he?--went to smash, as I vaguely remember."

Still with the same air of unconcern, she dipped the tips of her
fingers in the finger-bowl, and prepared to rise. "Queer they
should come back here, isn't it?" she commented idly; and then,
as if the subject had passed from her mind with the observation,
Mrs. Willoughby pushed back her chair in signal to her guests,
and led the way from the room. In the hall, while the maid was
putting on her wraps, she turned and looked back, still idly as
before. Her eyes, traveling about, rested a moment on the man
sitting at the distant table, and then, when he half rose from
his place as if to bow, they journeyed on again, coolly
unconcerned. A moment later, smiling gayly, she walked down the
steps to her carriage, and, with her guests, was driven away to
the theatre.

Yet, somehow, in spite of this sureness of speech and manner, the
sight of her old-time suitor had wakened in Mrs. Willoughby the
subtle discontent that occasionally affected her--the discontent
of women who have only themselves to think about. One might have
said that at these times she was subconsciously wearied of her
form of life; that, in so many words, though ignorant of the
fact, though, consciously, her vacuous life immensely satisfied
her, she was BORED. But to-day, bluntly speaking, it was about
her husband that her vague dissatisfaction centered; and when she
had glanced coolly at her former suitor, it was for the purpose
of comparison.

Willoughby was a fair type of the money-getter. Furthermore, what
he had built had been raised by his own hands unaided; he was a
self-made man, whose one boast was that he owed nothing to any
one, not even so little as a debt of gratitude. One realized the
fact, too, in the way he carried on his affairs; for in his
business he was alert and determined, implacably pursuing his
money-making as if it were a warfare, and considerate of none but
those joined with him in the moment's harvesting venture. Perhaps
his reasons were sufficient--who knows? Perhaps Willoughby was as
well aware as they that the friends of to-day might reasonably
become the enemies of to-morrow.

But at home the money gathered so ruthlessly elsewhere was thrown
about with a lavish hand. Nothing that wealth could provide was
denied Mrs. Willoughby or her boy; and though she had been poor
when she married, money, in the mere crudity of having it to
spend, had long since lost its novelty. To-day, beyond the pride
of having it, and beyond the luxury and ostentation it could buy,
money possessed for her a far greater significance in its power
to make one powerful. In that she had already tasted the
illogical enjoyment of one that can obtain power in no other way.
And it was because of this place that his money had bought her
that Mrs. Willoughby began to look on her husband with a critical
eye.

For she was an ambitious woman, though one with definite
limitations. Among different surroundings and in an atmosphere
less sordidly striving and commonplace, she was fitted to have
become, with some encouragement, an admirable and utterly
inconspicuous wife and mother. But here, in this narrow,
money-getting environment, many things prevented; among them,
primarily, the way in which she had been brought up. For her
father, too, had been driven by this lust for riches; and though
he had failed, to the last he had been goaded on by his one
eager, grasping hope. He had drummed into her head the single
lesson that without money one is nothing.

In itself it suggested to the few a plausible reason why she had
married Willoughby. There had been nothing openly unhappy in
their life together. Still, as others saw, Willoughby was much
older than his wife, radically without her social instincts, and,
furthermore, when she had accepted him, it had been pretty
generally understood that Severance had won her heart.

And now, as she sat back in her carriage, remembrance came
rapping like an unwelcome, unadmitted visitant. She tried to put
it away by chattering smartly; the theatre-wagon rolled along to
the clicking of hoofs on the asphalt; but through it all the
troublous knocking persistently recurred. For this was one of the
few times when she had lingered upon a thought of that first
romance of hers; and now, coupled with her hardening criticism of
Willoughby, it brought forth insistent questions.

Whether she had really loved her husband when she married him, or
whether she had not instead been dazzled by his peculiar
abilities remained in doubt.

Severance had come first; he had a little money to begin, and he
was doing well with it and seemed on the road to do better.
Therefore, her friends were secure in the belief that she would
marry him, when Willoughby had made his appearance.

He went at this love-making of his as he went at all his
affairs--implacably bold and ruthlessly sweeping aside whoever or
whatever came into his way. The fact that he and Severance were
considered friends seemed to have counted little; and when, a few
months later, it was learned that she had dropped one to take the
other, it was also learned that Severance had played at ducks and
drakes with his money. Briefly, he had become bankrupt in a
mining deal. He and others, Willoughby among them, had gone into
a Wyoming copper prospect--the Teton Sisters Company--and while
Willoughby apparently got off without damage, Severance had
dropped everything. How, was never clearly understood. Severance
and his sister had parted with their home to satisfy his
creditors, and then moved away.

In the twelve years of the Willoughbys' married life, the tide of
money had kept steadfastly on the flood. Nothing his hands
touched seemed to fail him. He had his fingers in every kind of
venture--mines and mills, foundries and furnaces, steam roads,
trolley lines and public utilities; and to each and every one of
these promotions, the name of Willoughby affixed the hall-mark of
success. Now his dollars jingled in every state of the Union--and
they jingled in his own home, too, almost as the only evidences
that the home was his. For Willoughby, pursuing money everywhere,
seemed to have lost interest in all else but his money-grubbing,
just as Willoughby's wife, excepting for the same money-grubbing,
seemed to have lost all interest in him.

And now she had looked at Severance; her eyes had rested on him
long enough to make comparisons--Severance much improved, cool,
suave, presentable, and deferential; her husband big and
masterful, a brooding, preoccupied man, and a kind of Orson to be
kept denned in his money caves. She sighed to herself
regretfully.

Some minutes after Mrs. Willoughby had found her seat in the
theatre box she was aware of another party coming down the aisle.
"Hello!" exclaimed the man beside her, "here come Hudson Mills
and his wife with Case Severance. I didn't know he was in town."

Mrs. Willoughby laid a gloved finger to her lips and affected to
yawn, though she stole a glance out of the corner of her eye. Her
guest was now nodding over her shoulder at the arrivals in the
seats below.

"Severance has made a ten-strike, I hear," he volunteered, in an
expressive, if inelegant, idiom of the money game; "there's a
story going the rounds that Mills and Severance have been gunning
together and that some one else got burned. Anyway, I hear
they've lined their pockets. Severance is rich again."

This mixed metaphor affected Mrs. Willoughby with a curious
interest. "Oh, is he!" she exclaimed, and, glancing down, she
looked unexpectedly into Severance's watching eyes.

But she seemed not in the least disconcerted. Severance was just
turning away, mindful of the previous snub, when, with a
reassuring smile, she bowed, and then smiled again. For why not?
Severance's position had been reestablished in her world.

It was late that night when Mrs. Willoughby returned home. There
was a light in her husband's library, and before going to her
room she stopped and tapped at the door. Willoughby, with a pile
of papers stacked before him, sat with his chin in his hand,
staring absently at the wall. As the door opened, he turned for a
moment, and then, seeing who it was, thrust his hands into his
pockets and slouched down in his chair. "Well?" he murmured,
absently.

Mrs. Willoughby, slipping out of her wrap, dropped into a
convenient seat.

"Are you still at it? It's nearly one o'clock, Harmon." Yawning
slightly, she wriggled her feet out of her carriage slippers and
kicked them under her chair. Willoughby looked up, silently
watching her, and a momentary small shadow crept into his face.
Yet the shadow, small as it was, could not have been because of
any flaw in his wife's appearance. Mrs. Willoughby was still
young and fair to look upon, clear-eyed and almost girlish, her
rounded, regular features set off picturesquely by her hat and
its flowing purple plumes, even though both hat and plumes were
extravagant in size. Willoughby must have known another reason to
frown.

"Where've you been?" he demanded, heavily, his voice bare of any
interest. He was a large, florid man, heavily built,
square-jawed, and with the deep, scrutinous eyes of one aware of
his own power and accustomed to enforce it. But now his eyes
seemed listless, as if weary of the strain that had kept them so
long on the alert.

"I? At the club," she answered, briefly. Though her own home was
large and amply appointed, few were ever asked there to anything
more formal than a luncheon or an afternoon at bridge. Home
hospitality and the housekeeping it involved had long since
become a bore to her; like many others in her set, she had
learned to square her obligations through the convenience of her
husband's club. The hospitality there entailed no other bother
than paying the bills. "Just dinner at the club, and the theatre
afterward."

She stripped off her long gloves and dropped them to the floor
beside her carriage slippers. Again her husband studied her,
almost covertly, one might have thought.

"Any one there?" Willoughby began absently to pick at the edges
of the papers on his desk.

She shook her head. "No one you'd care about, I think. There were
only three tables besides mine. Mrs. Chardon and her daughter
with some of her young friends, and then--" Mrs. Willoughby
closely inspected one of her rubies. "The Severances are back in
town, Harmon. He and his sister were there with Hudson Mills and
his wife."

"Severance--with MILLS!" cried her husband, lifting his head
alertly. It was not often that Mrs. Willoughby's talk with him
evoked such instant attention. "See here, Stella, are you sure it
was Severance?"

"Sure? Sure whether it was Severance? Why, of course I am!" she
answered petulantly. She and her husband had never discussed the
man, and it seemed a late day now to begin. "What in the world
is--?" she began, and then desisted. Willoughby, slouched down in
his chair again, had dropped his chin on his breast and was
nervously gnawing his lip.

His wife leaned over and gathered up slippers and gloves. "I
think I'll go to bed," she murmured carelessly, and wandered
toward the door. Willoughby made no response, and she turned and
slowly came back. A calendar hanging from the gas bracket had
fallen a little aslant, and she reached up and critically
straightened it. "Harmon, I hear Case Severance is rich again. I
wonder how he managed it."

"Hey? Who?" Willoughby jerked up his head as if startled from a
dream--and not a very pretty dream, either, if one might judge
from his countenance. "Oh, you mean HIM," he uttered thickly.
"How do I know. I suppose he's been up to some of his games
again." An almost savage dislike and contempt evidenced
themselves in his tone, and pushing back his chair, he picked up
his papers and arose. "You'd better go to bed Stella," he
suggested brusquely, averting his eyes from her quick scrutiny;
"I've got a lot of work here."

She laid a hand on his arm. "What's wrong with you?" she asked
intently. There was alertness in the question, rather than
responsive softness. Willoughby drew a hand across his mouth.
"Nothing's wrong Stella. I've had a hard day. Aren't you going?"

"Yes--in just a moment." She had moved toward the door again, and
now was standing with her hand on the knob. "It's Willard's
birthday next Wednesday." Willard was their boy. "He'll be
eleven, an he wants an electric runabout. The Doane boys have
one, and he's just crazy about it We'd better let him have it."

Willoughby frowned, and irritably ruffled the papers in his hand.
"A runabout. No; he sha'n't have it. He's too young, and
besides----"

"Oh, nonsense, Harmon!"

Willoughby fluttered his papers more irritably than before.

"Well, he can't have it; that's all I have to say." Ordinarily,
he gave to her and the boy what they wished, never questioning
the cost or character of what they bought "Eleven, and wants an
automobile!" he commented, sullenly. "When I was his age I was
working day and night to support my----"

"Yes, I know, Harmon," interrupted Mrs. Willoughby, affecting to
stifle a yawn "but Willard, fortunately, doesn't have to think of
that."

Mrs. Willoughby gave her gloves a disdainful, careless twirl, and
went on her way to her room. To her astonishment, a few moments
later, she heard the front door slam. Willoughby had gone out.

He was away for nearly a week; and when he returned, his eyes
were heavy and blood-shot, his face was pallid and wearily drawn.

"Well, so you are back. What have you been doing?" Mrs.
Willoughby asked, perfunctorily. Though it was late in the
morning she was still in bed, sitting up in a dressing sack, and
turning the pages of a weekly publication that dealt in news of
local high life. Its chief item, to-day, was the announcement of
a dance she was to give shortly--at the club, as usual--and she
had just finished for the second time the commentator's glib and
unctuous phrasing.

He answered evasively, "Oh, just away on business." As he walked
to the window and looked out, she carelessly turned the pages.
"Stella, what did you do for the boy's birthday?" he asked,
slowly pacing back to the foot of the bed.

She turned another page. "The boy? Oh, I gave him some money, and
sent him down-town with the coachman. I was too busy." Smiling
lightly, she went on glancing through the paper. "I suspect he
stuffed himself on candy."

But there was no answering smile on Willoughby's face. "On candy?
How much did you give him?"

Without looking up, she answered as lightly as before. "Oh, I
can't remember now. Let me think." Then she vaguely named an
amount, and Willoughby pressed his lips together.

"Stella," he said slowly, after a moment's darkening of his eyes,
"do you know that amounts to a week's salary of more than one of
my clerks? Don't you think it was a great deal to give a boy?"

She looked up now, astonished--a little vexed, too; for this was
the second time he had questioned her use of money. "Well, what
of it? It seems of little consequence." She buried her face in
the paper again after this shot, and Willoughby stared at her.

"No," he murmured, reflectively, an alarming bitterness in his
voice; "nothing seems of any consequence."

As she glanced casually over the top of her paper, she saw him
draw a hand across his face; but, still vexed, she took no
warning from the sign. "Well, there's no need of making a fuss,
is there?" she asked, rebukingly. Thus showing how distasteful
the subject had become, and, having had her say, she instantly
changed the topic. "You're coming home Thursday night, aren't
you?"

Willoughby watched her absorbedly. "I don't know. Why?"

"Oh, I just wanted to find out. It's the night of my dance, you
know."

"A dance? Your dance?" He drew in his breath, and his hands,
gripping the bed's footboard, closed a little tighter. "I'd
forgotten that. Yes, your dance, and I----"

He broke off wearily, his lips framing a mere wraith of a smile,
and in its gravity she still saw no warning of deep waters
stirring troublously. "A dance--you're giving a dance!" he
repeated, and there came into his eyes a subtle hint of mockery
that, coupled with the words, gave them almost the significance
of a jeer.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Harmon!" Mrs. Willoughby threw down her
paper irritably, aware only of the unspoken protest in his
manner, and disdaining to analyze it. "See here--are you going to
make a fuss about that, too? Or are you still growling about the
boy? I should think a man with your money would be above----"

It seemed unnecessary to round out the sentence; in itself the
fragment, sharply uttered, peevish and fretful, conveyed more
than enough. "You wouldn't let him have what he wanted; so what's
the use of making it any worse? He swallowed his disappointment;
but if you're getting ready to complain about me now, I'll----"

"Yes, I've thought there was good stuff in the boy," he
interrupted, the slow words cutting short her vehement protest.
"Where is he now?" he added abruptly. " I think I'd like to see
him."

Mrs. Willoughby flounced down among the pillows. "I don't
know--at school, I suppose. Aren't you going to your office
to-day?"

Willoughby shook his head. He turned to the door, moving heavily;
and there, at last, in his sunken head, his shoulders wearily
bent, she caught some hint of the man's hidden emotion.
Astonishment at first ousted all else from her thought, and she
gaped at him in wonder. Then came a small, chilling touch of
fear.

"HARMON!" At the swift call he looked back at her. "Harmon! Has
anything happened?"

His answer was an evasion, and she knew it. "I'm staying home to
see some men. That's all."

But the moment's fear was too stressful to be so easily set at
rest. "Wait--do you hear?" She slipped from the bed, and, with
her eyes still fastened on him she groped about till she found
her down slippers. Willoughby had slowly opened the door, but his
wife angrily reached over his shoulder and pushed it shut. "You
SHALL tell me!" she insisted, fiercely determined. "I want to
know what's happened."

Willoughby shook off her hand, and renewed his effort at the
door. "I've nothing to tell you," he rumbled sullenly; and
then--"What do you want to know for?"

She caught her breath, certain now of the fear that shook her
like an ague. He was in trouble, and trouble, to her, meant but
the one thing--a money trouble. It was the first time in her
years of placid, self-possessed vanity that any terror like this
had come to jar her. To lose it now--this bought and paid-for
complacency, this counterpart of happiness, struck her to the
heart with a keener, more convincingly human emotion than she had
known for many a day in her negligent, shallow existence.

"You want to know?" he answered, and smiled at her in grim,
accusing mockery. "All right, then; I'll tell you. You'd better
be ready for it, too." In his brutality there was a guarded note
of self-pity, as if to see her suffer would somehow rejoice him
in his own trouble. "Well, I'm smashed up--that's all. I'm
ruined!"

Mrs. Willoughby, shrinking away, laid a hand on her lips and
stared with distended eyes. "RUINED?" she gasped, unable to
believe him--incredulously, as if at some barbaric jest.
"Ruined?" She had turned quite white. "Oh," she cried, wetting
her lips, "does it mean there is nothing left? How did it happen?
Oh, it can't be true!"

"How did it happen?" Willoughby had thrust both hands into his
pockets, and his head was turned sideways, as if the better to
study the depths of her emotion. "Oh, the usual way--flying too
many kites, I suppose. Poor?" he growled savagely. "Yes; we're
poor as Job's turkey! They've cleaned me out of
everything--their----Teton Sisters, too!"

In her mind's bewilderment of distress she caught at the name; it
was the property in which Severance had lost his money; and she
recalled ugly rumors that, before, had not affected her. Now that
his money was gone, they attached to themselves a newer
significance, accusing and indefensible. "The Teton Sisters! What
do you mean?" For was the shame of losing his wealth to be
coupled with the shameful admission that he had taken a hand in
gouging her former suitor? It was singular she hadn't thought of
it before; now it struck home with redoubled poignancy.

"Mean, hey? I mean they've got it away from me--Mills and that
fellow Severance. It was the prettiest thing I owned, too," he
groaned, careless of what he was saying, and blurting out the
acknowledgment. "But that ain't the worst--no, not by a long
chalk! Do you know what they're going to do?" he demanded,
hoarsely, and with an almost weeping resentment, yet as if glad
to find some one to whom to pour it out. "They're going to sue
for the money, too!"

"What money?" she persisted, hollowly, determined now to know
all. It might be dreadful to lose one's money--it was dreadful;
but to have this man drag her down into his own shame, too--ah!

Willoughby threw up both hands in a gesture of ungovernable
petulance. "Oh, what's the use of talking about it?" he growled,
and then instantly his voice dropped. "Stella, I'm sorry for your
sake. We'll have to begin all over again, dear."

"But you shall talk of it!" she directed, with a cruel and
cutting significance in her voice. "You can't hide it from me
now."

His mouth opened dumbfoundedly. Then he thrust out his jaw with a
reawakened truculency, now aimed at her.

"Well, then--it was the money I took from that fellow--from your
old friend, Severance. He was----"

"You took it from him!" she cried. "You mean you STOLE it!"

Willoughby's mouth twitched, as if she had struck him a blow. "So
that's the way you look at it now, is it?" he said, his voice
quietly effective. "All right, then! I came in here hoping to get
a word of sympathy from you--perhaps a little kindness. But I
knew it was only a hope." He drew a deep breath. "Now don't work
yourself up over him, I warn you, my dear. I won't tell you why I
ruined him, years ago, but I'll tell you how. You've called me a
thief, so I'll give you some more facts before you jump at
conclusions."

"I don't want excuses--it's explanations!"

It was another taunt that struck home, but Willoughby again
mastered himself grimly. "Any one of us would have done it," he
answered, ignoring the remark. "Severance made it easy. I did to
him only what he tried to do to others. When he saw how good the
mine was, he wanted me to help him rook them out of their stock,
so that we could get it. Simple enough, of course, but they'd
been square with me. No, I refused--but I did accommodate him to
the extent of doing him out of his own block. He'd mortgaged
everything to buy shares, and when he was where I wanted him, all
tied up with loans and not able to borrow another cent, I told
the mine people what Severance was trying to do. So they put in a
ruinous report, and every one from whom he'd borrowed a cent just
called his loans and foreclosed on him right and left. He went
down and out--and that's all there was to it. Nobody else got
hurt, and we divided his stock among us. Can't you see how it
was, Stella?" he asked quietly, and stood awaiting her verdict.

"Yes! I see how it was!" she flashed. "It was robbery--you can't
excuse yourself."

If she had wished to sting him again, the attempt seemed to
become fruitful. "Excuses! I make none, do you hear?" he
retorted, incensed. " I ruined him to get him out of your
way--yes!--oh, you needn't say it!--out of mine, too. Look here!"
he cried, passionately; "don't you think I didn't know you? All
you looked for or lived for was--" But he broke off there, and
surveyed her with an affronted dullness, as if it were only
wasted effort. "Oh, well, what's the use?" he muttered, and with
morose and glowering eyes slouched through the doorway.

Mrs. Willoughby lay among the pillows, her arms flung out and her
face half hidden by her disordered hair. TO BE POOR! Her mind
seized on that as the one incalculable shame that had befallen
her--on that, rather than on her view of his dishonesty.
Curiously enough, it was not only the loss of the money itself
and the imminent surrender of her ease and luxury and ostentation
that dismayed her. She was anguished, as well, by the stigma of
being poor. She was able to see only the mean side of it; the
pity of her friends already rang in her ears like scorn, mocking
her because the one thing that had made her was now stripped
away. Hers was not the nature to see the other side of it--the
helpful nobility of self-denial, the heroism of unselfishness,
the courage that stoically faces the narrow and sordid effort
whose rewards are only in the future. No, indeed!--there was only
a savage resentment in her mind, the inexplicable sense that
somehow she had been tricked and cheated, and that he alone was
to blame.

Though she accused him of dishonesty in the Severance affair, the
charge was only secondary. Given another time, she might
carelessly have acquitted him, taking his own say-so as enough;
but Willoughby now had chosen a poor hour for his acknowledgment,
when he linked it to the tidings of his ruin. All that day she
kept to her bed, her mind absorbed with the catastrophe that had
swept out from under her the unsolid prop of her arrogant money
pride. For, again, without money what was left?

She showed herself the day following, wan and silent. Willoughby
was away; the news of his failure was public property, and she
writhed when she read of it in the daily prints. But in the
following days she suffered other pangs that were a healthy
counter-irritant--she learned to pick and number her FRIENDS, and
to know, among so large a list of acquaintances, how very few
they were. Though she was prepared for this, well aware what
befalls the one with broken playthings, nevertheless she was
filled with bitter exasperation against those who were no more
careless than she had been herself. So she left orders with the
servants that none was to be admitted.

Her husband was not so easily evaded. He returned, three days
later, and, walking straight to her, laid a hand on her shoulder.
"Stella, I'm mighty sorry; but if you'll help me, I can get on my
feet again."

"Oh, don't bother me!" she retorted, flinging off his hand.
Willoughby flushed, seemed about to make a bitter retort, and
apparently changed his mind. "Stella, I'm in a good deal of
trouble. A kind word or two would help." But the wife maintained
a sullen dumbness, her eyes turned away from him; and Willoughby
retired, shaking his head.

At the week end he tried again, hopefully. "Stella, it's not so
bad as we first thought. I think we'll save enough to live
on--maybe enough to keep our home. But you'll have to lend a
hand."

She looked up from her packing. "What do you say?" she demanded,
with a rekindled interest, and at the sight of it his eyes
lightened.

"Why, if you're willing to go slowly, and put up with a few
things, we might be able to do it."

"Humh!" Mrs. Willoughby bent over her trunk again. "I suppose
that means you'd make me a kind of drudge. Thank you; I prefer
the other way."

"The other way?" he inquired, looking at her closely. "What do
you mean by that?"

She affected to show her carelessness by smoothing the clothes in
the trunk tray. "Oh, I'm going to take the boy and go away
somewhere for a while."

It was not unexpected. Willoughby came a step nearer, his brow
wrinkled ominously. "You shall not!" he said, with a slow
distinctness, every syllable rapped out decisively. Then his
anger, righteous enough in its way, got the better of him.
"Listen to me, Stella!' he gritted, clenching his hands beside
him. "I can see clear through you. You haven't the nerve to face
this down, so you're going to sling me overboard. That's it,
isn't it? Well, you sha'n't. I've handled you like a fool, these
years, and now I'm going to take charge. You'll stay here--not
because of yourself or me--but for the boy!" he cried; and Mrs.
Willoughby arose, quiet, but white.

"No," she answered, clearly; "we've played this farce too long,
Harmon. I don't think I'm suited to you, and I'm sure you're not
suited to me. We married under false ideas of each other."

Willoughby turned white, too, but, restraining himself, he peered
at her from under his heavy brows. "No, we didn't!" he retorted,
solemnly. "YOU did, but _I_ didn't! You married me thinking my
money would buy you what you wanted. I question whether you
thought of ME at all. But I married you, Stella, knowing exactly
what you were, and, since I've paid for it, I intend you shall
stick to your bargain."

"Oh, yes," she answered, smiling a little in scorn, "it would be
like you to call it a bargain. But you can't prevent my leaving."
"No--perhaps not; but I can give you a good, strong argument why
you shouldn't. Don't think I'm the only one that knows you--why,
good Lord, Stella, I've no monopoly on the knowledge! Do you know
what they'll say of you, all these fair weather friends that've
dropped you like a smashed toy? _I_ DO--they'll say you've wrung
me dry, and that now I'm ruined you've chucked me just as they
thought you would. If you care to know, I've heard whispers of it
already; so I'm going to save my boy, if I can."

Mrs. Willoughby stood with a hand at her throat, gasping; the
shot had struck home. "How dare you?" she whispered. "How dare
you, after what I know of you? You say that, after cheating me
into marrying you?"

Willoughby tossed his head. "Do you still refer to Severance?" he
inquired, caustically; and then his face darkened. "I'll tell you
why I cheated you into marrying me. It was because I loved you, I
think," he said, and there came a wistfulness into his voice that
almost startled her. But she put it away scornfully.

"You mean you stole his money to get me!" she retorted,
unequivocally.

"I did--you're quite right!" he answered quickly. "And do you
know what became of the money?" he demanded, pausing long enough
to wet his lips, but giving her no time to reply "Well, it bought
the clothes you wore--your hats--your gloves--your jewels. It's
paid for your extravagances--or a part of them. It bought you the
carriage you wanted; your string of pearls too. My soul!" he
cried in a kind of fierce wonderment, "it bought nearly all there
is of you, I think! It bought you, besides--that money did--his,
with a lot more added to it!"

Mrs. Willoughby stared at him confounded--the situation had
become reversed. She found herself impugned and called to defend
when she had thought only to attack. It was a bitter reflection
that he had, all along, hidden his contempt, while she had been
idly picking flaws in him.

"Oh, yes!" he cried, going on; "all you looked for or lived for
was money. I'd heard your father drum it into your head, and I'd
seen the way you took it in!" He threw up his hand with a gesture
of intolerable regret, this man who had been only a
money-grubbing automaton. "I was ashamed, at first, but as you'd
seemed to take a fancy to me, I deluded myself into thinking you
cared. I knew Severance, too. He was clever and shrewd, but
crooked as a fish-hook. At the time he was making love to you,
there was another. But, never mind, I won't talk of that. I saw
you, and it didn't take long to turn my head." He smiled
wistfully, as before. "I'd never seen a woman like you, you know.
I'd been too busy trying to keep alive. But there was this
Severance, and--oh, well, what's the use?" he muttered again
thickly. "You got your money, and I got the woman I loved. Yes, I
got her--my soul!" he protested; "and it's a pretty trial
balance, isn't it, to cast up on a day like this?"

Silenced, she stood and watched him, waiting for the next storm
of his passion. But Willoughby's rage seemed to have burned
itself out. He drifted across the room and reached his hand for
the bell-pull. "Put away that trunk," he ordered quietly, facing
her; "I'm going to run things now. If you're determined to leave
me, you'll have to put it off a while. I'm going to save the boy.
When I'm on my feet again, I'll give you what money you want; but
there shall be no open scandal." Still silent, she was watching
him, when the maid came in answer to the bell. "Help Mrs.
Willoughby with these," he said curtly, denoting the half-packed
trunk; "we're not going away." And in the presence of the servant
she dared make no rejoinder. Later in the day he looked in again;
Mrs. Willoughby and the maid were rearranging the room, and the
trunk had been whisked away. He smiled grimly, and withdrew.

There could be but two results from a conflict like this: she
would either scorn him the more or she would come to respect him.
For days the outcome wavered in the balance. They met at the
table only--she sitting preoccupied, he talking quietly with the
boy. At the week end he brought her a roll of bills. "For the
house money," he said briefly; and when she would not reach out a
hand for it, he dropped it in her lap, and went away. But that
night she entered into the talk at the table, a little quiet,
still repressed, and showing her hurt. Willoughby, quietly
deferential, kept to his part of the conversation exactly as if
nothing ugly had occurred between them. His bantering with his
son was genial and affectionate, and once she thought he tried to
include her in this camaraderie. The few last shreds of her
vanity, however, still waved distressing signals of the hurt, and
she evaded it. But she felt strangely alone, notwithstanding;
with an almost unconquerable self-pity she reflected on the
fair-weather friends that had deserted her. A little sense of
comfort trickled into her heart, though, when she thought of her
boy. HE, at all events, had not been affected by the rumble of
drums that had beaten her out of the worldly camp where once she
had commanded. That night Willoughby looked in at her, while she
sat musing over a book, and when she would not look up at him he
went away again. A more complete sense of her loneliness came
over her as the hours passed in the big, silent house. So she
laid down her book, and went up-stairs to her boy's room.

"Who's there?" he cried, awakening from a doze.

"Just I, Willard. I came up to see whether you were all right."

"Oh, yes, I am!" he answered, a little perplexed; it had not been
often that she had found time from her busy affairs for a visit
like this. The boy took her hand in his and snuggled down in the
pillows. "It's nice to have you, mumsy," he mumbled, comfortably.

Willoughby, coming home the next evening, heard her talking to
the cook. "You mustn't be so wasteful, Annie. Unless you can do
better, I shall have to get some one else." Her voice was
peevish, but to Willoughby it sounded full of inexplicable
melody. Nor when she carried her complaint to him later, at the
dinner-table, was he less affected with a secret joy.
"Harmon--we'd better take a smaller house. I can't do it any
longer on what we have."

"You needn't," he answered lightly; "I can let you have more.
Things are working out better than I expected. Just let me know
what you're short at the end of the week. I can manage it."

That night, too, he came and sat in the room where she was
reading. He said nothing, and picked up another book. But she
knew what he wished, and resolutely steeled herself. The next
night he was there again. "Good night, dear," he said cheerfully,
daring the added word when she arose to go.

"Good night," she answered.

But on the evening following they talked together, each evading
the shoals of past regret, and threading only the safe channels
of the commonplace. "Good night, Stella dear," he said,
unaffectedly, as she picked up her things; and she answered:
"Good night, Harmon."

He came close to her, and looked down into her face. "Stella," he
said, quietly; "Stella, it would make me very happy if you--if I
might--why, kiss you good night."

Mrs. Willoughby gathered up the remainder of her things, and then
slowly shook her head.

"No, we won't talk of that--yet!" she answered, and went away up
the stairs. Willoughby bit his lip, looking silently after her.

"Why, mumsy!" exclaimed the boy, his hand touching his mother's
cheek as she leaned over him. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head vehemently in the dark. "Nothing at all, dear.
You must go to sleep now."

The next day, Willoughby, on his return from down-town, found her
busily superintending the two servants while they cleaned up his
room. It was an unexpected attention on her part. He withdrew
quietly. A little while later, leaning over the balusters, she
saw Willard whispering to him earnestly. "Did she, my boy?" she
heard the man cry under his breath. "Why, now, mumsy must just
have been a little tired. I don't think it was anything else."
Willoughby's smile seemed enough at the moment to reassure almost
any one.

At dinner his lightness, good-nature, geniality became
infectious. Even Mrs. Willoughby suffered herself to smile at his
whimsical jollity with the boy. Later there was the little comedy
of the good night; and then they parted again. But Willoughby did
not go out as usual.

It was very late that night when Mrs. Willoughby awoke with the
conviction that some one was in her room. Her first impulse was
to cry out in alarm; then, in terror she lay quiet, peering from
beneath her half-closed lids. Across the lighter background of
the curtained window a figure moved, big and familiar in its
bulk. She knew then, and there seemed a greater reason than ever
why she should remain quiet.

Nor was she wrong in her surmise. A moment later Willoughby
leaned over, and she felt his lips lightly brush her cheek. A
little sigh followed, and then he was gone, tiptoeing cautiously.
Mrs. Willoughby sat up in bed, her face in her hands, and
reflected in the stillness that presages the storm. But
loneliness no longer pained her; the solitude had become suddenly
peopled with vivid, poignant regrets, shouting loudly their
indictment and their appeal.

Then, with the curious informality of a woman's emotion--whether
of grief or of joy, whether of pleasure or of pain--she rocked
down her head to her knees, while through her fingers poured the
scalding tears. Mrs. Willoughby had become sincere at last.

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Vol. XXIII  No.1 JULY     1910

The Painter of "Diana of the Tides" {pages 95-103}

By WALTER PRICHARD EATON

Author of "The American Stage of To-day," etc.

Given nearly three hundred square feet of blank wall space, and
it takes something of an artist to fill it up with interesting
paint. Probably you would not pick a miniature painter for the
task. Yet, curiously, John Elliott, creator of "Diana of the
Tides," the great mural painting which adorns the large gallery
to the right of the entrance of the new National Museum at
Washington, also paints on ivory. He works, likewise, in silver
point, that delicate and difficult medium; he draws pastel
illustrations for children's fairy tales; he works in portraiture
with red chalk or oils. And, when the need comes, he has shown
that he can turn stevedore, carpenter, and architect, to slave
with the relief party at Messina, finally to help design and
build, in four months, an entire village for the stricken
sufferers, including a hotel, a hospital, three schoolhouses, and
a church. The too frequent scorn of the "practical man of
affairs" for the artist and dreamer, the world's sneaking
tolerance for the temperament which creates in forms of ideal
beauty rather than in bridges or factories or banks, finds in the
life and work of such a man as John Elliott such complete, if
unconscious, refutation, that his story should have its place in
the history of the day.

John Elliott was born on Good Friday, 1859, one of a famous
Scottish border family. His residence is now in Boston,
Massachusetts, at the home of his mother-in-law. Mrs. Julia Ward
Howe. Robert Louis Stevenson had Elliott blood in his veins.
"Parts of me," he once wrote, "have shouted the slogan of the
Elliotts in the debatable land." If Stevenson's Homeric account
of the Four Black Elliotts in "Weir of Hermiston" is historically
veracious, we might fancy that one of their descendants would
feel his activities somewhat cramped on Beacon Street, Boston.
The Elliotts were a wild lot, and some of them did not escape the
hangman. Their family tree appears to have been the gallows. But
Stevenson tells us they were noted for their prayers, and at
least one of them wrote poetry, and declaimed it, drunk, to
Walter Scott, who retaliated in kind.

But the present John Elliott, artist, though he is of the kin of
Stevenson, and bears the dark hair and rather prominent,
melancholy eyes of the traditional Elliott stock, yet physically
much more closely resembles Edgar Allan Poe. If you press him
hard, he will confess that he began life by studying for the
stage, and "almost played Romeo," before painting drew him away.
Reaching Italy, he aspired to enter the studio of Don Jose di
Villegas, now director of the Prado Museum in Madrid, but then in
Rome. Villegas took no pupils. But "Jack" Elliott is Scotch. He
made a bargain. He would teach the master English, in return for
instruction in painting. At the end of two years, young Elliott
had learned much about art, but the master, he says, had acquired
only one English phrase--"I haf no money!"

At the end of two years, Elliott wished to leave, because he
despaired of painting like his master. "That is why I keep you,"
said Villegas; "you have retained your own manner and choice of
subjects." So the pupil stayed on in Rome for five years, sharing
his studio later with Aristide Sartorio, now a leading Italian
painter. Here, in the Via Flaminia, he painted his first
important mural decoration, for the dining room of Mrs. Potter
Palmer's Chicago Lake Shore mansion. This work, called "The
Vintage," is decorously inebriate, a vinous riot of little
cupids. It led, shortly after his marriage in 1887 to Miss Maud
Howe, a daughter of Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, to his establishing
himself in Chicago, where he did many decorations and portraits.
In 1894, he went back to Rome to execute a commission for a huge
ceiling piece for the Boston Public Library. The piece was for a
room later converted into a children's room, and after the canvas
was placed, in 1901, the incongruity of the adult painting and
the purposes of the room caused unfavorable comment. But the room
has been recently readjusted. It is now lined with high oak
shelves, almost to the cornice, filled with musty old books of a
beautiful brown--perhaps the most effective decoration in the
world--and the ceiling tells at its true value.

This ceiling, fifty feet square, divided into two equal panels,
represents the twenty Christian centuries, as horses, led by the
hours (winged female figures) out of the mists of the past into
the illumination of the present. The models for the horses were
the undersized nags of the Roman Campagna, which are "small but
decorative beasties," as Mr. Elliott puts it, and lend themselves
to a slightly conventional treatment. They sweep two by two, out
of a cool mistiness, round the ceiling past the suggestion of a
pale moon, into the full radiance of the golden orb of the sun.
The triumph of the picture is its handling of the problem of
light. This golden daybreak pierces the mists whereon the horses
gallop, touches here a flank, there a wing feather on one of the
hours, and warms to rosy glow the tip of a cloud. It appears in
unexpected places, grows where only shadow seemed to be, and
surprises you anew each time you look up. Painted in the
flat--that is, with no part of the picture telling as farther
from the eye than another, to distort the proportions of the
room--the ceiling yet has great depth, distance, airy lightness.
It is a true decorative painting.

While at work upon it, Mr. Elliott painted many portraits,
including the well-known red chalk heads of the "Soldiers Three,"
Lord Ava, the Marquis of Winchester, and General Wauchope; the
portrait of His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge; and that of
Lady Katherine Thynne, now Lady Cromer, a celebrated English
beauty. Indeed, he made her the model for the second hour in the
Boston ceiling, the figure next to the leader in the procession.
Three studies of her head for this figure, well known from
reproduction, are now in the possession of Thomas W. Lawson.

In Rome the Elliotts occupied for some time the apartments of
Mrs. Elliott's cousin, the late F. Marion Crawford, in the
Palazzo Santa Croce. In writing "With the Immortals," Mr.
Crawford had collected many death masks, including one of Dante,
which fascinated Mr. Elliott. Two pictures of "Dante in Exile"
were the result. One of them now hangs in the living room of
Queen Margherita of Italy, the other in the house of Mrs. J.
Montgomery Sears of Boston. A third pastel study was made, an
unfinished head of the poet, and thrown into a wastebasket. By a
curious fatality, it is now better known than either of the
paintings. Mrs. Elliott rescued the drawing, smoothed it out,
framed it, and was allowed to hang it in her chamber. Later it
was seen and purchased by Mrs. David Kimball of Boston, and in
reproduction has gone all over the world, receiving honors in
Japan and the higher honor of a place over the desk of many Dante
students. Yet few who possess the reproduction know anything of
the artist.

Mr. Elliott, receiving his commission to do a great mural
painting for the new National Museum in Washington, again went to
Rome four years ago. "Diana of the Tides" was completed and
signed on Christmas day, 1908. Three days later came the awful
news of the Messina earthquake, and the Hon. Lloyd Griscom, then
American Ambassador to Italy, at once called for volunteers for
his relief expedition. John Elliott was among the first to
respond. He went south officially as an interpreter. Actually, he
played the part of stevedore as well for ten days on the relief
ship.

"I have dropped my last knuckle down the hold this morning," he
wrote back, "and I have only two fingers left that I can wash."

After a few weeks, he hastened back to Rome, to give a promised
public exhibition of "Diana of the Tides," and, as soon as the
exhibition was over, rushed down to Messina again.

There Commander Belknap, who was at the head of the American
relief forces, put him to work, as architect, on the erection of
the American village, in the lemon groves on the outskirts of the
stricken city. "I had never been trained as an architect," he
says, "but I once made over a house up in Cornish, New Hampshire,
and that gave me a practical experience which came in remarkably
handy."

Most of the lumber had been cut for the erection of small houses,
and the door and window frames were stock pieces. It became his
task to design and build, as quickly as could be done, not only
comfortable houses for many thousand people, but a church, a
hotel, three schools, a hospital, all out of these small lumber
units. He combined the units for the larger buildings, so
grouping the small stock window frames as to give a pleasing
effect of size, even constructing a kind of rose window for the
church. He helped lay out the streets in such a way as to
preserve all the trees possible. And, in spite of the haste with
which the work had to he done, and the sixteen-hour-a-day strain
under which the workers labored, the Zona Americana emerged an
attractive and sanitary, as well as practical, village. Queen
Helena, as soon as the American village was under way, got Mr.
Elliott to go over the drafts for the plans of the American
quarter in her village near by, working them up along the same
lines. So, in four months, he designed and superintended the
erection of houses, churches, schools, and hospitals for a town
of several thousand inhabitants.

Commander Belknap's report spoke of him as "the first to
volunteer, and the most devoted worker, sharing every hardship
with unfailing good humor and leaving his beautifying touch on
every part of the work."

On June 12, 1908, having built his town and recovered his lost
knuckles, John Elliott returned to Rome, where the soil did not
rock, and set quietly about making twenty-four small pastel
drawings to illustrate a fairy story! From building houses for
the wretched homeless sufferers, he turned to the play tales of
childhood. He laid down the T square and the hammer for a piece
of pastel crayon. But he had triumphantly refuted the scorn of
the "practical man" for the artist. He had shown the stuff that
dreams are really made of. Incidentally, he had won for himself a
decoration from the King of Italy, and the medal of the American
Red Cross Association.

"Diana of the Tides," which now covers the end wall of the
right-hand gallery of the new National Museum at Washington, is
akin to the Boston Library ceiling in its employment of horses
symbolically, its light, luminous color, and its subtle play of
illumination. This charm of illumination is unfortunately lost in
reproduction. Mr. Elliott has made symbolic use of Diana, the
Moon Goddess. in a way obvious enough, but hitherto, oddly,
untried by artists. It is a way singularly appropriate in a
museum of scientific character--a combination of ancient myth and
modern science. As the Moon Goddess, Diana controls the four
tides, which, in the shape of horses, draw her erect and jubilant
figure on a great seashell. They are without guiding reins and
harness, to suggest the unseen channels of her sway. If the
reader will note an advancing wave, he will see that, just before
the crest curls over, the foam is tossed back. Then the wave bows
and breaks. So the nearest horse raises his head slightly, the
next higher, the third tosses his head back, and the last has
bowed his neck. In their motion and grouped attitudes. as they
gallop up on the  beach, is the rhythm of an oncoming wave.
Farther than that Mr. Elliott wisely did not go. "Let them
suggest more obviously a wave," he says, "and you have a trick
picture. After a while, you wouldn't see anything in it but the
trick." The wave motion is repeated on a comber out at sea, and,
to the left, against a rock on the shore.

Diana stands behind the horses, against the great, golden moon--a
radiant halo. She has just unloosed an arrow from her bow. Her
draperies are of indefinite color, the rose and lilac and amber
of sunset. Her face, it will be noted, though she stands against
the moon, is lighted from in front. In that fact lies the secret
of the illumination. For this picture was supposedly painted at
that one Byronic hour of the year when

   The sun was setting opposite the moon.

Turner, in a small water color, has worked out a similar problem,
with the cool copper of the harvest moonlight bathing one side of
an old stone tower, the warm rose of sunset the other. In Mr.
Elliott's great canvas the mutual lights kill all shadows, and
out toward the great yellow disk of the moon the invisible sun
floods its lilac and pink, kindling the waves, the draperies of
the goddess, the wet flanks of the horses, and suffusing the
whole painting with its delicate, bright warmth, which is yet
kept too cool for gaudiness by the twilight of the moon.

While this canvas was being unpacked in Washington last winter,
Mr. Elliott was exhibiting in Boston his portrait of his
mother-in-law, Mrs. Julia Ward Howe. It was begun and nearly
finished at Newport four or five years ago; but Mr. Elliott has
not cared to complete it, for during the interval the "Grand Old
Lady" has considerably changed in appearance. She is now more
than ninety years old. When the sittings began, Mrs. Howe had
just recovered from an illness, and could read or talk only for
brief periods. Mostly she sat looking out of her window at a bird
which had a nest in a nearby tree. In this attitude, the eyes
raised, the face quiet yet alert, the artist has caught her;
calm, patient, but with one hand characteristically clenched on
the arm of her chair, showing a touch of hidden force and
commanding will. She is dressed in light green. The background is
an indistinguishable brown. Her eyes have that very delicate
light blue of advanced age, wistful yet prophetic. The skin, too,
has the rare ivory delicacy of old age, of old age gently dealt
with and protected. The light is unobtrusive yet
luminous--morning sunshine. The picture is utterly simple; the
more so for its touch of incompleteness. The masses are broad,
artless. It is tender, reverential, a sweet and solemn
glorification of old age, and of the old age of a distinguished
spirit.

And at the exhibition in Boston one of the women visitors
complained to the artist: "But you know, Mr. Elliott, when Mrs.
Howe comes to the Woman's Club, she always looks so bright and
animated, and always has something smart to say!"

To which the artist replied: "No doubt, my dear lady. But I was
not painting a president of the New England Woman's Club, but the
author of `The Battle Hymn of the Republic.' "

Queen Margherita of Italy made a truer comment when she saw the
portrait in Mr. Elliott's studio in Rome. "That portrait deserves
to go into any collection in the world," she said, "not because
it is a good portrait of a distinguished old woman, but because
it is a portrait of Old age as it ought to be."

Can it be that a mere Continental Queen is a better judge of art
than a member of a Boston Woman's Club? Such thoughts are very
disturbing!

Queen Margherita, ever since she first visited Mr. Elliott's
studio in Rome ten years ago, has been his warm patron. It was
for her he made his well known silver-point portrait of the late
King Humbert, which she carries with her on all journeys. It has,
indeed the boldness of line inseparable from good silver-point
drawing, where a stroke once laid on is indelible and no "working
over" is possible. When "Diana of the Tides " was exhibited in
Rome in February, 1909, the Queen was one of the first visitors.
She was not the first, the Chinese Minister arriving ahead of all
others, on the stroke of ten--the opening hour--attended by all
his suite, to signify his profound Celestial veneration for the
Fine Arts. The Queen, seeing the picture, expressed delight and
volunteered to tell her son, King Victor Emmanuel, about it.

A few days later, at seven thirty in the morning, there came a
knocking at the door, with the announcement, "A message from the
King."

The King, said the messenger, would follow in an hour. Presumably
there was some hurry of preparation in the Elliott family. A New
York artist, at any rate, at seven thirty A. M. would be in no
condition to receive a crowned head--or any other! Promptly at
eight thirty--punctuality being a royal virtue--King Victor
Emmanuel drove up in a motor car with two aides. He remained half
an hour. Being fond of horses, he found much in the picture
genuinely to interest him. The artist accompanied the monarch to
the door of his car, where he thanked him for the honor of his
visit.

"Not at all," said the King, in his excellent English. "My mother
told me to come."

Which shows, at least, that the Fifth Commandment is honored in
Italy.

The twenty-four pastel drawings made to illustrate Mrs.
Anderson's fairy tale, "The Great Sea Horse," were also exhibited
in America last winter. Made immediately after Mr. Elliott's
heartbreaking labor on the rocking soil of Sicily, they are none
the less quiet, childish, and fanciful in their charm. Only one
of them might have been inspired by the turning over in his
uneasy sleep of the giant buried beneath Etna--the picture of the
naked giant sitting on a headland and emptying his hot pipe ashes
into the sea, where they form a volcano. The grim, grotesque old
fellow is carefully drawn, with a fine rhythm of line in the
seated limbs. His bulk dwarfs the headland, and his head and
shoulders grow blue and pale in the sky. One questions why the
ashes do not fall farther out to sea; they seem to lie in the
shallow tide water on the beach. Barring this note of smallness,
the picture is a true grotesque in miniature.

Mr. Elliott also works in genuine miniature. He has painted
several portraits--of Mrs. Potter Palmer, the Chanler sisters of
New York, and many more. He has painted landscapes, as well.
Professor Barrett Wendell possesses a charming example. Most
recently he has been engaged on a large mural decoration, best
fitted, perhaps, for a music room, showing Pan seated on a tree
trunk by a lake, making into a pipe the broken reeds in his hand
after Syrinx eluded him. No horizon line shows. Pan and his tawny
leopard skin (his automobile coat, the artist calls it) tell
against the high purple banks across the lake. The god is making
the best of his loss--making music of it, in fact. He was the
eternal boy, before Mr. Barrie rediscovered him and surnamed him
Peter.

And there is something of the eternal boy about John Elliott. He
plays with a paint box on a fifty-foot ceiling or a twenty-seven-
foot end wall, turns aside to paint a miniature on ivory, drops
all his paints when a great national calamity comes and is
converted into an architect overnight, building a whole town in
four months and making it as beautiful as he can in the process,
though the "practical" man would say that utility alone was
demanded; and then, when this work is over, turning blithely back
again to make pictures for a fairy book. He is strong, through
his fresh imagination, to combine ancient myth with modern
science in a huge decorative canvas, to reflect the dignity and
loveliness and spiritual power of an exalted old age, to do
practical work in a practical crisis--and to joy, at the same
time, with the moon baby dancing on the beach!

"Jack Elliott," they will tell you who know him, "has an artistic
temperament." Well, if this be the artistic temperament, what a
pity there is not more of it in the world! It is not the
temperament that is self-centered, whining, ineffectual. It is
the temperament that does whatever comes to hand as well as it
can, for sheer love of the task, and of beautiful workmanship
that through imagination wins to sympathy, and through
imagination grasps the opportunity to do practical work
beautifully, where others would only do it practically. It is the
temperament eternally boyish and buoyant, which is on the side of
sweetness and light.

Perhaps it is not what the world means by the artistic
temperament. But it is the temperament of the true artist. "Never
do a pot-boiler," said Mr. Elliott to a young painter the other
day. "Let one of your best things go to boil the pot." In these
words is a rule of conduct that all of us--artists or artisans
brokers or clerks, men or women--might well walk by toward the
light of a more beautiful and cooperative society.

*****************************************************************
Vol. XXIII  No.2 AUGUST      1910

THE HEATHEN {page 193-204}

By JACK LONDON

Author of " The Call of the Wild," "Martin Eden," etc.

I met him first in a hurricane. And though we had been through
the hurricane on the same schooner, it was not until the schooner
had gone to pieces under us that I first laid eyes on him.
Without doubt I had seen him with the rest of the Kanaka crew on
board, but I had not consciously been aware of his existence, for
the Petite Jeanne was rather overcrowded. In addition to her
eight or ten Kanaka sea men, her white captain, mate, and
supercargo, and her six cabin passengers, she sailed from
Rangiroa with something like eighty-five deck
passengers--Paumotuans and Tahitians, men, women, and children,
each with a trade-box, to say nothing of sleeping-mats, blankets,
and clothes-bundles.

The pearling season in the Paumotus was over, and all hands were
returning to Tahiti. The six of us cabin passengers were
pearl-buyers. Two were Americans, one was Ah Choon, the whitest
Chinese I have ever known, one was a German, one was a Polish
Jew, and I completed the half-dozen. It had been a prosperous
season. Not one of us had cause for complaint, nor one of the
eighty-five deck passengers either. All had done well, and all
were looking forward to a rest-off and a good time in Papeete. Of
course the Petite Jeanne was overloaded. he was only seventy
tons, and she had no right to carry a tithe of the mob she had on
board. Beneath her hatches she was crammed and jammed with pearl
shell and copra. Even the trade-room was packed full of shell. It
was a miracle that the sailors could work her. There was no
moving about the decks. They simply climbed back and forth along
the rails. In the night-time they walked upon the sleepers, who
carpeted the deck, two deep, I'll swear. Oh, and there were pigs
and chickens on deck, and sacks of yams, while every conceivable
place was festooned with strings of drinking cocoanuts and
bunches of bananas. On both sides, between the fore and main
shrouds, guys had been stretched, just low enough for the
fore-boom to swing clear; and from each of these guys at least
fifty bunches of bananas were suspended.

It promised to be a messy passage, even if we did make it in the
two or three days that would have been required if the southeast
trades had been blowing fresh. But they weren't blowing fresh.
After the first five hours, the trade died away in a dozen
gasping  fans. The calm continued all that night and the next
day--one of those glaring, glossy calms when the very thought of
opening one's eyes to look at it is sufficient to cause a
headache. The second day a man died, an Easter Islander, one of
the best divers that season in the lagoon. Smallpox, that is what
it was, though how smallpox could come on board when there had
been no known cases ashore when we left Rangiroa is beyond me.
There it was, though, smallpox, a man dead, and three others down
on their backs. There was nothing to be done. We could not
segregate the sick, nor could we care for them. We were packed
like sardines. There was nothing to do but die--that is, there
was nothing to do after the night that followed the first death.
On that night, the mate, the supercargo, the Polish Jew, and four
native divers sneaked away in the large whaleboat. They were
never heard of again. In the morning the captain promptly
scuttled the remaining boats, and there we were.

That day there were two deaths; the following day three; then it
jumped to eight. It was curious to see how we took it. The
natives, for instance, fell into a condition of dumb, stolid
fear. The captain--Oudouse, his name was, a Frenchman--became
very nervous and voluble. The German, the two Americans, and
myself bought up all the Scotch whisky and proceeded to drink.
The theory was beautiful--namely, if we kept ourselves soaked in
alcohol, every smallpox germ that came into contact with us would
immediately be scorched to a cinder. And the theory worked,
though I must confess that neither Captain Oudouse nor Ah Choon
was attacked by the disease either. The Frenchman did not drink
at all, while Ah Choon restricted himself to one drink daily.

We had a week of it, and then the whisky gave out. It was just as
well, or I shouldn't be alive now. It took a sober man to pull
through what followed, as you will agree when I mention the
little fact that only two men did pull through. The other man was
the Heathen--at least that was what I heard Captain Oudouse call
him at the moment I first became aware of the Heathen's
existence.

But to come back. It was at the end of the week that I happened
to glance at the barometer that hung in the cabin companion-way.
Its normal register in the Paumotus was 29.90, and it was quite
customary to see it vacillate between 29.85 and 30.00, or even
30.05; but to see it, as I saw it, down to 29.62, was sufficient
to chill the blood of any pearl-buyer in Oceania.

I called Captain Oudouse's attention to it, only to be informed
that he had watched it going down for several hours. There was
little to do, but that little he did very well, considering the
circumstances. He took off the light sails, shortened right down
to storm canvas, spread life-lines, and waited for the wind. His
mistake lay in what he did after the wind came. He hove to on the
port tack, which was the right thing to do south of the Equator,
IF--and there was the rub--IF one were NOT in the direct path of
the hurricane. We were in the direct path. I could see that by
the steady increase of the wind and the equally steady fall of
the barometer. I wanted to turn and run with the wind on the port
quarter until the barometer ceased falling, and then to heave to.
We argued till he was reduced to hysteria, but budge he would
not. The worst of it was that I could not get the rest of the
pearl-buyers to back me up. Who was I, anyway, to know more about
the sea and its ways than a properly qualified captain?

Of course, the sea rose with the wind, frightfully, and I shall
never forget the first three seas the Petite Jeanne shipped. She
had fallen off, as vessels do when hove to, and the first sea
made a clean breach. The lifelines were only for the strong and
well, and little good were they even for these when the women and
children, the bananas and cocoanuts, the pigs and trade-boxes,
the sick and the dying, were swept along in a solid, screeching,
groaning mass.

The second sea filled the Petite Jeanne's decks flush with the
rails, and, as her stern sank down and her bow tossed skyward,
all the miserable dunnage of life and luggage poured aft. It was
a human torrent. They came head-first, feet-first, sidewise,
rolling over and over, twisting, squirming, writhing, and
crumpling up. Now and again one or another caught a grip on a
stanchion or a rope, but the weight of the bodies behind tore
such grips loose. I saw what was coming, sprang on top the cabin,
and from there into the mainsail itself. Ah Choon and one of the
Americans tried to follow me, but I was one jump ahead of them.
The American was swept away and over the stern like a piece of
chaff. Ah Choon caught a spoke of the wheel and swung in behind
it. But a strapping Rarotonga vahine[1]--she must have weighed
two hundred and fifty--brought up against him and got an arm
around his neck. He clutched the Kanaka steersman with his other
hand. And just at that moment the schooner flung down to
starboard. The rush of bodies and the sea that was coming along
the port runway between the cabin and the rail, turned abruptly
and poured to starboard. Away they went, vahine, Ah Choon, and
steersman; and I swear I saw Ah Choon grin at me with philosophic
resignation as he cleared the rail and went under.

[1] woman

The third sea--the biggest of the three--did not do so much
damage. By the time it arrived, nearly everybody was in the
rigging. On deck perhaps a dozen gasping, half-drowned, and
half-stunned wretches were rolling about or attempting to crawl
into safety. They went by the board, as did the wreckage of the
two remaining boats. The other pearl-buyers and myself, between
seas, managed to get about fifteen women and children into the
cabin and battened down. Little good it did the poor creatures in
the end.

Wind? Out of all my experiences I could not have believed it
possible for the wind to blow as it did. There is no describing
it. How can one describe a nightmare? It was the same way with
that wind. It tore the clothes off our bodies. I say TORE THEM
OFF, and I mean it. I am not asking you to believe it. I am
merely telling something that I saw and felt. There are times
when I do not believe it myself. I went through it, and that is
enough. One could not face that wind and live. It was a monstrous
thing, and the most monstrous thing about it was that it
increased and continued to increase. Imagine countless millions
and billions of tons of sand. Imagine this sand tearing along at
ninety, a hundred, a hundred and twenty, or any other number of
miles per hour. Imagine, further, this sand to be invisible,
impalpable, yet to retain all the weight and density of sand. Do
all this, and you may get a vague inkling of what that wind was
like. Perhaps sand is not the right comparison. Consider it mud,
invisible, impalpable, but heavy as mud. Nay, it goes beyond
that. Consider every molecule of air to be a mud-bank in itself.
Then try to imagine the multitudinous impact of mud-banks--no, it
is beyond me. Language may be adequate to express the ordinary
conditions of life, but it cannot possibly express any of the
conditions of so enormous a blast of wind. It would have been
better had I stuck by my original intention of not attempting a
description.

I will say this much: The sea, which had risen at first, was
beaten down by that wind. More--it seemed as if the whole ocean
had been sucked up in the maw of the hurricane and hurled on
through that portion of space which previously had been occupied
by the air. Of course, our canvas had gone long before. But
Captain Oudouse had on the Petite Jeanne something I had never
before seen on a South Sea schooner a sea-anchor. It was a
conical canvas bag, the mouth of which was kept open by a huge
hoop of iron. The sea-anchor was bridled something like a kite,
so that it bit into the water as a kite bites into the air--but
with a difference. The sea-anchor remained just under the surface
of the ocean, in a perpendicular position. A long line, in turn,
connected it with the schooner. As a result, the Petite Jeanne
rode bow-on to the wind and to what little sea there was.

The situation really would have been favorable, had we not been
in the path of the storm. True, the wind itself tore our canvas
out of the gaskets, jerked out our topmasts, and made a raffle of
our running gear; but still we would have come through nicely had
we not been square in front of the advancing storm-center. That
was what fixed us. I was in a state of stunned, numbed, paralyzed
collapse from enduring the impact of the wind, and I think I was
just about ready to give up and die when the center smote us. The
blow we received was an absolute lull. There was not a breath of
air. The effect on one was sickening. Remember that for hours we
had been at terrific muscular tension, withstanding the awful
pressure of that wind. And then, suddenly, the pressure was
removed. I know that I felt as though I were about to expand, to
fly apart in all directions. It seemed as if every atom composing
my body was repelling every other atom, and was on the verge of
rushing off irresistibly into space. But that lasted only for a
moment. Destruction was upon us.

In the absence of the wind and its pressure, the sea rose. It
jumped, it leaped, it soared straight toward the clouds.
Remember, from every point of the compass that inconceivable wind
was blowing in toward the center of calm. The result was that the
seas sprang up from every point of the compass. There was no wind
to check them. They popped up like corks released from the bottom
of a pail of water. There was no system to them, no stability.
They were hollow, maniacal seas. They were eighty feet high at
the least. They were not seas at all. They resembled no sea a man
had ever seen. They were splashes, monstrous splashes, that is
all, splashes that were eighty feet high. Eighty! They were more
than eighty. They went over our mastheads. They were spouts,
explosions. They were drunken. They fell anywhere, anyhow. They
jostled one another, they collided. They rushed together and
collapsed upon one another, or fell apart like a thousand
waterfalls all at once. It was no ocean any man ever dreamed of,
that hurricane-center. It was confusion thrice confounded. It was
anarchy. It was a hell-pit of sea water gone mad.

The Petite Jeanne? I don't know. The Heathen told me afterward
that he did not know. She was literally torn apart, ripped wide
open, beaten into a pulp, smashed into kindling wood,
annihilated. When I came to, I was in the water, swimming
automatically, though I was about two-thirds drowned. How I got
there I had no recollection. I remembered seeing the Petite
Jeanne fly to pieces at what must have been the instant that my
own consciousness was buffeted out of me. But there I was, with
nothing to do but make the best of it, and in that best there was
little promise. The wind was blowing again, the sea was much
smaller and more regular, and I knew that I had passed through
the center. Fortunately, there were no sharks about. The
hurricane had dissipated the ravenous horde that had surrounded
the death ship.

It was about midday when the Petite Jeanne went to pieces, and it
must have been two hours afterward when I picked up with one of
her hatch-covers. Thick rain was driving at the time, and it was
the merest chance that flung me and the hatch-cover together. A
short length of line was trailing from the rope handle, and I
knew that I was good for a day at least, if the sharks did not
return. Three hours later, possibly a little longer, sticking
close to the cover and, with closed eyes, concentrating my whole
soul upon the task of breathing in enough air to keep me going
and, at the same time, to avoid breathing in enough water to
drown me, it seemed to me that I heard voices. The rain had
ceased, and wind and sea were easing marvelously. Not twenty feet
away from me, on another hatch-cover, were Captain Oudouse and
the Heathen. They were fighting over the possession of the
cover--at least the Frenchman was.

"Paien noir!" I heard him scream, and at the same time I saw him
kick the Kanaka.

Now, Captain Oudouse had lost all his clothes except his shoes,
and they were heavy brogans. It was a cruel blow, for it caught
the Heathen on the mouth and the point of the chin, half-stunning
him. I looked for him to retaliate, but he contented himself with
swimming about forlornly, a safe ten feet away. Whenever a fling
of the sea threw him closer, the Frenchman, hanging on with his
hands, kicked out at him with both feet. Also, at the moment of
delivering each kick, he called the Kanaka a black heathen.

"For two centimes I'd come over there and drown you, you white
beast!" I yelled.

The only reason I did not go was that I felt too tired. The very
thought of the effort to swim over was nauseating. So I called to
the Kanaka to come to me, and proceeded to share the hatch-cover
with him. Otoo, he told me his name was (pronounced
-t-); also he told me that he was a native of Bora
Bora, the most westerly of the Society Group. As I learned
afterward, he had got the hatch-cover first, and, after some
time, encountering Captain Oudouse, had offered to share it with
him, and had been kicked off for his pains.

And that was how Otoo and I first came together. He was no
fighter. He was all sweetness and gentleness, a love-creature
though he stood nearly six feet tall and was muscled like a
gladiator. He was no fighter, but he was also no coward. He had
the heart of a lion, and in the years that followed I have seen
him run risks that I would never dream of taking. What I mean is
that, while he was no fighter, and while he always avoided
precipitating a row, he never ran away from trouble when it
started. And it was " 'Ware shoal!" when once Otoo went into
action. I shall never forget what he did to Bill King. It
occurred in German Samoa. Bill King was hailed the champion
heavyweight of the American navy. He was a big brute of a man, a
veritable gorilla, one of those hard-hitting, rough-housing
chaps, and clever with his fists as well. He picked the quarrel,
and he kicked Otoo twice and struck him once before Otoo felt it
to be necessary to fight. I don't think it lasted four minutes,
at the end of which time Bill King was the unhappy possessor of
four broken ribs, a broken fore-arm, and a dislocated
shoulder-blade. Otoo knew nothing of scientific boxing. He was
merely a man-handler, and Bill King was something like three
months in recovering from the bit of man-handling he received
that afternoon on Apia beach.

But I am running ahead of my yarn. We shared the hatch-cover
between us. We took turn and turn about, one lying flat on the
cover and resting, while the other, submerged to the neck, merely
held on with his hands. For three days and nights, spell and
spell, on the cover and in the water, we drifted over the ocean.
Toward the last I was delirious most of the time, and there were
times, too, when I heard Otoo babbling and raving in his native
tongue. Our continuous immersion prevented us from dying of
thirst, though the sea water and the sunshine gave us the
prettiest imaginable combination of salt pickle and sunburn. In
the end, Otoo saved MY life; for I came to, lying on the beach
twenty feet from the water, sheltered from the sun by a couple of
cocoanut leaves. No one but Otoo could have dragged me there and
stuck up the leaves for shade. He was lying beside me. I went off
again, and the next time I came around it was cool and starry
night and Otoo was pressing a drinking cocoanut to my lips.

We were the sole survivors of the Petite Jeanne. Captain Oudouse
must have succumbed to exhaustion, for several days later his
hatch-cover drifted ashore without him. Otoo and I lived with the
natives of the atoll for a week, when we were rescued by a French
cruiser and taken to Tahiti. In the meantime, however, we had
performed the ceremony of exchanging names. In the South Seas
such a ceremony binds two men closer together than
blood-brothership. The initiative had been mine, and Otoo was
rapturously delighted when I suggested it.

"It is well," he said, in Tahitian. "For we have been mates
together for three days on the lips of Death."

"But Death stuttered," I smiled.

"It was a brave deed you did, master," he replied, "and Death was
not vile enough to speak."

"Why do you `master' me?" I demanded, with a show of hurt
feelings. "We have exchanged names. To you I am Otoo. To me you
are Charley. And between you and me, forever and forever, you
shall be Charley and I shall be Otoo. It is the way of the
custom. And when we die, if it does happen that we live again,
somewhere beyond the stars and the sky, still shall you be
Charley to me and I Otoo to you."

"Yes, master," he answered, his eyes luminous and soft with joy.

"There you go!" I cried indignantly.

"What does it matter what my lips utter?" he argued. "They are
only my lips. But I shall think OTOO always. Whenever I think of
myself I shall think of you. Whenever men call me by name I shall
think of you. And beyond the sky and beyond the stars always and
forever you shall be Otoo to me. Is it well, master?"

I hid my smile and answered that it was well.

We parted at Papeete. I remained ashore to recuperate, and he
went on in a cutter to his own island, Bora Bora. Six weeks later
he was back. I was surprised, for he had told me of his wife and
said that he was returning to her and would give over sailing on
far voyages.

"Where do you go, master?" he asked, after our first greetings.

I shrugged my shoulders. It was a hard question. "To all the
world, "was my answer. "All the world, all the sea, and all the
islands that are in the sea."

"I will go with you," he said simply. "My wife is dead."

I never had a brother, but from what I have seen of other men's
brothers I doubt if any man ever had one who was to him what Otoo
was to me. He was brother, and father and mother as well. And
this I know--I lived a straighter and a better man because of
Otoo. I had to live straight in Otoo's eyes. Because of him I
dared not tarnish myself. He made me his ideal, compounding me, I
fear, chiefly out of his own love and worship; and there were
times when I stood close to the steep pitch of hell and would
have taken the plunge had not the thought of Otoo restrained me.
His pride in me entered into me until it became one of the major
rules in my personal code to do nothing that would diminish that
pride of his. Naturally, I did not learn right away what his
feelings were toward me. He never criticised, never censured, and
slowly the exalted place I held in his eyes dawned upon me, and
slowly I grew to comprehend the hurt I could inflict upon him by
being anything less than my best.

For seventeen years we were together. For seventeen years he was
at my shoulder, watching while I slept, nursing me through fever
and wounds, aye, and receiving wounds in fighting for me. He
signed on the same ships with me, and together we ranged the
Pacific from Hawaii to Sydney Head and from Torres Strait to the
Galapagos. We blackbirded from the New hebrides and the Line
Islands over to the westward, clear through the Louisiades, New
Britain, New Ireland, and New Hanover. We were wrecked three
times--in the Gilberts, in the Santa Cruz group, and in the
Fijis. And we traded and salved wherever a dollar promised in the
way of pearl and pearl shell, copra, beche de mer, hawkbill
turtle shell, and stranded wrecks.

It began in Papeete, immediately after his announcement that he
was going with me over all the sea and the islands in the midst
thereof. There was a club in those days in Papeete, where the
pearlers, traders, captains, and South Sea adventurers
foregathered. The play ran high and the drink ran high, and I am
very much afraid that I kept later hours than were becoming or
proper. No matter what the hour was when I left the club, there
was Otoo waiting to see me safely home. At first I smiled. Next I
chided him. Then I told him flatly I stood in need of no
wet-nursing. After that I did not see him when I came out of the
club. Quite by accident, a week or so later, I discovered that he
still saw me home, lurking across the street among the shadows of
the mango trees. What could I do? I know what I did do.
Insensibly I began to keep better hours. On wet and stormy
nights, in the thick of the folly and the fun, the thought would
come to me of Otoo keeping his dreary vigil under the dripping
mangoes. Truly, he made me a better man.

Yet he was not strait-laced. And he knew nothing of common
Christian morality. All the people on Bora Bora were Christians.
But he was a heathen, the only unbeliever on the island, a gross
materialist who believed that when he died he was dead. He
believed merely in fair play and square-dealing. Petty meanness,
in his code, was almost as serious as wanton homicide, and I am
sure that he respected a murderer more than a man given to small
practices. Concerning me, personally, he objected to my doing
anything that was hurtful to me. Gambling was all right. He was
an ardent gambler himself. But late hours, he explained, were bad
for one's health. He had seen men who did not take care of
themselves die of fever. He was no teetotaler, and welcomed a
stiff nip any time when it was wet work in the boats. On the
other hand, he believed in liquor in moderation. He had seen many
men killed or disgraced by squareface or Scotch.

Otoo had my welfare always at heart. He thought ahead for me,
weighed my plans and took a greater interest in them than I did
myself. At first, when I was unaware of this interest of his in
my affairs, he had to divine my intentions, as, for instance, at
Papeete, when I contemplated going partners with a knavish fellow
countryman on a guano venture. I did not know he was a knave. Nor
did any white man in Papeete. Neither did Otoo know; but he saw
how thick we were getting and found out for me, and that without
my asking. Native sailors from the ends of the seas knock about
on the beach in Tahiti, and Otoo, suspicious merely, went among
them till he had gathered sufficient data to justify his
suspicions. Oh, it was a nice history, that of Randolph Waters! I
couldn't believe it when Otoo first narrated it, but when I
sheeted it home to Waters he gave in without a murmur and got
away on the first steamer to Auckland.

At first, I am free to confess, I resented Otoo's poking his nose
into my business. But I knew that he was wholly unselfish, and
soon I had to acknowledge his wisdom and discretion. He had his
eyes open always to my main chance, and he was both keen-sighted
and far-sighted. In time he became my counselor, until he knew
more of my business than I did myself. He really had my interest
at heart more than I did. Mine was the magnificent carelessness
of youth, for I preferred romance to dollars, and adventure to a
comfortable billet with all night in. So it was well that I had
some one to look out for me. I know that if it had not been for
Otoo, I should not be here to-day.

Of numerous instances, let me give one. I had had some experience
in blackbirding before I went pearling in the Paumotus. Otoo and
I were on the beach in Samoa--we really were on the beach and
hard aground--when my chance came to go as a recruiter on a
blackbird brig. Otoo signed on before the mast, and for the next
half-dozen years, in as many ships, we knocked about the wildest
portions of Melanesia. Otoo saw to it that he always pulled
stroke-oar in my boat. Our custom, in recruiting labor, was to
land the recruiter on the beach. The covering boat always lay on
its oars several hundred feet off shore, while the recruiter's
boat, also lying on its oars, kept afloat on the edge of the
beach. When I landed with my trade goods, leaving my steering
sweep apeak, Otoo left his stroke position and came into the
stern sheets, where a Winchester lay ready to hand under a flap
of canvas. The boat's crew was also armed, the Sniders concealed
under canvas flaps that ran the length of the gunwales. While I
was busy arguing and persuading the woolly-headed cannibals to
come and labor on the Queensland plantations Otoo kept watch. And
often and often his low voice warned me of suspicious actions and
impending treachery. Sometimes it was the quick shot from his
rifle, knocking a nigger over, that was the first warning I
received. And in my rush to the boat his hand was always there to
jerk me flying aboard.

Once, I remember, on Santa Anna, the boat grounded just as the
trouble began. The covering boat was dashing to our assistance,
but the several score of savages would have wiped us out before
it arrived. Otoo took a flying leap ashore, dug both hands into
the trade goods, and scattered tobacco, beads, tomahawks, knives,
and calicoes in all directions. This was too much for the woolly
heads. While they scrambled for the treasures, the boat was
shoved clear and we were aboard and forty feet away. And I got
thirty recruits off that very beach in the next four hours.

The particular instance I have in mind was on Malaita, the most
savage island in the easterly Solomons. The natives had been
remarkably friendly; and how were we to know that the whole
village had been taking up a collection for over two years with
which to buy a white man's head? The beggars are all
head-hunters, and they especially esteem that of a white man. The
fellow who captured the head would receive the whole collection.
As I say, they appeared very friendly, and this day I was fully a
hundred yards down the beach from the boat. Otoo had cautioned
me, and, as usual when I did not heed him, I came to grief. The
first thing I knew a cloud of spears sailed out of the mangrove
swamp at me. At least a dozen were sticking into me. I started to
run, but tripped over one that was fast in my calf and went down.
The woolly heads made a run for me, each with a long-handled,
fantail tomahawk with which to hack off my head. They were so
eager for the prize that they got in one another's way. In the
confusion I avoided several hacks by throwing myself right and
left on the sand. Then Otoo arrived--Otoo the man-handler. In
some way he had got hold of a heavy war-club, and at close
quarters it was a far more efficient weapon than a rifle. He was
right in the thick of them, so that they could not spear him,
while their tomahawks seemed worse than useless. He was fighting
for me, and he was in a true Berserker rage. The way he handled
that club was amazing. Their skulls squashed like overripe
oranges. It was not until he had driven them back, picked me up
in his arms, and started to run, that he received his first
wounds. He arrived in the boat with four spear-thrusts, got his
Winchester, and with it got a man for every shot. Then we pulled
aboard the schooner and doctored up.

Seventeen years we were together. He made me. I should to-day be
a supercargo, a recruiter, or a memory, if it had not been for
him.

"You spend your money, and you go out and get more," he said, one
day. "It is easy to get money, now. But when you get old, your
money will be spent and you will not be able to go out and get
more. I know, master. I have studied the way of white men. On the
beaches are many old men who were young once and who could get
money just like you. Now they are old, and they have nothing, and
they wait about for the young men like you to come ashore and buy
drinks for them.

"The black boy is a slave on the plantations. He gets twenty
dollars a year. He works hard. The overseer does not work hard.
He rides a horse and watches the black boy work. He gets twelve
hundred dollars a year. I am a sailor on the schooner. I get
fifteen dollars a month. That is because I am a good sailor. I
work hard. The captain has a double awning and drinks beer out of
long bottles. I have never seen him haul a rope or pull an oar.
He gets one hundred and fifty dollars a month. I am a sailor. He
is a navigator. Master, I think it would be very good for you to
know navigation.

Otoo spurred me on to it. He sailed with me as second mate on my
first schooner, and he was far prouder of my command than was I
myself. Later on it was:

"The captain is well paid, master, but the ship is in his keeping
and he is never free from the burden. It is the owner who is
better paid, the owner who sits ashore with many servants and
turns his money over."

"True, but a schooner costs five thousand dollars--an old
schooner at that," I objected. "I should be an old man before I
saved five thousand dollars. "

"There be short ways for white men to make money," he went on,
pointing ashore at the cocoanut-fringed beach.

We were in the Solomons at the time, picking up a cargo of
ivory-nuts along the east coast of Guadalcanar.

"Between this river mouth and the next it is two miles," he said.
"The flat land runs far back. It is worth nothing now. Next
year--who knows!--or the year after--men will pay much money for
that land. The anchorage is good. Big steamers can lie close up.
You can buy the land four miles deep from the old chief for ten
thousand sticks of tobacco, ten bottles of squareface, and a
Snider, which will cost you maybe one hundred dollars. Then you
place the deed with the commissioner, and the next year, or the
year after, you sell and become the owner of a ship."

I followed his lead, and his words came true, though in three
years instead of two. Next came the grass-lands deal on
Guadalcanar--twenty thousand acres on a governmental nine hundred
and ninety-nine years' lease at a nominal sum. I owned the lease
for precisely ninety days, when I sold it to the Moonlight Soap
crowd for half a fortune. Always it was Otoo who looked ahead and
saw the opportunity. He was responsible for the salving of the
Doncaster--bought in at auction for five hundred dollars and
clearing fifteen thousand after every expense was paid. He led me
into the Savaii plantation and the cocoa venture on Upolu.

We did not go seafaring so much as in the old days now. I was too
well off. I married and my standard of living rose; but Otoo
remained the same old-time Otoo, moving about the house or
trailing through the office, his wooden pipe in his mouth, a
shilling undershirt on his back, and a four-shilling lava-lava
about his loins. I could not get him to spend money. There was no
way of repaying him except with love, and God knows he got that
in full measure from all of us. The children worshiped him, and
if he had been spoilable my wife would surely have been his
undoing.

The children! He really was the one who showed them the way of
their feet in the world practical. He began by teaching them to
walk. He sat up with them when they were sick. One by one, when
they were scarcely toddlers, he took them down to the lagoon and
made them into amphibians. He taught them more than I ever knew
of the habits of fish and the ways of catching them. In the bush
it was the same thing. At seven, Tom knew more woodcraft than I
ever dreamed existed. At six, Mary went over the Sliding Rock
without a quiver--and I have seen strong men balk at that feat.
And when Frank had just turned six he could bring up shillings
from the bottom in three fathoms.

"My people in Bora Bora do not like heathen; they are all
Christians; and I do not like Bora Bora Christians," he said one
day, when I, with the idea of getting him to spend some of the
money that was rightfully his, had been trying to persuade him to
make a visit to his own island in one of our schooners--a special
voyage that I had hoped to make a record-breaker in the matter of
prodigal expense.

I say one of OUR schooners, though legally, at the time, they
belonged to me. I struggled long with him to enter into
partnership.

"We have been partners from the day the Petite Jeanne went down,"
he said at last. "But if your heart so wishes, then shall we
become partners by the law. I have no work to do, yet are my
expenses large. I drink and eat and smoke in plenty--it costs
much, I know. I do not pay for the playing of billiards, for I
play on your table; but still the money goes. Fishing on the reef
is only a rich man's pleasure. It is shocking, the cost of hooks
and cotton line. Yes, it is necessary that we be partners by the
law. I need the money. I shall get it from the head clerk in the
office."

So the papers were made out and recorded. A year later I was
compelled to complain.

"Charley," said I, "you are a wicked old fraud, a miserly
skinflint, a miserable land-crab. Behold, your share for the year
in all our partnership has been thousands of dollars. The head
clerk has given me this paper. It says that during the year you
have drawn just eighty-seven dollars and twenty cents."

"Is there any owing me?" he asked anxiously.

"I tell you thousands and thousands," I answered.

His face brightened as with an immense relief.

"It is well," he said. "See that the head-clerk keeps good
account of it. When I want it, I shall want it, and there must
not be a cent missing. If there is," he added fiercely, after a
pause, "it must come out of the clerk's wages."

And all the time, as I afterward learned, his will, drawn up by
Carruthers and making me sole beneficiary, lay in the American
consul's safe.

But the end came as the end must come to all human associations.
It occurred in the Solomons, where our wildest work had been done
in the wild young days, and where we were once more--principally
on a holiday, incidentally to look after our holdings on Florida
Island and to look over the pearling possibilities of the Mboli
Pass. We were lying at Savo, having run in to trade for curios.
Now Savo is alive with sharks. The custom of the woolly heads of
burying their dead in the sea did not tend to discourage the
sharks from making the adjacent waters a hang-out. It was my luck
to be coming aboard in a tiny, overloaded, native canoe, when the
thing capsized. There were four woolly heads and myself in it, or
rather, hanging to it. The schooner was a hundred yards away. I
was just hailing for a boat when one of the woolly heads began to
scream. Holding on to the end of the canoe, both he and that
portion of the canoe were dragged under several times. Then he
loosed his clutch and disappeared. A shark had got him.

The three remaining niggers tried to climb out of the water upon
the bottom of the canoe. I yelled and cursed and struck at the
nearest with my fist, but it was no use. They were in a blind
funk. The canoe could barely have supported one of them. Under
the three it up-ended and rolled sidewise, throwing them back
into the water.

I abandoned the canoe and started to swim toward the schooner,
expecting to be picked up by the boat before I got there. One of
the niggers elected to come with me, and we swam along silently,
side by side, now and again putting our faces into the water and
peering about for sharks. The screams of the men who stayed by
the canoe informed us that they were taken. I was peering into
the water when I saw a big shark pass directly beneath me. He was
fully sixteen feet in length. I saw the whole thing. He got the
woolly head by the middle and away he went, the poor devil, head,
shoulders, and arms out of water all the time, screeching in a
heart-rending way. He was carried along in this fashion for
several hundred feet, when he was dragged beneath the surface.

I swam doggedly on, hoping that that was the last unattached
shark. But there was another. Whether it was one that had
attacked the natives earlier, or whether it was one that had made
a good meal elsewhere, I do not know. At any rate, he was not in
such haste as the others. I could not swim so rapidly now, for a
large part of my effort was devoted to keeping track of him. I
was watching him when he made his first attack. By good luck I
got both hands on his nose, and, though his momentum nearly
shoved me under, I managed to keep him off. He veered clear and
began circling about again. A second time I escaped him by the
same maneuver. The third rush was a miss on both sides. He
sheered at the moment my hands should have landed on his nose,
but his sandpaper hide--I had on a sleeveless undershirt--scraped
the skin off one arm from elbow to shoulder.

By this time I was played out and gave up hope. The schooner was
still two hundred feet away. My face was in the water and I was
watching him maneuver for another attempt, when I saw a brown
body pass between us. It was Otoo.

"Swim for the schooner, master," he said, and he spoke gayly, as
though the affair was a mere lark. "I know sharks. The shark is
my brother."

I obeyed, swimming slowly on, while Otoo swam about me, keeping
always between me and the shark, foiling his rushes and
encouraging me.

"The davit-tackle carried away, and they are rigging the falls,"
he explained a minute or so later, and then went under to head
off another attack.

By the time the schooner was thirty feet away I was about done
for. I could scarcely move. They were heaving lines at us from on
board, but these continually fell short. The shark, finding that
it was receiving no hurt, had become bolder. Several times it
nearly got me, but each time Otoo was there just the moment
before it was too late. Of course Otoo could have saved himself
any time. But he stuck by me.

"Good by, Charley, I'm finished," I just managed to gasp.

I knew that the end had come and that the next moment I should
throw up my hands and go down.

But Otoo laughed in my face, saying:

"I will show you a new trick. I will make that shark damn sick."

He dropped in behind me, where the shark was preparing to come at
me.

"A little more to the left," he next called out. "There is a line
there on the water. To the left, master, to the left."

I changed my course and struck out blindly. I was by that time
barely conscious. As my hand closed on the line I heard an
exclamation from on board. I turned and looked. There was no sign
of Otoo. The next instant he broke surface. Both hands were off
at the wrist, the stumps spouting blood.

"Otoo," he called softly, and I could see in his gaze the love
that thrilled in his voice. Then, and then only, at the very last
of all our years, he called me by that name.

"Good by, Otoo," he called.

Then he was dragged under, and I was hauled aboard, where I
fainted in the captain's arms.

And so passed Otoo, who saved me and made me a man, and who saved
me in the end. We met in the maw of a hurricane and parted in the
maw of a shark, with seventeen intervening years of comradeship
the like of which I dare to assert have never befallen two men,
the one brown and the other white. If Jehovah be from his high
place watching every sparrow fall, not least in His Kingdom shall
be Otoo, the one heathen of Bora Bora. And if there be no place
for him in that Kingdom, then will I have none of it.

*****************************************************************
Vol. XXIII  No.2 AUGUST      1910

THE QUESTION "HOW?"  {page 205-208}

By WILLIAM HANNA THOMSON, M.D., LL.D.

Author of " Brain and Personality," "What is Physical Life?" etc.

Physician to the Roosevelt Hospital; Consulting Physician to the
New York State Manhattan Hospital for the Insane; formerly
Professor of the Practice of Medicine and Diseases of the Nervous
System, New York University Medical College; Ex-President of the
New York Academy of Medicine, etc.

IN one of Carlyle's earliest productions, dealing with the
philosophy of Clothes, he showed that a man quite plainly reveals
his inner self by what he wears. So we would now discuss what the
being, Man, reveals about himself by his eternal question, "How?"

As language is a lofty endowment and, moreover, on this earth
exclusively human, we would lead up to the subject by stating
what the parts of speech are.

According to the Arabs, who surpass all other peoples in the
study of language--for they claim that they have twenty-five
thousand books on grammar in their literature--the parts of
speech are three; and, as one of their old scholars states, this
threefold division of speech is not confined to one language, but
is universal, because human speech does not differ with the
difference of human tongues. These three parts are: first,
nouns--the names of things; second, verbs--the names of events;
and, third, the partitives--or the words which express the
relations of things to events. Thus the most abstract of verbs,
"to be," refers to an event; for when a man says, "I am," he is
mentioning an event in the history of the universe which did not
occur till he existed.

This division, however, necessitates that the adjectives should
be regarded as nouns; and so they are classed in all Semitic
languages, as the Hebrew, the Arabic, the Syriac, etc. The
writers of the New Testament, therefore, could not write Greek
without continually falling into their native Hebrew idiom; so
that if the passages were translated literally, some modern
expositions would have to be much modified. Thus, "Who created
the worlds by the word of his power" means "Who created the
worlds by his powerful word." "The body of our humiliation" is
"our humiliating body." "Who shall deliver me from the body of
this death?" is "from this deadly body," as the context of the
passage clearly shows. In each case the second noun is the
adjective modifying the first.

Moreover, the most interesting deduction from this division of
the parts of speech is that the partitives are far the highest in
rank among words, because they express pure relations, which only
the royal mind of man can so distinctly perceive as to make words
for them. Thus, a dog can learn his own name, and understand the
verbs "go" and "come," especially with the imperative tone of his
master; but he could never understand the words "outgoing year"
or "incoming year."

Prepositions belong to the partitives, and, with different
prepositions attached to one and the same thing or noun, the
human mind can step through the vast regions of thought as easily
as the ether can vibrate through space. Thus the Latin scriptio,
the name of a thing, a writing, gives us the following changes,
according to the preposition: An Ascription is not a
CONscription, by any means; nor does a conscription mean anything
like a DEScription; nor is that the same thing with an
INscription; nor when we PREscribe for a man are we PROscribing
him; and every one of us knows, when the agent of a worthy cause
enters, what the difference is between a SUBscription and a
SUPERscription.

To the adverbs, however, must be given the preeminence among all
human words. But even here there are gradations in rank. Thus the
adverb, "Why?" may be nothing but a question of curiosity, and
hence its idea may be suggested to an inquisitive monkey. But it
is not so with the question, "How?" "Why?" may be answered by an
affirmation, but "How?" can be answered only by a demonstration.
Now, as our object is to call speech to witness as to what is in
man, or, in other words, what man is himself, we will proceed to
analyze the testimony of this word, "How?"

      "HOW" FINDS A PLANET

First: It does not refer to anything which appears on the
surface. Instead, it seeks to find the hidden and the unknown by
following up one clue after another. When the astronomer,
Leverrier, found that the planets Saturn and Uranus did not come
to time, he asked himself how that could be. Meanwhile, the
answer to any number of "hows" must have been previously
demonstrated by him and by other astronomers before the movements
of these great and distant heavenly bodies could be shown as not
according to the clock-like regularity of planets in their
courses. He reasoned that only one probable "how" could account
for the facts; namely, another planet of just such a size and
weight, and moving at just such a distance, would suffice thus to
hold back Saturn and Uranus in their orbits. And so he calculated
how large this heavenly body was, how heavy it was, and then just
where it was, until, by this human but sure detective system,
astronomers caught sight of Neptune--after Leverrier told them
where to look for it.

But, after all, to decide how the vast heavenly bodies move in
space is easy compared with finding out how to make a sewing
machine go. For a needle to thread itself and then rapidly
proceed to sew without the help of fingers calls for the
discovery of more "hows" than are needed to explain Laplace's
"Mecanique celeste." Mass and gravity suffice for the one, but
only a Yankee's mind could have created the other.

We have now come to a great word--"create." A creator is a being
who gives origin to things which would not exist but for his
intelligent purpose and design. Now, man has simply filled this
earth with his own creations, all due to himself alone and to
none other, and all again by pondering the question, "How?" He
began, for instance, by putting a hole through a flint hatchet,
and ended with putting a hole through the Alps. In this last, an
engineer stood at the foot of the great mountain and asked
himself how he could tunnel it for nations to pass through. He
saw a small stream dashing down the mountainside and at once
found his desired "how," for he made that stream work big drills
by compressed air, till the everlasting rocks themselves had to
give in.

But man is an infinite creator--by which we mean that his
creative capacity is limitless and inexhaustible. No sooner does
he create one thing than he turns to create another thing totally
different from it. A locomotive thundering past with a long train
has no resemblance to a telegraph line, nor that, in turn, to a
great printing press. Man coolly sets at defiance the most
fundamental laws of physical science.

Thus, a heavy load of passengers, sitting in no less heavy cars,
if put on a smooth inclined plane must slide down faster and
faster to the bottom, or Vulcan would be confounded. But man
strings a thin wire overhead, which would snap instantly if the
load gave it one pull; but something which, some "how," man
causes to pass along that wire, makes the trolley with its live
freight go uphill faster than a horse can run.

      THE ETHER ENSLAVED

And what about that mysterious ether? It can neither be seen,
heard, felt, handled, smelt, nor tasted. Nevertheless, man has
learned so much about its "how" that he is turning it into as
menial a servant, obedient to his wishes, as he has made of
electricity, the cause of sublime thunder; for man bids the ether
carry his stock quotations or any other message of his to the
ends of the earth.

These are great doings, but really no greater than his small
doings, for the least of these is just as impossible for other
earthly creatures as are an Alpine tunnel or a battleship. A
large convention of chimpanzees could not combine to make one pin
or one sleeve-button, if they tried.

All this is because man is native to the world of relations,
which no other earthly beings are, because they cannot go beyond
the information provided by their bodily senses. Man, on the
contrary, gains infinitely more knowledge than his bodily senses
can afford. By studying the relations of abstract points to
abstract lines, he becomes a mathematician. Following up the many
"hows" of chemistry, he talks about molecules, atoms, and ions as
fluently as: if he had seen or handled them.

      MAN IS INVISIBLE

This explains how man can and does create. Every great invention
existed first in the mind of the inventor. So the great engineer
who made the Brooklyn Bridge never had to handle one of the
materials used in its construction, for every stone, wire, and
bolt was provided for in that engineer's mind before any part of
that tremendous mass of matter could be seen on the earth.

Moreover, this great human creator is as invisible as the Divine
Creator Himself. People are continually saying that they will not
believe in a thing till they can see it, thus pinning their faith
to the testimony of that one of our senses which makes more
mistakes than do all our other senses put together. When a man
six feet high is a mile off, it says that he is only six inches
high. The eye can see nothing of the vast microscopic living
world which lies within six inches of the eyeball, and so we have
had to invent a microscope to make up for this serious
deficiency. But what would the Russian Witte not have given if he
could have telegraphed to St. Petersburg that he had actually
SEEN the Japanese Komura while they were talking about making
peace at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and that he knew just what
the courteous Jap thought and proposed! All that he saw was the
Asiatic's smiling face and other things of his outside. Every
human personality belongs to the real world, the world of the
Unseen, and cannot be known except as he chooses to reveal
himself.

      BRAIN NOT THE MAN

Some persons might object here that the brain is both visible and
tangible in man, and that man is in his brain, and, therefore,
the brain is man. Medical science, however, shows that the brain
no more thinks than the hand and foot do, but is simply the
instrument of the invisible thinker. The proof of this is that we
have two brains, just as we have two eyes and two ears, but that
only one of our two brain hemispheres is the instrument for
talking, thinking, or knowing. Which one of the two hemispheres
will be the mental one will depend altogether on how it has been
TAUGHT by the invisible thinker, who will begin to teach the left
hemisphere if he is right-handed, or the right hemisphere if he
is left-handed. He will leave the other hemisphere in each case
wholly speechless or thoughtless, and concerned only with the
business of governing the muscles or receiving the bodily
sensations of its corresponding side. If brain matter really
itself thought, we should have two thinking and speaking
hemispheres--and this the first case of loss of speech by an
apoplectic clot would disprove.

"By thy words thou shalt be judged." This means that man is to be
judged by his own creations, for it is only men who create words.
By their words they show what is in them, both intellectually and
morally. We have demonstrated that the being who can ask the
question, "How?" naturally belongs to the universe. Already he
knows what stuff inconceivably distant stars are made of; and the
"how" to know that he found in a small glass prism.

         THE MORAL "HOW"

It would seem, therefore, as if it were by some temporary
accident that he is held to this little material speck of matter
called the earth. And this impression grows upon us as we study
the greatest facts of human life. We enter this world knowing
nothing and not nearly so well equipped to take care of ourselves
as are other animals. There is no helplessness like that of a
babe. But wonderfully early he begins to ask the question, "How?"
A little boy will ask more questions in a day than his father
will ask in a week; nor can he be stopped or deceived, because
the question, "Why?" you can answer as you please, but not "How?"

He who can ask "How?" can be a learner as long as he exists,
whether here or hereafter. In his life here he may become either
a great financier or a great statesman, but certainly not either
unless he knows how. Any education, in fact, is simply learning
how.

What is true in the intellectual world is still more true in the
moral world. Whenever a question bearing on morals enters, every
one should stop and ask, "How?" A mistake here is like entering
the wrong gate in a large railroad station. The longer you stay
in its corresponding train, the farther it will take you from
where you should go. For example, there are some who say that the
human will is not free, but that our actions are all, in the last
analysis, according to our make-up. In other words, we are
machines which must go as they are made to go. There is,
therefore, no right nor wrong in human conduct, for machines
cannot be held responsible for conduct or the way they go--there
can be no sinful automobile or wicked windmill.

According to these reasoners, therefore, when human law punishes
one who has robbed a widow of all she had, or has seduced the
daughter of a friend, or committed a cold-blooded murder, the law
is wholly illogical in punishing him, because, since he is a
machine, his punishment is like throwing a clock out of a window
if it does not keep good time. The only answer to such a talker
should be, "Get out!" with particular emphasis on the "out."

----WHO WOULD BE A YOUNG LADY

By SARAH N. CLEGHORN

1830

Sister walks past the garden wall
In monstrous hoop, and slippers small,
And polonaise, and sash, and all,
      To join the Dorcas Circle.

She'll sit indoors, and stitch, and moon,
And sip her tea, and clink her spoon,
This whole blue, breezy afternoon!
       For so do all Young Ladies.

Come, Poll, come, Bet! Escaped from school,
We'll wade across the shallows cool
Of Roaring Tom and Silver Pool,
       And climb the pines of Randal.

Far up the mountain path we'll go,
And leave the Raven Rocks below,
And creep inside the caves of snow,
       To hear their echoes thunder!

Let briers scratch, let brambles tear
Our oft-patched frocks--we shall not care:
Green are the woods, and fresh the air;
       Then who would be a Young Lady?

*****************************************************************
Vol. XXIII  No.2 AUGUST      1910

INSTEAD OF AN ARTICLE {page 209-214}
About Pittsburg and, Incidentally, about Editing a Magazine

Important articles in magazines of the type of "COLLIER'S,"
"MCCLURE'S," the "AMERICAN," and "EVERYBODY'S," like plays, are
rewritten rather than written. Too begin with, there must be the
idea, then to find the man or woman best able to embody it. That
settled, the author must steep himself in his subject. When he
acquires mastery, his findings are written down and submitted to
the editor. This may take months; it often requires years.

It has happened that the editor did not know what he wanted until
he read this first draft. Now he has the subject spread before
him by an authority. His associates all read it and criticise.
Sometimes that first draft is flawless, but most often it is
returned to the author with direction for reconstruction. The
process may be repeated half a dozen times. Finally the
manuscript is satisfactory, which means that it is valuable,
simply expressed, and readable. It is in shape for publication.
It is put into type and sent around to outside experts who are
the representative authorities on the subject.

In these days a magazine can afford to have its conclusions
disputed, but its facts must be incontrovertible. Perhaps the
trouble the big publications take to be right--and that means
square and just, as well as accurate--explains such prestige and
influence as they now enjoy in America.

At a women's club gathering in Mississippi, recently, Harris
Dickson told his audience something about an article of his that
had recently appeared in "EVERYBODY'S." He explained that a
manuscript written by another man had been sent him to put in
shape. The facts were there, and the moral, but the treatment was
technical. It lacked carrying power. Dickson knew nothing of the
other author, and so proceeded to get up the subject at first
hand. He took not one of the facts for granted. After three
months he returned the revised manuscript to the magazine. It was
sent back, with specific directions for rewriting. In due course
he again remailed it to the editor, who congratulated him on his
achievement--for that is what it was. Then the article, having
attained a satisfactory form (it was on Fraternal Insurance), was
sent round among the experts. The first man who read it was a
high official of one of the old line insurance companies, but a
hearty believer in the fraternal system. He returned it with
approval and an elaborate criticism. Then it was submitted to the
chief insurance commissioner of a western state--the undoubted
political authority on the subject. The approval and criticisms
of both men, with the manuscript, were again forwarded to Mr.
Dickson. The necessary corrections having been incorporated, the
manuscript was ready for the printer. To make assurance doubly
sure, proofs were sent out to prominent officials of leading
fraternal organizations, who returned them with most commendatory
letters. And then, and only then, did it appear in the magazine.

Mr. Dickson's audience, doubtless under the impression that
magazines are produced by editors out of the contributions sent
them by mail, expressed surprise that so much time, effort, and
money should be devoted to what seemed a comparatively
unimportant subject. Yet it involved a matter that concerned five
million men and their families, and a tremendous controversy. Its
appearance has made the controversy even keener, and of course
the enemies of sanity and good order in fraternalism are now
hurling bolts at us. However, when we have done our part and know
we are right, we stay put.

Mr. Dickson told part of what to us is a familiar story. In this
instance he knew nothing of the time and trouble the author and
ourselves had taken just to get together the facts and place them
in the right perspective. We began on this particular article in
November, 1906, and during the interval it was being worked at or
over by one of some dozen men. The same is true of most of our
big series. "The Woman's Invasion" represented two and a half
years of work. Fifteen months elapsed between the delivery of
Judge Lindsey's first manuscript and the beginning of publication
in the magazine. Trained writers, the best men we know about, are
out investigating and gathering the facts for the articles we
will print a year hence. This is the process of magazine making
to-day. It is not peculiar to "EVERYBODY'S"; it is the rule with
"COLLIER'S," "MCCLURE'S," the AMERICAN, and SUCCESS."

      INSTEAD OF AN ARTICLE

This is all by way of introduction to the story of an article
that was not written. About the time the Pittsburg flare-up began
to show itself in the papers, it occurred to us that some
exposition of the situation there would be of value and interest
to our readers. Before going about it, we debated it very
carefully. Some of us in the office (and this magazine is edited
by all of us) were fairly familiar with the subject, and we
believed it would subserve no useful purpose to tackle it along
the "Shame of the Cities" lines. We agreed that the way to
approach Pittsburg was to consider what had happened there, not
as a sporadic outburst, but as an economic symptom. Whom could we
get that was far enough from the controversies involved to treat
the subject objectively and with a big perspective? Brand
Whitlock. The Mayor of Toledo knows more about cities and their
governments, and the evils that arise within them, than any other
man, and he can write--with knowledge, with sympathy, with
clarity. Also he knew Pittsburg. So we telegraphed to find if he
was free to write an article, and, when he replied in the
affirmative, the following letter was sent him:

                  April 1, 1910. DEAR MR. WHITLOCK:

The article we want is on Pittsburg. It is neither our purpose
nor our desire merely to "muckrake" Pittsburg or any other city.
The eruption there is typical of similar conditions in other
great civic centers throughout the country, and it seems to us it
might be made the text of a diagnosis of the whole municipal
problem in America.

Here are a few thoughts that occur to me which might be
represented:

We have come to realize that the real trouble in our country is
Privilege. Big business, in its ruthless pursuit of results, has
the ultimate responsibility for the ills that confront us in
political, social, and commercial life. The graft scandals, the
bank defalcations, etc., are simply symptoms of internal
disorders. They are the eruptions of the disease.

Pittsburg might be called the typical get-rich-quick community.
Its great wealth is based on the abundant coal and iron with
which the Creator loaded its environment. Down on those deposits
fasten thousands of Americans seized with the mania of
money-making. They coin the coal and iron into millions. They
work feverishly; they work their men furiously. It's a mad,
frenzied scramble for success and sensation. To get rich quicker,
they exact excessive protection from Congress--first to prop up
infant industries, then to consolidate abnormal profits. If the
government undertakes to deny their demands, they bluster first,
then intrigue, then intimidate. Mills are closed down; the
"prosperity" of the country is threatened, lobbies are organized,
corruption funds subscribed, until Congress succumbs and new
"jokers" are written into steel tariffs.

In the meantime a huge city is upreared. But this city is run for
the benefit of its industries, not for the comfort of its
inhabitants. Street railway, gas, electric corporations are
organized, ostensibly to serve the community, actually enabling a
greedy group to make more money. Again, what cannot be gained by
request is won by force and guile.

Over and over again the various processes are repeated, until you
have built up a sort of City Monstrous, dedicated to machinery,
in which all the men and many of the women are just machines, and
there is no ideal save that of feverish industrial adventure and
accomplishment. Power--blind, ruthless, marvel-working, bending
backs and bodies to its will--is Pittsburg's god, and Success its
divine attribute Success that spells Gold, the instrument of
exploitation and sensation. What wonder that weaker men,
confronted by the colossal rewards of industrial conquest, are
frenzied with the gold fever? In the absence of communal
patriotism, graft becomes an incident. Graft and greed are the
minor watchwords of success. Get money, anyway--but get it. Is it
surprising that cashiers graft, that aldermen graft, that city
officials graft, that there's a very pandemonium of graft? Isn't
it the way the other fellows get rich?

All of a sudden the poison clogs the pores, and the infection
blotches the surface--and every one is horrified. The great
manufacturers, the great merchants, the great lawyers--high
priests of the Power God--throw up their hands. Can such things
be? Dreadful, horrible!--blindly oblivious of their own
responsibility for the epidemic.

More startling still to the conquerors were the pitiless
revelations of the Survey, exhibiting in mathematical terms the
cost to the human factor of this monstrous material success.
Hordes of anaemic, emaciated men and women, exhausted by long
hours of toil, piled thick in wretched hovels, underfed,
half-clothed, dragging out a miserable existence unrelieved by
leisure or rest or recreation--the Juggernaut toll of
efficiency--of the passion for results at any price. Against this
horror, what avails Pittsburg's panorama of splendid churches, of
lordly palaces, of noble art museums, of great orchestras, richly
endowed educational institutions--the patriotic tribute of the
conquerors to civilization? What is this boasted civilization of
ours worth--not Pittsburg's only, for Pittsburg is an
incident--if it be reared on the wrecked and depleted bodies of
men at its base?

There would then be the opportunity in the article to suggest the
regenerated Pittsburg--all this furious energy hitherto devoted
to material success turned to social betterment and decent
government. The turn of the worker comes. The conquerors, having
learned that they cannot take greedily what belongs to a
community, and find happiness, turn magnificently to the rescue
of their own downtrodden. The old question--what does it profit a
man if he gains the whole world and loses his soul?--has been
burned into Pittsburg humanity once again.

For several years the newspapers have carried stories about these
successive scandals in Pittsburg, until people have in a measure
become confused as to how they connect, whether all are really
parts of the same story. I doubt if the average man who reads the
article in the morning paper has a clear grasp of what has been
going on, and he can't discover it without hunting back through
the files. Once we published an article by Owen Wister about the
Capitol frauds in Pennsylvania, after the newspapers had been
printing countless columns on the subject for months, and it was
one of the most successful articles we have used, because of the
way it crystallized and interpreted the whole occurrence.

A similar service is here suggested. Write the story of Pittsburg
dramatically; crystallize the big exposures of the last few years
through which bankers and politicians have been going to prison,
culminating with the present crisis in the City Council; bring
out the economic significance of these occurrences to Pittsburg,
to the United States. Such an article will help all of us to see
where we are "at," will help develop civic consciousness in New
York, Chicago, San Francisco. It is immensely well worth doing.

I'm not dictating your article. What is written here is purely
suggestive. You must tell what you see and find in your own way.
You will, anyway. You know most of the facts. You are in touch
with the balance. We'll help to get material. If you will, you
can put up an article that the country will read. We'd like copy
as soon as possible.        
                       Sincerely,            
                                  J. O'H. COSGRAVE,              

                                                 Editor.

Mr. Whitlock, replied, expressing willingness to handle the
subject along the lines indicated, and asked for whatever
assistance we could render him. William Hard, a member of our
editorial force, had spent some time in Pittsburg, acquiring
material for his "Woman's Invasion," and he recommended J. J.
Nordman, a reporter of that city, as the best man to equip Mr.
Whitlock with the historical details of the exposure. He would
thus have immediately a succinct, up-to-date statement of the
case for his use as a skeleton.

Mr. Nordman was willing to help, and soon after got into
communication with Mr. Whitlock. Here is an account of his
service, which was accompanied by a letter from District Attorney
Blakeley, certifying to his reliability and knowledge of the
facts.

                                           May 10, 1910.
HON. BRAND WHITLOCK, Toledo, Ohio.
Dear Sir:

Mr. Cosgrave has asked me to forward you matter bearing on the
Pittsburg graft expose and such clippings as I may have.

I shall weave the facts together with no effort towards literary
form, but rather in letter form, and present it to you not later
than Monday next.

Enclosed please find what I have termed a "Retrospect," being a
review of the political conditions leading to and making possible
the present expose.

Such clippings as I have will be forwarded with matter. I enclose
letter from Mr. Blakeley.
            
Very respectfully,                  
J. JEROME NORDMAN.

After that we waited, rather impatiently, it must be confessed,
for Whitlock's manuscript. After the passage of other admonitory
letters and telegrams, we received the following letter. We print
it "instead of an article." In our opinion, it is an
extraordinarily valuable summary of the whole subject of
municipal misrule. It goes far and beyond Pittsburg, and deep
into economic, social, and national conditions of which that city
is but an instance and an illustration. And, moreover, it sets
forth just how such an article, could we find the right man to do
it, should be written. Here it is:

         Executive Offices
          THE CITY OF TOLEDO                      3 June, 1910.
JOHN O'HARA COSGRAVE, Esquire,Editor
EVERYBODY'S MAGAZINE.
DEAR MR. COSGRAVE:

The Pittsburg story is big, too big and too important and too
significant to do at second hand. I have had a valuable
correspondence with Mr. Nordman, and he has most kindly put his
information, and in clear form, at my disposal. He has sent me
his scrapbook of newspaper clippings, and he has written me at
length and in detail of the various exposures and prosecutions. I
have made inquiries, too, from friends, and I have been thinking
over the story that you propose. But it won't go, and I have
concluded that it ought not to go in that form; and that is the
only form in which it is possible for me now to tell it.

I find just what I expected to find, or I find the familiar
symptoms of what I expected to find. The intelligent answers to
the several questions I put to Mr. Nordman after our first few
letters are exactly what I expected them to be. One city is all
cities; and all exhibit the same effects, proceeding from the
same causes. Look about you, anywhere, and if you see graft, and
bribery, and corruption, you'll find a bi-partisan machine
controlling nominations and elections to municipal offices, and
representing the few who consider themselves privileged to
exploit the people by means of franchises in public utilities,
etc. It's as easy as it is for a physician to tell what ails a
sallow and emaciated Southern "cracker" who shivers with chills
one day, and burns up with fever the next.

And so, in Pittsburg, I found the usual Republican machine with
its big boss, the usual Democratic machine and its little boss,
and the two, as usual, working together, the Democratic boss and
his tools rewarded by a few small offices on "bi-partisan"
boards, and the like; then the street railway system and other
public utility corporations which these bosses represent, and for
which they procure franchises. And after this, the "better
element," the "eminently respectable" citizens, supporting this
combination, enjoying the fruits of its labor, and influencing
the business interests of the city in the way that gives such
perfect exemplification of the evils of class government in our
cities--the same, old, sordid story.

The revelations, as they are called--though by this time they
should have ceased to be revelations, and have become
"recognitions" in this country--made by the newspaper clippings
before me are the expected indications of the deeper, underlying
causes. The superficial observer sees in them merely a corrupt
council; and, from the fact that councilmen have taken bribes, he
makes the daring deduction that some one gave them the bribes; he
sees that councilmen have been grafting, and then is naively
astonished by the revelation that some business men higher up,
although not very much higher up, have been caught and publicly
disgraced. He sees, too, a brave and fearless prosecutor who is
sending these men to prison; and there are the usual predictions
that out of all this there is to come to Pittsburg "good"
government--that is, government by honest men, to be aided,
perhaps, by the adoption of the commission plan. That is to say,
we have here the subject only in its personal aspect, and not in
its institutional, sociological, economic aspect.

      THE SAME OLD STORY OF GRAFT

Now, to be frank, the story of the grafting doesn't interest me
much, though it is as saddening and depressing as ever; and I
can't work up enough enthusiasm for that feature of it to write
anything that would be worth your while to print, or worth
anybody's while to read. Toward the subject I feel the same
apathy that was felt toward the ordinary newspaper account of
some casualty by Thoreau, who would not read, as you will
remember, the accounts--for example--of crimes and accidents,
because, having once grasped the principle, he felt it
unnecessary to multiply, indefinitely, instances of that
principle. The story of Pittsburg, so far as it has been related
to me, is merely the old, squalid story of municipal graft. I
have the names and the dates in an orderly and logical way--who
were sent to the penitentiary, and when, and for what particular
crime, and what the judge said in pronouncing sentence, etc. All
of this has been told over and over and over again in the
newspapers and magazines during the last few years; the only
difference lies in the names and the dates and the place. Indeed,
Pittsburg's story in this respect is hardly as interesting as the
old stories--it is, if anything, more commonplace, more squalid.

But behind all this, there is, of course, a story, and a big one,
as you unerringly divined. Reading between the lines of the dry
recital of facts with which I have been provided, and peering a
little way behind the scenes, I come, I think, upon the real
story, the one that some one should write, the one that some one
should print.

The first chapter, perhaps, is the story of the old political
machines in Pittsburg, and of that interesting, and--in certain
elemental, human senses--strong personality, Chris Magee, the
boss--who has a monument.

Then, there is another personality, of a different sort, in
Blakeley, the district attorney. My accounts are meager and bald,
and yet I catch glimpses of a striking personality. This district
attorney, I should imagine, is a man with the best ideals of the
legal profession, honest, capable, sincere, and unafraid; a man,
withal, who knows life and politics and can play the game without
being soiled in its many contacts. What draws me to him, even at
this distance, is that he seems to have little of the Puritan in
him, as there is too apt to be in prosecutors who convict, and
push their victims within prison doors. And he is another chapter
of the story. But I don't know Blakeley; I can't describe him, I
can't interpret him, and I haven't the time nor the opportunity
just now to become acquainted with him.

Then there is the story of the organization of the Civic League,
or whatever they call it, and especially the story of its
operations. These good citizens, it seems, hired a detective to
come and run their men down for them. To me the private detective
is not the most inspiring and heroic figure on our modern scene;
but that is neither here nor there. One of these detectives
evidently has not only ability but versatility, and in an
interesting manner combines the occupation of a detective with
the profession of an evangelist. It was not, however, he who
worked the old panel game--much as a black paramour might work it
down in the Tenderloin--on certain councilmen, led them into a
trap, and then exposed them--an achievement in confused morals
that has not been permitted to go unapplauded. There are those,
of course, in every city who could think fondly and smugly of
themselves as doing, in this way, preeminently the will of God;
and such deeds not infrequently make men self-righteous.

But, of course, I may be mistaken about the present application
of this generalization, and, as I should like to be just, or,
what is better, to be charitable, I should hesitate, on such
unsupported conclusions, to write it down for the public eye.
There are, of course, those who with logic can justify the larger
end by the smaller means, and thus excuse certain deviations from
the straight line of the moral ideal, and thereby hold one back
from the temptation to divide his moral indignation about equally
between pursuer and pursued. But, if he claimed one's sympathy
for the pursuers, he could not prevent one's pity from going to
the ruined councilmen.

      THE SHOCK TO CARNEGIE

But beyond all this--and here I think I touch on the real
story--there is the peculiar temper and tendency of Pittsburg.
Pittsburg is an artistic center; fortunes have been lavished in
endowing schools and universities and palaces for art, on
symphonies and oratorios. All the expressions of a new, ruling
plutocracy are easily discernible here, as in all such epochs of
society recorded in history; just, for instance, as Ferrero
describes them in the last phases of the Roman Republic. And when
Carnegie returns, he sheds tears and wrings his hands because of
the corruption that has been exposed, and he fails, as many in
Pittsburg seem to fail, to note the necessary, if subtle,
relation that must exist between all this corruption and
debauchery between all this art and music, and--shall I say?--the
tariff on steel.

This, however, isn't all; though this is part. Pittsburg is a
moral town; the most moral, in the conventional sense, in all
America. She won't even allow the kids to play baseball on a back
lot on Sunday. A woman, an old friend of mine who lives in
Pittsburg, said: "I think it very unfortunate that the Survey was
published. It overlooks Pittsburg's good points. For instance,
Pittsburg has more churches than any city of its size in America.
More people of our class go to church than in any place I ever
saw; more money is given to charity. People just pour out of
their houses and into the churches on Sunday morning." She was
quite serious--and she expressed Pittsburg, or the ruling class
of Pittsburg, exactly.

Now I don't mean to say that Pittsburg is especially
hypocritical; but she does seem to be pharisaical. The article
about Pittsburg should find its beginnings, perhaps, away back in
the days of scholasticism, and come down through the moss hags of
Scotland; and its title should be "Pious Pittsburg," or something
like that. Written properly--if I am right--it would be an
eloquent exposition of phariseeism at its apotheosis.

      THE REAL STORY OF PITTSBURG

Now I can't write this, because I haven't the evidence to prove
what I see, or think I see. All I have is the mere outline--and
the outline applies, as I have said, to most cities. What one
should have is the color, the detail, the thousand and one little
things in the way of personality--you know what I mean; all that
which is necessary to "lend artistic verisimilitude to an
otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative." (I wish I were in New
York to-night! I'd go to the Casino and see the revival of "The
Mikado.") The Pittsburg story can't be written, and it should not
be written, without this; and to do it properly one would have to
spend much time in Pittsburg and become saturated with the
atmosphere of the place; and when he emerged, if he ever did
emerge, he would be ready to undertake this rather stupendous
study in psychology. I do not feel at all equipped for this task,
and no amount of material without the personal contact could
equip me for this service. With my material, I could only write
the old and squalid story of a rather commonplace exposure of
municipal grafting, and that wouldn't be worth while.

The story of Pittsburg would be all that the story of any city
is--as I have indicated: the bi-partisan machine, the public
service corporation, etc.--but it would be more. It would
illustrate the curious effects of long acceptance of cold,
intellectual theories in place of religion, and how this develops
the ability to separate morals and manners; how one's theology
needn't interfere with one's religion, and all that. It would be
the story of the union of politics and business; and the trail
would lead up to those proud and insolent aristocracies that are
founded on the purchase of the privilege of making the laws, and
down to those stews of horror where they pay for the privilege of
breaking the laws. It would be the story of Chris Magee, the
good-natured, human boss; of Blakeley, the upright prosecutor; of
the methods of hired detectives and the corruption of
officialdom. Pittsburg has riches, art, organized charity, and
piety; but she lacks wealth, beauty, social justice, and
religion. And sending the "bad" to prison, and electing the
"good" to office, and changing the paper charters of the city,
are not going to work any real reform. They think they'll get
"good government" and "civic righteousness," and then their
problems will be solved. This is what they propose to do; this is
all they tell us now, and I can't write a story on that. The
story would be as futile as little legal reforms.

It is, however, consoling and inspiring to believe--yes, to
know--that there are in Pittsburg--as in all cities--hundreds of
thousands of decent, virtuous, wholesome, toiling people; that
these make up by far the larger part of the population, too, and
that they will save Pittsburg, and make her as good as she is
great. It is a fact stimulating to the imagination and
encouraging to the soul that, in all these stores and shops and
mills, there are hard-working, modest, unknown thousands who are
pure and loyal, who are humanity's hope; that even the most
stunted and abused figures out of the Survey give more promise
than that class which rides upon their backs and devours them as
it rides.

Good government, efficient government, if by those phrases is
meant, as is usually meant, government by the "good"--whoever
they may be!--and the efficient, will not do; it will avail
nothing to Pittsburg or to any city, to substitute for grafters,
great or petty, personally honest men who will legally give away
franchises for nothing, instead of bartering them illegally for
big bribes. Pittsburg can't be saved by an aristocracy of the
better element, she can be saved only by democracy--with a very
little "d." And she will be saved that way some day, never fear,
though not until all the other cities are similarly saved.

I shall await with interest what you think of my suggestions.  

    Your ever sincere friend,                  
                            BRAND WHITLOCK.

*****************************************************************
Vol. XXIII  No.2 AUGUST      1910

THE WOMEN OF TO-MORROW  {page 215-226 part 1.}

By WILLIAM HARD

EDITOR'S NOTE: It is commonly supposed that only the women of
poverty are affected by modern industrial conditions. On the
contrary, modern industrial conditions are having their greatest
influence among the women who, before marriage, enjoy wide
educational opportunities, and who, after marriage, enjoy the
blessing of partial leisure. It is among these women that
economic developments are producing the profoundest changes in
habit of life and in character of mind. Mr Hard, who will be
remembered by all readers of the "Woman's Invasion," has spent
two years in the diligent investigation of this subject, and has
acquired an authoritative knowledge of it.

EVERY Jack has his Jill." It is a tender twilight thought, and it
more or less settles Jill.

When the Census Man was at work in 1900, however, he went about
and counted 2,260,000 American women who were more than
twenty-five years old and who were still unmarried.

It is getting worse (or better) with every passing decade, and
out of it is emerging a new ideal of education for women, an
ideal which seems certain to penetrate the whole educational
system of the United States, all the way from the elementary
schools to the universities.

The Census Man groups us into age periods. The period from
twenty-five to twenty-nine is the most important matrimonially
because it is the one in which most of us get pretty well fixed
into our life work. Out of every 1,000 women in that period, in
the year 1890, the Census Man found 254 who were still unmarried.
In 1900, only ten years later, he found 275.

There is not so much processional as recessional about marriage
at present. In navigating the stormy waters of life in the
realistic pages of the census reports, it is not till we reach
the comparatively serene, landlocked years from forty-five to
fifty-four that we find ourselves in an age-period in which the
number of single women has been reduced to less than ten per
cent. of the total. The rebound from this fact hits education
hard. As marriage recedes, and as the period of gainful work
before marriage lengthens, the need of real technical preparation
for that gainful work becomes steadily more urgent, and the
United States moves steadily onward into an era of trained women
as well as trained men.

In Boston, at that big new college called Simmons--the first of
its kind in the United States--a regular four-year college of
which the aim is to send out every graduate technically trained
to earn her living in a certain specific occupation, there were
enrolled last year, besides some five hundred undergraduate
women, some eighty other women who had already earned their
bachelor's degrees at other colleges, such as Bryn Mawr,
Wellesley, Smith, Vassar, Radcliffe, Leland Stanford, and the
University of Montana.

These eighty women, after eight years in elementary schools, four
years in high school, and four years in college, were taking one
year more in technical school in order to be--what? Not doctors
or lawyers or architects. Not anything in the "learned"
professions. But to be "social workers" in settlements or for
charity societies, to be librarians, to be stenographers and
secretaries.

The Bachelor of Arts from Vassar who is going to be a
stenographer, and who is taking her year of graduate study at
Simmons, will go to work at the end of the year and then, six
months later, if she has made good, will get from Simmons the
degree of Bachelor of Science. At that point in her life she will
have two degrees and seventeen years of schooling behind her. A
big background. But we are beginning to do some training for
almost everything.

Did you ever see a school of salesmanship for department-store
women employees? You can see one at the Women's Educational and
Industrial Union in Boston. Under the guidance of Mrs. Lucinda W.
Prince, the big department stores of Boston have come to think
enough of this school to send girls to it every morning and to
pay them full wages while they take a three months' course.

If you will attend any of the classes, in arithmetic, in
textiles, in hygiene, in color and design, in demonstration
sales, in business forms, you will get not only a new view of the
art of selling goods over the counter but a new vision of a big
principle in education.

In the class on color, for instance, you will at first be puzzled
by the vivid interest taken by the pupils in the theory of it.
You have never before observed in any classroom so intimate a
concern about rainbows, prisms, spectra, and the scientific
sources of aesthetic effects. Your mind runs back to your college
days and returns almost alarmed to this unacademic display of
genuine, spontaneous, unanimous enthusiasm toward a classroom
study of a theoretical subject. At last the reason for it works
into your mind. These girls are engaged in the practice of color
every afternoon, over hats, ribbons, waists, gloves, costumes.
When you begin once to study a subject which reaches practice in
your life, you cannot stop with practice. A law of your mind
carries you on to the philosophy of it.

Right there you see the reason why trade training, broadly
contrived, broadens not only technique but soul, trains not only
to earn but to live. "Refined selling," some of the girls call
the salesmanship which they learn in Mrs. Prince's class. They
have perceived, to some extent, the relation between the arts and
sciences on the one hand and their daily work on the other.

To a much greater extent has this relation been perceived by the
young woman who has taken the full four-year course in, say,
"Secretarial Studies" in Simmons and who, throughout her English,
her German, her French, her Sociology, and her History, as well
as throughout her Typewriting, her Shorthand, and her Commercial
Law, has necessarily kept in mind, irradiating every subject, the
light it may throw on the specific work she is to do.

"Ah! There, precisely, is the danger. Every Jack should have his
Jill; but if every Jill has her job, why, there again the wedding
day goes receding some more into the future. Let them stop all
this foolishness and get married, as their grandparents did!"

Poor Jack! Poor Jill! They get lectured at all the time about the
postponement of marriage, and they can no more control it than
they can control the size of the city of New York. Theoretically,
everybody on Manhattan Island could get up and go away and leave
the island vacant. Actually, it can't and won't be done.
Theoretically, we should all of us get married young. We fall in
love young enough. But, actually, we can't get married young, and
don't. The reasons are given later. Meanwhile, just notice, and
just ponder, the following facts.

It was in the United States as a whole that the Census Man found
275 out of every 1,000 women in the twenty-five-to-twenty-nine
age--period unmarried. But the United States consists of
developed and undeveloped regions. The cities are the high points
of development. Look at the cities:

In Chicago, out of every 1,000 women in the age period from
twenty-five to twenty-nine, there were 314 who were unmarried. In
Denver there were 331. In Manhattan and the Bronx there were 356.
In Minneapolis there were 369. In Philadelphia there were 387.

Southern New England, however, is the most industrially developed
part of the United States, the part in which social conditions
like those of the older countries of the world are most nearly
reached.

In Fall River, out of every 1,000 women in the
twenty-five-to-twenty-nine period, the unmarried were 391. In New
Haven they were 393. In Boston they were 452.

In view of such facts, how can anybody object to the steps which
have been taken recently toward giving the women in the
manufacturing trades, as well as the women in the commercial
trades, some little preparation for the work in which they are
likely to spend so many years?

In the Manhattan Trade School for Girls, in the last eighteen
months of record, the enrollment was 1,169. More and more the
girls in this school are willing to stay in it for a full year.
They have finished at least five grades of the public school, and
they are now learning to be milliners, to be dressmakers, to be
operators of electric-power machines, to be workers in paste and
glue in such occupations as candle-shade-making, to be workers
with brush and pencil in furnishing the manufacturing trades with
designs.

It is not only a matter of learning to do one particular thing in
one particular department in one particular trade. That they
could learn in a factory. It is a matter of getting some
understanding of a whole trade, or getting some kind of a view of
how the world is run. Nobody wants to make people into machines.
The object of a good trade school is precisely the reverse. It is
the common school which makes people into machines, when it sends
them directly from books, which do not explain the working world,
out into that world to become uncomprehending appendages to
minute processes in infinitely subdivided manufacturing
organizations.

A good trade school, besides teaching the technique of the
machine, covers what Mrs. Woolman, the director of the Manhattan
School, in her wonderful report of last year called the "middle
ground" between general academic preparatory work on the one hand
and practical trade training on the other. In this "middle
ground" the pupil takes simple courses in, for instance, "Civics"
and "Industries."

"Nothing to it," says an irritated manufacturer. "Nothing to it
at all! I can't get a good office boy any more. I can't get
anybody, boy or girl, who wants to do anything but just hold down
a job and grab a pay-envelope. Too much schooling! Those
inventors and pioneers who came out of New England and made this
country from a hunting-ground into an empire--they didn't have
all this monkey-business in technical schools and trade schools.
They just went to work. That's all. I say send 'em to work young
and let 'em sweat. That's what makes men and women."

My dear sir, those early New Englanders were in trade schools
from the time they began to crawl on the floor among their
mothers' looms and spinning-wheels. There was hardly a home in
early New England that didn't give a large number of technical
courses in which men and women were always teaching by doing, and
the boys and girls were always learning by imitating.

The facts about this are so simple and so familiar that we don't
stop to think of their meaning. When in the spring the wood-ashes
from the winter fires were poured into the lye-barrel, and water
was poured in with them, and the lye began to trickle out from
the bottom of the barrel, and the winter's savings of grease were
brought out, and the grease and the lye were boiled together in
the big kettle, and mother had finished making the family's
supply of soap for another year, the children had taken not only
a little lesson in industriousness, by helping to make the soap,
but a little lesson in industry, too, by observing the technique
and organization of the soap business from start to finish. A boy
from that family, even if he never learned to read or write,
might some day have some IDEAS about soap.

The curriculum of an old New England home, so far as presided
over by the wife, may be incompletely suggested as follows:

(N. B. The reader will note the inappropriateness of
congratulating the daughters of that home on their not wanting a
job. They had it.)

VEGETABLES DEPARTMENT.

1. A course in Gardening.
       "In March and in April, from morning to night,
       In sowing and setting good housewives delight."

2. A course in Medicinal Herbs. Borage, fennel, wild tansy,
wormwood, etc. Methods of distillation. Aqua composita, barberry
conserve, electuaries, salves, and ointments. A most important
course for every housewife.

      "A speedy and a sovereign remedy,
       The bitter wormwood, sage and
          marigold."--FLETCHER: "The Faithful Shepherdess."

3. A course in Pickling. In this course pretty nearly everything
will be pickled, down to nasturtium-buds and radish-pods.

PACKING-HOUSE DEPARTMENT.

1. A course in Salting Meat in the "powdering" tub.

2. A course in Smoking Hams and Bacons.

3. A course in Pickling Pig's feet and Ears.

4. A course in Headcheese and Sausages.

LIQUOR DEPARTMENT.

1. A course in Beer. The making of wort out of barley. The making
of harm out of hops. The fermenting of the two together in
barrels.

(This course is not so much given now in New England, but it is
an immemorial heritage of the female sex. Gervayse Markham, in
his standard book, "Instructions to a Good Housewife," says about
beer: "It is the work and care of woman, for it is a house-work.
The man ought only to bring in the grain.")

2. A course in Light Drinks, such as Elderberry Wine.

CREAMERY DEPARTMENT.

1. A course in Making Butter.

2. A course in Making Cheese, Curdling, breaking curds in basket,
shaping in cheese press, turning and rubbing cheese on cheese
ladder.

CLEANING  DEPARTMENT

1. A course in Soapmaking.

2. A course in Making Brooms out of Guinea-wheat Straw.

3. A course in Starch making.

4. A course in Cleaning.

(This last course is very simple. Having manufactured the things
to wash and sweep with, the mere washing and sweeping won't take
long.)

FRUIT DEPARTMENT.

1. A course in Preserving--everything that can't be pickled.

BREAKFAST FOOD DEPARTMENT.

1. A course in Mush and forty kinds of Bread--Rhineinjun
(sometimes called Rye and Indian), bun, bannock, jannock, rusk,
etc., etc.

LIGHTING DEPARTMENT.

1. A course in Dips. The melting of tallow or bayberries. The
twisting of wicks. The attaching of wicks to rods. The dipping of
them into the melted mass in the kettle. Patience in keeping on
dipping them.

(Pupils taking this course are required to report each morning at
five o'clock.)

2. A course in Wax Candles. The use of molds.

These departments might give a girl a pretty fair education of
the hand and a pretty fair acquaintance with the technique and
organization of the working world; but we haven't yet mentioned
the biggest and hardest department of all.

Before mentioning it, we call attention to a picture reproduced
in this article from a book published in the year 1493. The book
was a French translation of Boccaccio's collection of stories
called "Noble Women." The picture shows a woolen mill being
operated in the grounds of a palace by a queen and her
ladies-in-waiting. It summons back the days when even the
daughters of kings and nobles could not help acquiring a
knowledge of the working world, because they were in it. One of
the ladies in-waiting is straightening out the tangled strands of
wool with carding-combs. The other has taken the combed and
straightened strands and is spinning them into yarn. The queen,
being the boss, has the best job. She is weaving the yarn into
cloth on a loom.

The daughters of the Emperor Charlemagne, who was a very rich
man, learned how to card and spin and weave. Noble women had to
boss all that kind of thing on their estates. They lived in the
very midst of Industry, of Business.

So it was with those early New England women. And therefore,
whether well-to-do or indigent, they passed on to their sons as
well as to their daughters a steady daily lesson in the world's
work. The most intelligent mother in the United States to-day,
let her be kindergartner and psychologist and
child-study-specialist as much as she pleases, cannot give her
children that broad early view of the organization of life. The
only place where her children can get it now is in the school.

On the first of January of this year Mrs. Ella Flagg Young,
superintendent of schools in Chicago, took algebra out of the
eighth grade of the elementary schools, and, in its place,
inserted a course on Chicago. Large parts of what was once the
Home are now spread out through the Community. The new course
will teach the life of the community, its activities and
opportunities, civic, aesthetic, industrial. Such a course is
nothing but Home Training for the enlarged Home.

But we must go back for a moment to that biggest and hardest
department of all in the old homes of New England.

   "Deceit, weeping, spinning, God hath give
   To women kindly that they may live,"

said Chaucer in a teasing mood.

But spinning was a very small part of the Department of Textiles.
We forbear to dilate on the courses of instruction which that
department offered. We confine ourselves to observing that:

First. In the Sub-Department of Flax, after heckling that flax
with combs of increasing degrees of fineness till the fibers lay
pretty straight; after spinning it into yarn on her
spinning-wheel; after reeling the yarn off into skeins; after
"bucking" the skeins in hot lye through many changes of water;
and after using shuttle and loom to weave the stuff into cloth,
the home woman of those days had to accomplish some twenty
subsequent processes of bucking, rinsing, possing, drying, and
bleaching before the cloth was ready for use.

Second. In the Sub-Department of Wool, in addition to being
carders, spinners, and weavers, women were dyers, handling all
the color resources of the times, boiling poke-berries in alum to
get a crimson, using sassafras for a yellow or an orange, and
producing a black by boiling the fabric with field-sorrel and
then boiling it again with logwood and copperas.

We pass over, as trivial, the making of flax and wool stuffs into
articles of actual use. We say nothing about the transformation
of cloth into clothes, table-covers, napkins; nothing about the
weaving of yarn on little lap looms into the narrow fabrics for
hair-laces, glove-ties, belts, garters, and hat-bands; nothing
about the incessant knitting of yarn into mittens and stockings;
nothing about a host of other details. They were for idle
moments.

Sweet domestic days, when girls stayed at home and helped their
mothers and let father support the family!

It seems as if even Rip Van Winkle, in his most shiftless mood,
ought to have been able to support a large number of daughters
under such conditions.

Does it astonish you that they matured young? There, all about
them, from babyhood, were the basic processes by which the world
was sheltered, clothed, and fed. Those processes were numerous
but simple. Boys and girls observed them, absorbed them, through
eyes, through finger-tips, all through those early years when
eyes and finger-tips are the nourishing points of the intellect.

John Winthrop, the first governor of Massachusetts Bay Colony,
was married at seventeen. His parents were not only willing, but
aiding and abetting. They considered him a man.

Mercy Otis, in Revolutionary days, in Massachusetts, the wife of
the patriot, James Warren, and Abigail Smith, the wife of the
future president, John Adams, both married before twenty. A study
of their lives will show that at that age they were mature.

To-day, in Boston, a woman of twenty is considered so immature
that many of the hospitals will not admit her even to her
preliminary training for the trade of nurse till she has added at
least three years more to her mental development.

Who has thus prolonged infancy; who has thus postponed maturity?
No individual.

Science has done part of it.

By the invention of power-driven machines and by the distribution
of the compact industries of the home through the scattered,
innumerable business enterprises of the community, Science has
given us, in place of a simple and near world, a complicated and
distant one. It takes us longer to learn it.

Simultaneously, by research and also by the use of the
printing-press, the locomotive, and the telegraph wire (which
speed up the production as well as the dissemination of
knowledge), Science has brought forth, in every field of human
interest and of human value, a mass of facts and of principles so
enormous and so important that the labors of our predecessors on
this planet overwhelm us, and we grow to our full physical
development long before we have caught up, in any degree, with
the previous experience of the race. And till we have done that,
to some degree, we are not mature.

With this postponement of personal maturity, there is an even
greater postponement of what might be called "technical"
maturity. The real mastery of a real technique takes longer and
longer. The teacher must not only go to college but must do
graduate work. The young doctor, after he finishes college and
medical school, is found as an interne in hospitals, as an
assistant to specialists, as a traveler through European
lecture-rooms. The young engineer, the young architect, the young
specialist of every sort, finds his period of preparation
steadily extending before him.

What is left undone by Science in keeping us immature is finally
accomplished by System.

The world is getting organized. Except in some of the professions
(and often even in them) we most of us start in on our life work
at some small subdivided job in a large organization of people.
The work of the organization is so systematized as to concentrate
responsibility and remuneration toward the top. In time, from job
to job, up an ascent which grows longer as the organization grows
bigger, we achieve responsibility. Till we do, we discharge minor
duties for minimum pay.

This is just as true of the boy from a "middle class" family as
it is of the boy from a "working class" family. There follows,
however, a most important difference between them. The "middle
class" boy will have to work longer and go farther than the
"working class" boy in order to rise to the financial standards
of his class. In this respect the "working class" boy will be a
man, ready for marriage, long before his "middle class"
fellow-worker.

It is among "middle class" boys, then, that the period of infancy
is most prolonged. They get a good deal of schooling. The stores
of human knowledge are put in their hands, to some extent, and,
to some extent, they catch up with the experience of the race.
This takes a longer and longer effort, particularly if real
mastery of any real technique is attempted. Then, on going to
work, they find that System, supplementing Science, has perfected
such an organization of the world of work that they must stay for
quite a while in the ranks of the organization. They will not
soon be earning what is regarded among their friends as a
marrying income. In money, as well as in mind, they approach
marriage with increasing tardiness. Their prolonged infancy is
financial, as well as mental.

They say that college girls marry late. It is true enough. But it
isn't properly stated.

The girls in the kind of family which college girls come from
marry late.

It can be definitively established by statistics here
considerately omitted that the age of marriage of college girls
is no later than the age of marriage of their non-college sisters
and acquaintances.

College is not a cause. It is a symptom.

Out of the prolongation of infancy in the "middle class" has come
the conquest by women of the intellectual freedom of the world.

It was by no vagary of chance that the demand of women for the
higher education came simultaneously with the change from the old
industrial home to the new, more purely domestic home. (It may be
a higher, nobler type of home. We are not here discussing that
point.)

As the home ceased to provide its daughters with adequate
education and with adequate employment, what was their situation?
In the "working class" it was simply this: That they went into
factories and that their sweethearts married them somewhat later
than had previously been the case, because their share as wives
in the support of the family was increasingly smaller. But the
"working class" man soon reaches his maximum earning capacity in
his craft and stays there. His financial infancy is short,
compared with that of the "middle class" man. He therefore
marries younger.

In the "middle class," however, Science and System began to
lengthen the mental and financial infancy of the men to such an
extent that the "old maid" of twenty-three became common. What
were the girls in the "middle class" to do while the boys were
growing up to be men, in mind and in money?

The father of Frederick the Great used to go about his realm with
a stick, and when he saw a woman in the street he would shake the
stick at her and say "Go back into the house. An honest woman
keeps indoors."

Probably quite sensible. When she went indoors, she went in to a
job. The "middle class" daughter of to-day, if her mother is
living and housekeeping, goes indoors into a vacuum.

Out of that vacuum came the explosion which created the first
woman's colleges.

There was plenty of sentiment in the explosion. That was the
splendid, blinding part of it. That was the part of it which even
to-day makes us veil our eves before the nobility of such women
as Emma Willard and Mary Lyon. They made Troy Female Seminary in
the twenties and Mount Holyoke in the thirties in the image of
the aspirations, as well as in the image of the needs, of the
women of the times.

But the needs were there, the need to be something, the need to
do something, self-respecting, self supporting. The existence of
these needs was clearly revealed in the fact that from the early
women's colleges and from the early coeducational universities
there at once issued a large supply of teachers.

This goes back to the fountainhead of the higher education of
women in this country. Emma Willard, even before she founded Troy
Female Seminary, back in the days when she was running her school
in Middlebury, Connecticut, was training young women to TEACH,
and was acquiring her claim (which she herself subsequently
urged) to being regarded as the organizer of the first normal
school in the United States.

From that time to this most college women have taught school
before getting married. The higher education of women has been,
in economic effect, a trade school for training women for the
trade of teacher.

But isn't it the purpose of the colleges to avoid training their
pupils for specific occupations? Isn't it their purpose to give
their pupils discipline and culture, pure and broad, unaffected
by commercial intention? Isn't that what colleges are, and ought
to be, for?

On the shore of this vast and violent controversy we discreetly
pause and stealthily sidle off, taking note of just three reefs
of solid fact which unsubmergably jut out above the surface of
the raging waters.

First. The colleges instruct their pupils in the subjects which
those pupils subsequently teach.

Second. The pupils specialize in the subjects which they are
going to teach.

Third. The colleges, besides providing the future teachers with
subjects, almost always offer to provide them with instruction in
the principles of education, and frequently offer to provide them
with instruction in the very technique of classroom work.

Our verdict, therefore, which we hope will be satisfactory to
counsel on both sides, is that the college is by no means a trade
school, but that if the woman who is going to earn her living
will choose the one trade of teaching, she can almost always get
a pretty fair trade training by going to college.

We are more interested in observing that the amount of trade
training which a teacher is expected to take is increasing year
by year. In teaching, as in other trades, the period and scope of
preliminary preparation continue to expand.

In the last calendar of Bryn Mawr College, the Department of
Education, in announcing its courses, makes the following
common-sense remarks:

"It is the purpose of the department to offer to students
intending to become teachers an opportunity to obtain a technical
preparation for their profession. Hitherto practical training has
been thought necessary for teachers of primary schools only, but
similar training is very desirable for teachers in high schools
and colleges also. Indeed, it is already becoming increasingly
difficult for college graduates without practical and theoretical
pedagogical knowledge to secure good positions. In addition to
the lectures open to undergraduates, courses will be organized
for graduate students only, conducted with special reference to
preparation for the headship and superintendence of schools."

But the teaching trade is getting choked. There is too much
supply. Girls are going to college in hordes. Graduating from
college, looking for work, there is usually just one kind of work
toward which they are mentally alert. Their college experience
has seldom roused their minds toward any other kind of work. They
start to teach. They drug the market. And so the teaching trade,
the great occupation of unmarried "middle class" women, ceases to
be able to provide those women, as a class, with an adequate
field of employment.

It is a turning point in the economic history of the class.

At the 1909 annual convention of the Association of Collegiate
Alumnae, in Cincinnati, Miss Susan Kingsbury (acting for a
committee of which Mrs. Richards, of the Massachusetts Institute
of Technology, and Miss Breckenridge, of the University of
Chicago, were members) read a real essay on "The Economic
Efficiency of College Women."

This essay was not written till detailed reports on income and
expenditure from 377 self-supporting college graduates had been
got together.

Out of these 377 there were 317 who were teachers. There were 183
who had followed up their regular college course with from one to
eight years of graduate study. The capital invested in education
was from $2500 to $3500 and often amounted to $7000 because of
advanced work and travel. After all this preparation, the average
income achieved may be sufficiently disclosed in the one fact
that, among those graduates who had been at work for from six to
eight years, more than seventy per cent. were still earning less
than $1100.

After drawing a complete statistical picture of the case, Miss
Kingsbury concluded with certain questions and recommendations,
here condensed, which show the new economic needs of "middle
class" women knocking at the door of present "middle class"
education:

"Should not the over-supply of teachers be reduced by directing
many of our graduates into other pursuits than teaching? This
will place upon the college, just where the responsibility is
due, the obligation of discovering what those opportunities are
and what preparation should be given.

"This organization should endeavor to arouse in our colleges a
sense of responsibility for knowing the facts with regard to
their graduates, both social and economic, and should also
endeavor to influence our colleges through appointment
secretaries, to direct women, according to fitness, into other
lines than teaching.

"Should not courses be added to the college curriculum to give
women the fundamental principles in other professions, or lines
of industry or commerce, than teaching?

"May not required courses be added to the college curriculum to
inculcate business power and sense in all women?"

This philosophy seems to aim at making the modern school as
informative about modern industry as the primitive home was about
primitive industry. It seems to be the same educational
philosophy which produced the course on Chicago in the Chicago
elementary schools, which produced the Manhattan Trade School in
New York, which produced the School of Salesmanship at the
Women's Educational and Industrial Union in Boston.

At that Women's Educational and Industrial Union, at 264 Boylston
Street, you may see the evolution toward the age of trained women
proceeding at all levels of educational equipment.

There, before you, at one level, are the Trade School Shops--a
shop in hand-work and a shop in millinery. The pupils are
graduates of the Boston Trade School for Girls. They have had one
year of training. They are now taking another.

Florence Marshall made the Boston Trade School, with a committee
of women to help her. It has now been taken over by the public
authorities and merged into the public-school system. What looked
like a private fad has become a public function. The training of
women for self-support has been recognized as a duty of the
state.

The Trade School Shops at the Women's Educational and Industrial
Union were started for the express purpose of supplementing the
work of the Boston Trade School for Girls. One year was not
enough.

In the Trade School the prospective milliner had spent four
months on plain sewing, four months on summer hats, four months
on winter hats. She had also taken short courses in Personal
Hygiene, Business Forms, Spelling, Business English, Color
Design, Textiles, Industrial Conditions. These latter courses
were not, strictly speaking, "technical." They were "vocational."
They were in the "middle ground" between general and technical
training. They went beyond the general training of the elementary
schools and furnished the girl with the background of her future
vocation. But she often needed a little more of the foreground, a
little more of actual trade technique.

Thus does her education divide itself up into periods:--general,
vocational, technical.

The Trade School Shops are designed to give the girl her final
technical finish. They are really more like a factory than like a
school. Although the object of them is to convey a broad
instruction, the pupil gets wages, the stuff she makes is sold,
and the organization is that of a commercial establishment.

So, at the end of two years from the time she left the elementary
school, the young milliner is ready to go out into the world
organization. She is better fitted for her world than many a
college girl is for hers.

On a different level of educational equipment from the Trade
School Shops stands the School of Salesmanship. It gets many high
school girls and even, occasionally, a girl who has been to
college.

Finally, there is the Appointment Bureau, for college girls in
particular.

This Appointment Bureau is the most extraordinary employment
agency ever organized. Its object is not merely to introduce
existing clients to existing jobs (which is the proper normal
object of employment agencies), but to make forays into the wild
region of "occupations other than teaching," and find jobs, and
then find girls to fit those jobs. In other words, it is a kind
of "Company of Adventurers Trading into Hudson's Bay" for the
purpose of exploring, surveying, developing, and settling the
region of "occupations other than teaching" on behalf of college
women.

It is managed by Miss Laura Drake Gill, President of the National
Association of Collegiate Alumnae and former Dean of Barnard
College. She is assisted by an Advisory Council of
representatives of near-by colleges--Radcliffe, Wellesley,
Simmons, Mount Holyoke, Smith, and Brown.

There is no more important work being done for women to-day.

In connection with it, the Women's Educational and Industrial
Union has just issued a handbook of three hundred pages, entitled
"Vocations for the Trained Woman." It is an immense map of the
occupational world for "middle class" women, in which every bay
and headland, every lake and hill, is drawn to scale, from
Poultry Farming to Department Store Buying, from Lunch-Room
Management to State Child-Saving.

The responses made to this movement by certain educational
institutions (including particularly Simmons College) will be
observed in a future article. Just one response, from an
unexpected quarter, must be noticed here.

In a small Illinois city there is a woman's college, founded as a
Preparatory School in the forties and soon advanced to be a
Seminary, which, with Anna P. Sill for its first head, Jane
Addams for its best-known graduate, and Julia Gulliver for its
present president, has come to be a college of standing and of
leading. Only Troy Female Seminary and Mount Holyoke Seminary
preceded it, in date of foundation, among the important women's
institutions.

Rockford College is ranked to-day, by the reports of the United
States Commissioner of Education, in rank one--among the sixteen
best women's colleges in the United States. It hasn't risen to
that rank by any quick, money-spurred spurt. It brings with it
out of its far past all the traditions of that early struggle for
the higher education which, by friction, kindled among women so
flaming an enthusiasm for pure knowledge. It remains "collegiate"
in the old sense, quiet, cloistral, inhabiting old-fashioned
brick buildings in an old-fashioned large yard, looking still
like the Illinois of war times more than like the Illinois of the
twentieth century, retaining all the home ideals of those
times--a large interest in feminine accomplishments, a strict
regard for manners, a belief in the value of charm.

But here, in this quiet, non-metropolitan college, so really
"academic," so really--in the oldest-fashioned ways--"cultural,"
here is a two-year course in secretarial studies.

It is the first time (within our knowledge) that such a thing has
happened in any of the old first-rank women's colleges.

The course in secretarial studies at Rockford gives the pupil
English, Accounts, Commerce, Commercial Law, and Economic History
in her first year, and Political Science, English, and Economics
in her second year. Shorthand and Typewriting are required in
both years, and a few hours a week are reserved in each year for
elective courses to be chosen by the pupil among offerings in
French, German, Spanish, and History.

This is a notable concession not only to the increased need of
"middle class" women for "occupations other than teaching" but
also to the increased recognition of those other occupations as
being worthy of "cultural" training.

We keep moving forward into an era of trained women as well as
trained men. The extraordinary prolongation of mental and
financial infancy in the "middle class," bringing with it an
extraordinary postponement of marriage, makes this training
particularly necessary in the case of the women of that class.
But the contraction of the home as a field of adequate employment
for daughters exists everywhere, increasing the cost of living
for the family and driving daughters to supplementing the family
income.

What futility, as well as indignity, there is in the idea that
the query of support for women gets its full answer in a husband!

In the United States, in the year 1900, among women twenty years
of age and over, the married women numbered 13,400,000. The
unmarried women and the widows together numbered 6,900,000. For
every two women married there was one woman either single or
widowed.

If education does not (1) give women a comprehension of the
organization of the money-earning world, and (2) train them to
one of the techniques which lead to self-support in that world,
it is not education.

Just at this point, though, we encounter a curious conflict in
women's education. Just as we see their urgent need of a
money-earning technique, we simultaneously hear, coming from a
corner of the battlefield and swelling till it fills the air with
a nation-wide battle-cry, the sentiment: "The Home is also a
technique. All women must be trained to it."

At Rockford College, illustrating this conflict, there exists,
besides the course in Secretarial Studies, an equivalent course
in Home Economics.

In one photograph in this article we show the tiny children of
the Francis Parker School in Chicago taking their first lesson in
the technique of the home. In another picture we show the
post-graduate laboratory in the technique of the home at the
University of Illinois. And the space between the kindergarten
and the degree of Doctor of Philosophy threatens to get filled up
almost everywhere with courses in cooking, sewing, chemistry of
diet, composition of textiles, art of marketing, and other phases
of home management.

The money-earning world, a technique! The home, a technique! The
boy learns only one. Must the girl learn two, and be twice a
specialist?

(In the September number Mr. Hard will discuss The Home Economics
Movement.)

*****************************************************************
VOL. XXIII  September 1910 NO. 3

Law and Order  

By O. HENRY

AUTHOR OF "THE FOUR MILLION," "THE HEART OF THE WEST," STRICTLY
BUSINESS," ETC.

I found myself in Texas a recently, revisiting old places and
vistas. At a sheep-ranch where I had sojourned many years ago, I
stopped for a week. And, as all visitors do, I heartily plunged
into the business at hand, which happened to be that of dipping
the sheep.

Now, this process is so different from ordinary human baptism
that it deserves a word of itself. A vast iron cauldron with half
the fires of Avernus beneath it is partly filled with water that
soon boils furiously. Into that is cast concentrated lye, lime,
and sulphur, which is allowed to stew and fume until the witches'
broth is strong enough to scorch the third arm of Palladino
herself.

Then this concentrated brew is mixed in a long, deep vat with
cubic gallons of hot water, and the sheep are caught by their
hind legs and flung into the compound. After being thoroughly
ducked by means of a forked pole in the hands of a gentleman
detailed for that purpose, they are allowed to clamber up an
incline into a corral and dry or die, as the state of their
constitutions may decree. If you ever caught an able-bodied,
two-year-old mutton by the hind legs and felt the 750 volts of
kicking that he can send through your arm seventeen times before
you can hurl him into the vat, you will, of course, hope that he
may die instead of dry.

But this is merely to explain why Bud Oakley and I gladly
stretched ourselves on the bank of the near-by charco after the
dipping, glad for the welcome inanition and pure contact with the
earth after our muscle-racking labors. The flock was a small one,
and we finished at three in the afternoon; so Bud brought from
the morral on his saddle horn, coffee and a coffeepot and a big
hunk of bread and some side bacon. Mr. Mills, the ranch owner and
my old friend, rode away to the ranch with his force of Mexican
trabajadores.

While the bacon was frizzling nicely, there was the sound of
horses' hoofs behind us. Bud's six-shooter lay in its scabbard
ten feet away from his hand. He paid not the slightest heed to
the approaching horseman. This attitude of a Texas ranchman was
so different from the old-time custom that I marveled.
Instinctively I turned to inspect the possible foe that menaced
us in the rear. I saw a horseman dressed in black, who might have
been a lawyer or a parson or an undertaker, trotting peaceably
along the road by the arroyo.

Bud noticed my precautionary movement and smiled sarcastically
and sorrowfully.

"You've been away too long," said he. "You don't need to look
around any more when anybody gallops up behind you in this state,
unless something hits you in the back; and even then it's liable
to be only a bunch of tracts or a petition to sign against the
trusts. I never looked at that hombre that rode by; but I'll bet
a quart of sheep dip that he's some double-dyed son of a popgun
out rounding up prohibition votes."

"Times have changed, Bud," said I, oracularly. "Law and order is
the rule now in the South and the Southwest."

I caught a cold gleam from Bud's pale blue eyes.

"Not that I----" I began, hastily.

"Of course you don't," said Bud warmly. "You know better. You've
lived here before. Law and order, you say? Twenty years ago we
had 'em here. We only had two or three laws, such as against
murder before witnesses, and being caught stealing horses, and
voting the Republican ticket. But how is it now? All we get is
orders; and the laws go out of the state. Them legislators set up
there at Austin and don't do nothing but make laws against
kerosene oil and schoolbooks being brought into the state. I
reckon they was afraid some man would go home some evening after
work and light up and get an education and go to work and make
laws to repeal aforesaid laws. Me, I'm for the old days when law
and order meant what they said. A law was a law, and a order was
a order."

"But----" I began.

"I was going on," continued Bud, "while this coffee is boiling,
to describe to you a case of genuine law and order that I knew of
once in the times when cases was decided in the chambers of a
six-shooter instead of a supreme court.

"You've heard of old Ben Kirkman, the cattle king? His ranch run
from the Nueces to the Rio Grande. In them days, as you know,
there was cattle barons and cattle kings. The difference was
this: when a cattleman went to San Antone and bought beer for the
newspaper reporters and only give them the number of cattle he
actually owned, they wrote him up for a baron. When he bought 'em
champagne wine and added in the amount of cattle he had stole,
they called him a king.

"Luke Summers was one of his range bosses. And down to the king's
ranch comes one day a bunch of these Oriental people from New
York or Kansas City or thereabouts. Luke was detailed with a
squad to ride about with 'em, and see that the rattlesnakes got
fair warning when they was coming, and drive the deer out of
their way. Among the bunch was a black-eyed girl that wore a
number two shoe. That's all I noticed about her. But Luke must
have seen more, for he married her one day before the caballard
started back, and went over on Canada Verde and set up a ranch of
his own. I'm skipping over the sentimental stuff on purpose,
because I never saw or wanted to see any of it. And Luke takes me
along with him because we was old friends and I handled cattle to
suit him.

"I'm skipping over much what followed, because I never saw or
wanted to see any of it--but three years afterward there was a
boy kid stumbling and blubbering around the galleries and floors
of Luke's ranch. I never had no use for kids; but it seems they
did. And I'm skipping over much what followed until one day out
to the ranch drives in hacks and buckboards a lot of Mrs.
Summers's friends from the East--a sister or so and two or three
men. One looked like an uncle to somebody; and one looked like
nothing; and the other one had on corkscrew pants and spoke in a
tone of voice. I never liked a man who spoke in a tone of voice.

"I'm skipping over much what followed; but one afternoon when I
rides up to the ranch house to get some orders about a drove of
beeves that was to be shipped, I hears something like a popgun go
off. I waits at the hitching rack, not wishing to intrude on
private affairs. In a little while Luke comes out and gives some
orders to some of his Mexican-hands, and they go and hitch up
sundry and divers vehicles; and mighty soon out comes one of the
sisters or so and some of the two or three men. But two of the
two or three men carries between 'em the corkscrew man who spoke
in a tone of voice, and lays him flat down in one of the wagons.
And they all might have been seen wending their way away.

" `Bud,' says Luke to me, `I want you to fix up a little and go
up to San Antone with me.'

" `Let me get on my Mexican spurs,' says I, `and I'm your
company.'

"One of the sisters or so seems to have stayed at the ranch with
Mrs. Summers and the kid. We rides to Encinal and catches the
International, and hits San Antone in the morning. After
breakfast Luke steers me straight to the office of a lawyer. They
go in a room and talk and then come out.

" `Oh, there won't be any trouble, Mr. Summers,' says the lawyer.
`I'll acquaint Judge Simmons with the facts to-day; and the
matter will be put through as promptly as possible. Law and order
reigns in this state as swift and sure as any in the country.'

" `I'll wait for the decree if it won't take over half an hour,'
says Luke.

" `Tut, tut,' says the lawyer man. `Law must take its course.
Come back day after to-morrow at half-past nine.'

"At that time me and Luke shows up, and the lawyer hands him a
folded document. And Luke writes him out a check.

"On the sidewalk Luke holds up the paper to me and puts a finger
the size of a kitchen-door latch on it and says:

" `Decree of ab-so-lute divorce with cus-to-dy of the child.'

" `Skipping over much what has happened of which I know nothing,'
says I, `it looks to me like a split. Couldn't the lawyer man
have made it a strike for you?'

" `Bud,' says he, in a pained style, `that child is the one thing
I have to live for. SHE may go; but the boy is mine!--think of
it--I have cus-to-dy of the child.'

" `All right,' says I. `If it's the law, let's abide by it. But I
think,' says I, `that Judge Simmons might have used exemplary
clemency, or whatever is the legal term, in our case.'

"You see, I wasn't inveigled much into the desirableness of
having infants around a ranch, except the kind that feed
themselves and sell for so much on the hoof when they grow up.
But Luke was struck with that sort of parental foolishness that I
never could understand. All the way riding from the station back
to the ranch, he kept pulling that decree out of his pocket and
laying his finger on the back of it and reading off to me the sum
and substance of it. `Cus-to-dy of the child, Bud,' says he.
`Don't forget it--cus-to-dy of the child.'

"But when we hits the ranch we finds our decree of court
obviated, nolle prossed, and remanded for trial. Mrs. Summers and
the kid was gone. They tell us that an hour after me and Luke had
started for San Antone she had a team hitched and lit out for the
nearest station with her trunks and the youngster.

"Luke takes out his decree once more and reads off its
emoluments.

" `It ain't possible, Bud,' says he, `for this to be. It's
contrary to law and order. It's wrote as plain as day
here--"Cus-to-dy of the child." '

" `There is what you might call a human leaning,' says I,
`towards smashing 'em both--not to mention the child.'

" `Judge Simmons,' goes on Luke, `is a incorporated officer of
the law. She can't take the boy away. He belongs to me by
statutes passed and approved by the state of Texas.'

" `And he's removed from the jurisdiction of mundane mandamuses,'
says I, `by the unearthly statutes of female partiality. Let us
praise the Lord and be thankful for whatever small mercies----' I
begins; but I see Luke don't listen to me. Tired as he was, he
calls for a fresh horse and starts back again for the station.

"He come back two weeks afterwards, not saying much.

" `We can't get the trail,' says he; `but we've done all the
telegraphing that the wires'll stand, and we've got these city
rangers they call detectives on the lookout. In the meantime,
Bud,' says he, `we'll round up them cows on Brusby Creek, and
wait for the law to take its course.' And after that we never
alluded to allusions, as you might say.

"Skipping over much what happened in the next twelve years, Luke
was made sheriff of Mojada County. He made me his office deputy.
Now, don't get in your mind no wrong apparitions of a office
deputy doing sums in a book or mashing letters in a cider press.
In them days his job was to watch the back windows so nobody
didn't plug the sheriff in the rear while he was adding up
mileage at his desk in front. And in them days I had
qualifications for the job. And there was law and order in Mojada
County, and schoolbooks, and all the whisky you wanted, and the
government built its own battleships instead of collecting
nickels from the schoolchildren to do it with. And, as I say,
there was law and order instead of enactments and restrictions
such as disfigure our umpire state to-day. We had our office at
Bildad, the county seat, from which we emerged forth on necessary
occasions to soothe whatever fracases and unrest that might occur
in our jurisdiction.

"Skipping over much what happened while me and Luke was sheriff,
I want to give you an idea of how the law was respected in them
days. Luke was what you would call one of the most conscious men
in the world. He never knew much book law, but he had the inner
emoluments of justice and mercy inculcated into his system. If a
respectable citizen shot a Mexican or held up a train and cleaned
out the safe in the express car, and Luke ever got hold of him,
he'd give the guilty party such a reprimand and a cussin' out
that he'd probable never do it again. But once let somebody steal
a horse (unless it was a Spanish pony), or cut a wire fence, or
otherwise impair the peace and indignity of Mojada County, Luke
and me would be on 'em with habeas corpuses and smokeless powder
and all the modern inventions of equity and etiquette.

"We certainly had our county on a basis of lawfulness. I've known
persons of Eastern classification with little spotted caps and
buttoned-up shoes to get off the train at Bildad and eat
sandwiches at the railroad station without being shot at or even
roped and drug about by the citizens of the town.

"Luke had his own ideas of legality and justice. He was kind of
training me to succeed him when he went out of office. He was
always looking ahead to the time when he'd quit sheriffing. What
he wanted to do was to build a yellow house with lattice-work
under the porch and have hens scratching in the yard. The one
main thing in his mind seemed to be the yard.

" `Bud,' he says to me, `by instinct and sentiment I'm a
contractor. I want to be a contractor. That's what I'll be when I
get out of office.'

" `What kind of a contractor?' says I. `It sounds like a kind of
a business to me. You ain't going to haul cement or establish
branches or work on a railroad, are you?'

" `You don't understand,' says Luke. `I'm tired of space and
horizons and territory and distances and things like that. What I
want is reasonable contraction. I want a yard with a fence around
it that you can go out and set on after supper and listen to
whip-poor-wills. I'm a fool about whip-poor-wills,' says Luke.

"That's the kind of a man he was. He was home-like, although he'd
had bad luck in such investments. But he never talked about them
times on the ranch. It seemed like he'd forgotten about it. I
wondered how, with his ideas of yards and chickens and notions of
lattice-work, he'd seemed to have got out of his mind that kid of
his that had been taken away from him, unlawful, in spite of his
decree of court. But he wasn't a man you could ask about such
things as he didn't refer to in his own conversation.

"I reckon he'd put all his emotions and ideas into being sheriff.
I've read in books about men that was disappointed in these
poetic and fine-haired and high-collared affairs with ladies
renouncing truck of that kind and wrapping themselves up into
some occupation like painting pictures or herding sheep or
science or teaching school--something to make 'em forget. Well, I
guess that was the way with Luke. But, as he couldn't paint
pictures, he took it out in rounding up horse thieves and in
making Mojada County a safe place to sleep in if you was well
armed and not afraid of requisitions or tarantulas.

"One day there passes through Bildad a bunch of these money
investors from the East, and they stopped off there, Bildad being
the dinner station on the I. & G. N. They was just coming back
from Mexico looking after mines and such. There was five of
'em--four solid parties, with gold watch chains, that would grade
up over two hundred pounds on the hoof, and one kid about
seventeen or eighteen.

"This youngster had on one of them cowboy suits such as
tenderfoots bring West with 'em; and you could see he was aching
to wing a couple of Indians or bag a grizzly or two with the
little pearl-handled gun he had buckled around his waist.

"I walked down to the depot to keep an eye on the outfit and see
that they didn't locate any land or scare the cow ponies hitched
in front of Murchison's store or act otherwise unseemly. Luke was
away after a gang of cattle thieves down on the Frio, and I
always looked after the law and order when he wasn't there.

"After dinner this boy comes out of the dining-room while the
train was waiting, and prances up and down the platform ready to
shoot all antelope, lions, or private citizens that might
endeavor to molest or come too near him. He was a good-looking
kid; only he was like all them tenderfoots--he didn't know a
law-and-order town when he saw it.

"By and by along comes Pedro Johnson, the proprietor of the
Crystal Palace chili-con-carne stand in Bildad. Pedro was a man
who liked to amuse himself; so he kind of herd-rides this
youngster, laughing at him, tickled to death. I was too far away
to hear, but the kid seems to mention some remarks to Pedro, and
Pedro goes up and slaps him about nine feet away, and laughs
harder than ever. And then the boy gets up quicker than he fell
and jerks out his little pearl-handle, and--bing! bing! bing!
Pedro gets it three times in special and treasured portions of
his carcass. I saw the dust fly off his clothes every time the
bullets hit. Sometimes them little thirty-twos cause worry at
close range.

"The engine bell was ringing, and the train starting off slow. I
goes up to the kid and places him under arrest, and takes away
his gun. But the first thing I knew that caballard of capitalists
makes a break for the train. One of 'em hesitates in front of me
for a second, and kind of smiles and shoves his hand up against
my chin, and I sort of laid down on the platform and took a nap.
I never was afraid of guns; but I don't want any person except a
barber to take liberties like that with my face again. When I
woke up, the whole outfit--train, boy, and all--was gone. I asked
about Pedro, and they told me the doctor said he would recover
provided his wounds didn't turn out to be fatal.

"When Luke got back three days later, and I told him about it, he
was mad all over.

" `Why'n't you telegraph to San Antone,' he asks, `and have the
bunch arrested there?'

" `Oh, well,' says I, `I always did admire telegraphy; but
astronomy was what I had took up just then.' That capitalist sure
knew how to gesticulate with his hands.

"Luke got madder and madder. He investigates and finds in the
depot a card one of the men had dropped that gives the address of
some hombre called Scudder in New York City.

" `Bud,' says Luke, `I'm going after that bunch. I'm going there
and get the man or boy, as you say he was, and bring him back.
I'm sheriff of Mojada County, and I shall keep law and order in
its precincts while I'm able to draw a gun. And I want you to go
with me. No Eastern Yankee can shoot up a respectable and
well-known citizen of Bildad, 'specially with a thirty-two
calibre, and escape the law. Pedro Johnson,' says Luke, `is one
of our most prominent citizens and business men. I'll appoint Sam
Bell acting sheriff with penitentiary powers while I'm away, and
you and me will take the 6.45 northbound to-morrow evening and
follow up this trail.'

" `I'm your company,' says I. `I never see this New York, but I'd
like to. But, Luke,' says I, `don't you have to have a
dispensation or a habeas corpus or something from the state, when
you reach out that far for rich men and malefactors?'

" `Did I have a requisition,' says Luke, `when I went over into
the Brazos bottoms and brought back Bill Grimes and two more for
holding up the International? Did me and you have a search
warrant or a posse comitatus when we rounded up them six Mexican
cow thieves down in Hidalgo? It's my business to keep order in
Mojada County. '

" `And it's my business as office deputy,' says I, `to see that
business is carried on according to law. Between us both we ought
to keep things pretty well cleaned up.'

"So, the next day, Luke packs a blanket and some collars and his
mileage book in a haversack, and him and me hits the breeze for
New York. It was a powerful long ride. The seats in the cars was
too short for six-footers like us to sleep comfortable on; and
the conductor had to keep us from getting off at every town that
had five-story houses in it. But we got there finally; and we
seemed to see right away that he was right about it.

" `Luke,' says I, `as office deputy and from a law standpoint, it
don't look to me like this place is properly and legally in the
jurisdiction of Mojada County, Texas.'

" `From the standpoint of order,' says he, `it's amenable to
answer for its sins to the properly appointed authorities from
Bildad to Jerusalem.'

" `Amen,' says I. `But let's turn our trick sudden, and ride. I
don't like the looks of this place.'

" `Think of Pedro Johnson,' says Luke, `a friend of mine and
yours shot down by one of these gilded abolitionists at his very
door!'

" `It was at the door of the freight depot,' says I. `But the law
will not be balked at a quibble like that.'

"We put up at one of them big hotels on Broadway. The next
morning I goes down about two miles of stairsteps to the bottom
and hunts for Luke. It ain't no use. It looks like San Jacinto
day in San Antone. There's a thousand folks milling around in a
kind of a roofed-over plaza with marble pavements and trees
growing right out of 'em, and I see no more chance of finding
Luke than if we was hunting each other in the big pear flat down
below Old Fort Ewell. But soon Luke and me runs together in one
of the turns of them marble alleys.

" `It ain't no use, Bud,' says he. `I can't find no place to eat
at. I've been looking for restaurant signs and smelling for ham
all over the camp. But I'm used to going hungry when I have to.
Now,' says he, `I'm going out and get a hack and ride down to the
address on this Scudder card. You stay here and try to hustle
some grub. But I doubt if you'll find it. I wish we'd brought
along some cornmeal and bacon and beans. I'll be back when I see
this Scudder, if the trail ain't wiped out.'

"So I starts foraging for breakfast. For the honor of old Mojada
County I didn't want to seem green to them abolitionists, so
every time I turned a corner in them marble halls I went up to
the first desk or counter I see and looks around for grub. If I
didn't see what I wanted I asked for something else. In about
half an hour I had a dozen cigars, five story magazines, and
seven or eight rail-road time-tables in my pockets, and never a
smell of coffee or bacon to point out the trail.

"Once a lady sitting at a table and playing a game kind of like
pushpin told me to go into a closet that she called Number 3. I
went in and shut the door, and the blamed thing lit itself up. I
set down on a stool before a shelf and waited. Thinks I, `This is
a private dining-room.' But no waiter never came. When I got to
sweating good and hard, I goes out again.

" `Did you get what you wanted?' says she.

" `No, ma'am,' says I. `Not a bite.'

" `Then there's no charge,' says she.

" `Thanky, ma'am,' says I, and I takes up the trail again.

"By and by I thinks I'll shed etiquette; and I picks up one of
them boys with blue clothes and yellow buttons in front, and he
leads me to what he calls the caffay breakfast room. And the
first thing I lays my eyes on when I go in is that boy that had
shot Pedro Johnson. He was setting all alone at a little table,
hitting a egg with a spoon like he was afraid he'd break it.

"I takes the chair across the table from him; and he looks
insulted and makes a move like he was going to get up.

" `Keep still, son,' says I. `You're apprehended, arrested, and
in charge of the Texas authorities. Go on and hammer that egg
some more if it's the inside of it you want. Now, what did you
shoot Mr. Johnson, of Bildad, for?'

" `And may I ask who you are?' says he.

" `You may,' says I. `Go ahead'.

" `I suppose you're on,' says this kid, without batting his eyes.
`But what are you eating? Here, waiter!' he calls out, raising
his finger. `Take this gentleman's order.'

" `A beefsteak,' says I, `and some fried eggs and a can of
peaches and a quart of coffee will about suffice.'

"We talk a while about the sundries of life and then he says:

" `What are you going to do about that shooting? I had a right to
shoot that man,' says he. `He called me names that I couldn't
overlook, and then he struck me. He carried a gun, too. What else
could I do?'

" `We'll have to take you back to Texas,' says I.

" `I'd like to go back,' says the boy, with a kind of a grin--`if
it wasn't on an occasion of this kind. It's the life I like. I've
always wanted to ride and shoot and live in the open air ever
since I can remember.'

" `Who was this gang of stout parties you took this trip with?' I
asks.

" `My stepfather,' says he, `and some business partners of his in
some Mexican mining and land schemes.'

" `I saw you shoot Pedro Johnson,' says I, `and I took that
little popgun away from you that you did it with. And when I did
so I noticed three or four little scars in a row over your right
eyebrow. You've been in rookus before, haven't you?'

" `I've had these scars ever since I can remember,' says he. `I
don't know how they came there.'

" `Was you ever in Texas before?' says I.

" `Not that I remember of,' says he. `But I thought I had when we
struck the prairie country. But I guess I hadn't.'

" `Have you got a mother?' I asks.

" `She died five years ago,' says he.

"Skipping over the most of what followed--when Luke came back I
turned the kid over to him. He had seen Scudder and told him what
he wanted; and it seems that Scudder got active with one of these
telephones as soon as he left. For in about an hour afterwards
there comes to our hotel some of these city rangers in everyday
clothes that they call detectives, and marches the whole outfit
of us to what they call a magistrate's court. They accuse Luke of
attempted kidnapping, and ask him what he has to say.

" `This snipe,' says Luke to the judge, `shot and willfully
punctured with malice and forethought one of the most respected
and prominent citizens of the town of Bildad, Texas, Your Honor.
And in so doing laid himself liable to the penitence of law and
order. And I hereby make claim and demand restitution of the
State of New York City for the said alleged criminal; and I know
he done it.'

" `Have you the usual and necessary requisition papers from the
governor of your state?' asks the judge.

" `My usual papers,' says Luke, `was taken away from me at the
hotel by these gentlemen who represent law and order in your
city. They was two Colt's .45's that I've packed for nine years;
and if I don't get 'em back, there'll be more trouble. You can
ask anybody in Mojada County about Luke Summers. I don't usually
need any other kind of papers for what I do.'

"I see the judge looks mad, so I steps up and says:

" `Your Honor, the aforesaid defendant, Mr. Luke Summers, sheriff
of Mojada County, Texas, is as fine a man as ever threw a rope or
upheld the statutes and codicils of the greatest state in the
Union. But he----'

"The judge hits his table with a wooden hammer and asks who I am.

" `Bud Oakley,' says I. `Office deputy of the sheriff's office of
Mojada County, Texas. Representing,' says I, `the Law. Luke
Summers,' I goes on, `represents Order. And if Your Honor will
give me about ten minutes in private talk, I'll explain the whole
thing to you, and show you the equitable and legal requisition
papers which I carry in my pocket.'

"The judge kind of half smiles and says he will talk with me in
his private room. In there I put the whole thing up to him in
such language as I had, and when we goes outside, he announces
the verdict that the young man is delivered into the hands of the
Texas authorities; and calls the next case.

"Skipping over much of what happened on the way back, I'll tell
you how the thing wound up in Bildad.

"When we got the prisoner in the sheriff's office, I says to
Luke:

" `You remember that kid of yours--that two-year-old that they
stole away from you when the bust-up come?'

"Luke looks black and angry. He'd never let anybody talk to him
about that business, and he never mentioned it himself.

" `Toe the mark,' says I. `Do you remember when he was toddling
around on the porch and fell down on a pair of Mexican spurs and
cut four little holes over his right eye? Look at the prisoner,'
says I, `look at his nose and the shape of his head and--why, you
old fool, don't you know your own son?--I knew him,' says I,
`when he perforated Mr. Johnson at the depot.'

"Luke comes over to me shaking all over. I never saw him lose his
nerve before.

" `Bud,' says he, `I've never had that boy out of my mind one day
or one night since he was took away. But I never let on. But can
we hold him?--Can we make him stay?--I'll make the best man of
him that ever put his foot in a stirrup. Wait a minute,' says he,
all excited and out of his mind--`I've got something here in my
desk--I reckon it'll hold legal yet--I've looked at it a thousand
times--"Cus-to-dy of the child," says Luke--"Cus-to-dy of the
child." We can hold him on that, can't we? Le'me see if I can
find that decree.'

"Luke begins to tear his desk to pieces.

" `Hold on,' says I. `You are Order and I'm Law. You needn't look
for that paper, Luke. It ain't a decree any more. It's
requisition papers. It's on file in that Magistrate's office in
New York. I took it along when we went, because I was office
deputy and knew the law.'

" `I've got him back,' says Luke. `He's mine again. I never
thought----'

" `Wait a minute,' says I. `We've got to have law and order. You
and me have got to preserve 'em both in Mojada County according
to our oath and conscience. The kid shot Pedro Johnson, one of
Bildad's most prominent and----"

" `Oh, hell!' says Luke. `That don't amount to anything. That
fellow was half Mexican, anyhow.' "

----IN A FAR TOWNSHIP

By SARAH N. CLEGHORN

His roundabout of bottle-green,
And pantaloons of fine nankeen
Were Sunday best; the month was May,
And this from school a holiday;
But he had none with whom to play,
And wandered wistful,up and down,
All in a strange old Garden,
And in a strange old Town.

An ancient chaise, a Dobbin gray
Had brought him here to spend the day.
Now his old aunt and uncle drowse;
No chick nor child is in the house--
No cat, no dog, no bird, or mouse;
No fairy picture-book to spell,
No music-box of wonder,
Nor magic whispering-shell.

Unending is this afternoon,
And strange this landscape as the moon,
With home a thousand miles away--
The pasture where his brothers play
With whoop and shout, in Indian fray;
The porch where, even at this hour,
His mother prunes the vine and flower,
And hums the nursery melody,
"I saw a ship a-sailing,
A-sailing on the sea."

*****************************************************************
VOL. XXIII  September 1910 NO. 3

Lassoing Wild Animals In Africa

By GUY H. SCULL

Field Manager of the Buffalo Jones African Expedition

Editor's Note: The wild animals of Africa have been hunted with
firearms for many a year, and photographed by more than one
marksman of the lens. But here is the truly unique expedition
into the jungle. The idea that any one should seriously
contemplate a journey to Africa for the purpose of lassoing such
creatures as sportsmen either shoot or photograph at the longest
range possible, seems quite absurd. But an American frontiersman
has done it, with American cowboys, cow-ponies, and hunting-dogs,
and with wonderful moving pictures to prove it. It is a fine
evidence of the sporting qualities of both parties to the
undertaking that Colonel C. J. Jones, a Western plainsman, could
so completely interest Mr. Charles S. Bird, an Eastern
manufacturer, in the fantastic plan as to command his backing.
And if there is such a thing as the glow of adventure by proxy,
it must have been felt in the Nassau Street law office, where the
Buffalo Jones African Expedition had its headquarters, when the
cablegram from Nairobi announced that lion and rhino had been
lassoed, and that the moving pictures were a complete success.

IT was a special train--loaded to capacity with horses and dogs,
camp baggage, moving-picture cameras, cowboys, photographers, and
porters; and when it pulled out of the Nairobi station on the way
to the "up country" of British East Africa, the period of
preparation passed away and the time of action began. As the
faces of the people on the platform glided by the window of the
slowly moving carriage, there was good will written on all of
them; but also unbelief. There was no doubt as to what they
thought of Buffalo Jones's expedition that was setting out to
rope and tie and photograph the wild animals of the East African
Veldt.

"How are you going to hold a rhino that weighs two tons and a
half?"

"What are you going to do when the lion charges?"

Such were the questions asked us by the hunters of the country.
They further took pains to explain that a rhino charges like a
flash, and that a lion can catch a horse within a hundred yards.

These items of information, however, were well known to Buffalo
Jones before the expedition was organized in New York, and his
preparations to meet the difficulties had been made accordingly.

Colonel C. J. Jones is tall and spare, with a strong, rugged face
and keen blue eyes. During his sixty-five years of life, he has
roped and tied, often single-handed, every kind of wild animal of
consequence to be found in our western country, and his
experience with these has led him to believe implicitly that man
is the master of all wild beasts.

He has climbed trees after mountain lions, and with a lasso over
a branch has hauled grizzlies up into the air by one hind leg.
And once he set out alone to journey over a country that no white
man had ever traveled before, to reach the land of the musk-ox on
the border of the Arctic Circle. The story is told of how he met
a trapper on the way, and how these two, in the face of the
hostility of all the Indian tribes, the wolves, and the cold of
the northern winter, eventually came to the musk-ox and captured
five calves. Then, deserted by their Indian guide, they started
to return with their prizes, got lost in the wilderness, and
fought the wolves till their cartridges ran out. And when at last
they reached safety and fell asleep, exhausted, the Indians,
obeying the laws of their religion, stole upon them in the night
and killed the calves.

But the success he had achieved with the mountain lions of the
Southwest, the musk-ox of the North, and the grizzly bears of the
Rockies was not enough. For twenty years it had been the one
ambition of his life to take an outfit to British East Africa to
try his hand with the more ferocious big game of that country.
But in his Western experience Colonel Jones had learned something
else besides the mastery of man over beast. Precisely how an
American cowboy was going to hold a rhinoceros that weighed two
tons and a half was purely a matter of speculation. Yet of one
thing the Colonel was certain--the experiment would result in a
moving picture that would be well worth the taking. For this
reason, what afterward came to be known as the "picture
department" was added to the make-up of the expedition.

The preparations extended over a considerable length of time, and
were carried on in various places. Unquestionably, the most
important part of the outfit was the horses. It was absolutely
essential that they should be Western cow-ponies, fast, well
trained, and reliable in every way. The Colonel, who best of all
could foresee the nature of the work they would have to do,
selected them himself, ten in all, from the ranches of New
Mexico, and shipped them to New York. The American dogs to be
used for trailing were likewise chosen by the Colonel. Some of
them belonged to him personally, and had been thoroughly tried
out. The rest had reputations of their own. Of the two cowboys
who were to act as his assistants, Marshall Loveless had worked
with the Colonel before and knew his methods, and Ambrose Means
came highly recommended for skill and daring from one of the
largest ranch owners in the West.

When, at the last moment, the writer of these articles was
introduced to the expedition in the capacity of acting field
manager, the preparations were well under way. The horses and
dogs had been already shipped, en route to Africa, in charge of
the cowboys, and the date of our sailing for London had been
fixed for the following day.

The meeting was held at a luncheon in the Railroad Club, in New
York. There were present Colonel Jones, Mr. F. W. Bird, son of
Charles S. Bird[1] who financed the expedition, Mr. W. G. Sewall,
of the Boma Trading Company, of Nairobi, and myself. After
certain matters of business had been disposed of, the talk at the
luncheon table drifted to the probabilities and possibilities of
success; to lions, rhinos, elands, and cheetahs; to cowboys,
horses, and dogs. But the Colonel would hear of no possibilities,
or even probabilities, of failure. He was  peculiarly insistent
upon this point. And when the hour of the business man's lunch
time came to an end, and the room began to empty, Mr. Sewall said
to me across the corner of the table:

"Of course, every one in Nairobi will think all of you either
fakers or crazy. I know you're no fakers. I don't know whether
you're crazy or not. But there is one thing in your favor: The
Colonel's unshaken belief that the thing can be done will
probably pull it through."

[1] EAST WALPOLE, MASS.,
July 8, 1910.
Mr. GUY H. SCULL.

MY DEAR SCULL
It has been asked by some what the object of the
Buffalo Jones African Expedition was. I will tell you.

You know my friend, Colonel C. J. Jones, broke his rifle a
generation or so ago and vowed he would never again kill game
save for food or in self-defense. Since taking that oath he has
subdued and captured all kinds of wild animals in North America,
including the musk-ox, buffalo, grizzly bear, and cougar.

I discovered that it was his dream to go to East Africa to prove
that with American cowboys, horses, and dogs he could lasso and
capture the savage animals of that country as readily as he has
the wild animals of our country. As a sporting proposition, it
seemed to me unique and fascinating, and so, as a small tribute
to Colonel Jones, I volunteered to finance the expedition.

I somewhat doubt whether there is another man in the world who
has the courage, skill, and determination to do what he has done
in the animal kingdom, and he well deserves to be called "The
Preserver of the American Bison."

I want to acknowledge our indebtedness to Mr. Arthur A. Fowler of
New York for his assistance in helping us outfit the expedition
in London and Nairobi, and to you and the others who have helped
to make the expedition a success.           
                                    Very truly,                  

                                        CHARLES S. BIRD.

On our arrival in London about the middle of January of this
year, the work of preparation was continued at once. Outside of
the minor details of the outfit, such as personal equipment,
saddlery, medicines, bandages, and so forth, the first matter to
receive attention was the organization of the picture department.
Mr. Cherry Kearton was sought to take charge of this branch of
the expedition. Kearton--a powerfully built Yorkshireman--is an
experienced cinematograph photographer and a naturalist of no
small reputation. He had taken moving pictures in Africa before,
and so he knew the climatic conditions there--the heat radiation
and the different intensities of light. He also knew the animals
the Colonel was going to rope. But besides being a cinematograph
expert and a naturalist, he was also a sportsman.

When Kearton learned of the nature of the undertaking, he was
skeptical. He had no more than a slight acquaintance with the
Colonel then, and only a vague, hearsay knowledge of what the
American Cowboy could do. Evidently his mind was divided by the
dictates of common sense and the sporting instinct. On many
occasions during this time, he questioned the feasibility of the
experiment in the light of what he knew of the African beasts.
The agreement, in documentary form, was spread out on the table
in the Boma Trading Company's London office when he finally
wanted to know how in Heaven's name we thought this thing could
be done.

"We'll do it," the Colonel said quietly. That was all.

"Well, there's a picture in it, anyway," said Kearton, and signed
the papers.

With his assistant, David Gobbet, two cinematograph machines and
tripods, hand cameras and developing apparatus, he set sail
immediately for Africa, leaving an order for thirty thousand feet
of film to be divided between two manufacturers and to be
forwarded as soon as possible.

In the meantime, Colonel Jones was hard at work collecting a
rather unusual assortment of articles. The experience of a
life-time enabled him to foresee what kind of materials were
absolutely necessary, and what kind might prove useful on the
present expedition. Naturally, the articles required were not
usually in stock, but the London shopkeeper is proverbially
obliging and imperturbable.

One rainy morning the Colonel walked into a hardware store and
asked to see some handcuffs. A pair was shown him.

"Not large enough," said the Colonel.

"How large would you want them, sir?"

"Twice that size."