Chapter 8

He glanced at his wife again. She was reading her sheet interestedly. He separated the part that contained the city news and was preparing to smuggle it from the room under his coat.

"Here is the account of the dance," she exclaimed, looking up, "and you need not tell me any more--"

"The what!"

"The dance, and I can read all--"

"Did we get two papers this morning?" Tom stammered, feeling cold about the heart.

"No, I have the society sheet, and it tells what everybody wore--Why, what is the matter with you, Tom? You look sick. You are not sick, are you, Tom?" she asked, rising and coming over to him.

"No, no, I am not sick. I am all right. Go on and read the description of the dresses; that will relieve me more than anything else. I'll not have to think it all up."

"Oh, but you look sick."

"I am not; I am--I never was so well. See how strong I am. I can crush that piece of paper up into a very small ball with my bare hands. I am awfully strong."

"Oh, don't do that. There may be something in it that I want to read."

"No, there isn't. There's nothing in it. I read it through. I have an idea. I'll tell you what let's do. Let's burn the paper and I'll tell you what the women wore. These society notes are written beforehand and are not authentic. The only way is to have it from an eye-witness. Let's do it, will you?"

"No, I would rather read it. Aren't you sick, Tom? What makes your brow so damp?"

"It's so hot, it's infernally hot in here."

"I thought it was rather cold. I saw you shiver a moment ago. Tom, you _are_ sick. You must have eaten too much salad last night. You know you can't eat salad."

"I didn't touch any salad. I only ate a frankfurter and drank a high-ball--"

"A frankfurter and a high-ball! Why, what sort of refreshments did they have?"

"I didn't mean that. I meant a canary-bird sandwich and a glass of water."

"I know what it is then, Tom. You inhaled a lot of the smoke."

Tom took a long hard look at his wife. "What!" he almost screamed at last.

"I say you have inhaled too much smoke. You have been smoking too much."

"Oh, that. Yes, I expect I have."

She looked at him with a twinkle in her eye as she sat on the arm of his chair, holding to the back with her hands.

"Tom, I'll bet you are a great hero."

"I'll bet I'm not."

"I'll bet you are, and are too modest to admit it."

"Too modest to admit what?"

"Too modest to admit the heroic things you have done."

"I never did any."

"Yes, you did. I know you saved two or three people's lives at the risk of your own."

"I haven't any medals."

"But you must have done something brave, and that's why you didn't tell me about the explosion."

Tom did not answer. The machinery of his voice would not turn. The power ran through his throat like cogwheels out of gear.

"My dear, sweet, brave, modest husband."

"I--I'm not all of that."

"Yes you are. You were the bravest man there. How many fainting women did you rescue?"

"Oh, not many. I think only five or six."

"Did you inhale much of the flame and smoke?"

"Yes, I think I must have inhaled some, but I did not notice it until now."

"Was the smoke very thick?"

"Awfully thick in places."

"And you walked right into it?"

"I had to. There wasn't any way to ride."

"Ride?"

"I mean I walked into the smoke. I don't know what I am saying. You must be right. I am sick."

"How brave my husband is. How proud I am of him. And not only brave but skilful. How did you manage to go through the smoke and flame and get no odor of smoke on your clothes, nor smut the front of your shirt?"

"I don't know, dear. I did not have time to notice. I was too busy."

"Ah, my hero! I am proud of you. Did you win or lose?"

"Did I what?"

"Did you win or lose?"

Tom took another look into her innocent blue eyes.

"Which?" she repeated.

"Ruth, what have you been doing to me?"

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"Don't I look it?"

A THRENODY

BY GEORGE THOMAS LANIGAN

What, what, what, What's the news from Swat? Sad news, Bad news, Comes by the cable led Through the Indian Ocean's bed, Through the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea and the Med- Iterranean--he's dead; The Ahkoond is dead!

For the Ahkoond I mourn, Who wouldn't? He strove to disregard the message stern, But he Ahkoodn't. Dead, dead, dead; (Sorrow Swats!) Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled, Swats whom he hath often led Onward to a gory bed, Or to victory, As the case might be, Sorrow Swats! Tears shed, Shed tears like water, Your great Ahkoond is dead! That Swats the matter! Mourn, city of Swat! Your great Ahkoond is not, But lain 'mid worms to rot. His mortal part alone, his soul was caught (Because he was a good Ahkoond) Up to the bosom of Mahound. Though earthy walls his frame surround (Forever hallowed be the ground!) And skeptics mock the lowly mound And say, "He's now of no Ahkoond!" His soul is in the skies,-- The azure skies that bend above his loved Metropolis of Swat. He sees with larger, other eyes, Athwart all earthly mysteries-- He knows what's Swat.

Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With a noise of mourning and of lamentation! Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!

Fallen is at length Its tower of strength, Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned; Dead lies the great Ahkoond, The great Ahkoond of Swat Is not!

THE CONSCIENTIOUS CURATE AND THE BEAUTEOUS BALLET GIRL

BY WILLIAM RUSSELL ROSE

Young William was a curate good, Who to himself did say: "I cawn't denounce the stage as vile Until I've seen a play."

He was so con-sci-en-ti-ous That, when the play he sought, To grasp its entire wickedness A front row seat he bought.

_'Twas in the burlesque, you know, the burlesque of "Prince Prettypate, or the Fairy Muffin Ring," and when the ballet came on, that good young curate met his fate. She, too, was in the front row, and--_

She danced like this, she danced like that, Her feet seemed everywhere; They scarcely touched the floor at all But twinkled in the air.

She _entrechat_, her fairy _pas_ Filled William with delight; She whirled around, his heart did bound-- 'Twas true love at first sight.

He sought her out and married her; Of course, she left the stage, And in his daily parish work With William did engage.

She helped him in his parish school, Where ragged urchins go, And all the places on the map She'd point out with her toe.

_And when William gently remonstrated with her, she only said: "William, when I married you I gave you my hand--my feet are still my own."_

She'd point like this, she'd point like that, The scholars she'd entrance-- "This, children, is America; And this, you see, is France.

"A highland here, an island there, 'Round which the waters roll; And this is Pa-ta-go-ni-ah, And this is the frozen Pole."

Young William's bishop called one day, But found the curate out, And so he told the curate's wife What he had come about

"Your merit William oft to me Most highly doth extol; I trust, my dear, you always try To elevate the soul."

_Then William's wife made the bishop a neat little curtsey, and gently said: "Oh, yes, your Grace, I always do--in my own peculiar way."_

She danced like this, she danced like that, The bishop looked aghast; He could not see her mazy skirts, They switched around so fast.

She tripped it here, she skipped it there, The bishop's eyes did roll-- "God bless me! 'tis a pleasant way To elevate the sole!"

THE HOSS

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

The hoss he is a splendud beast; He is man's friend, as heaven desined, And, search the world from west to east, No honester you'll ever find!

Some calls the hoss "a pore dumb brute," And yit, like Him who died fer you, I say, as I theyr charge refute, "'Fergive; they know not what they do!'"

No wiser animal makes tracks Upon these earthly shores, and hence Arose the axium, true as facts, Extoled by all, as "Good hoss-sense!"

The hoss is strong, and knows his stren'th,-- You hitch him up a time er two And lash him, and he'll go his len'th And kick the dashboard out fer you!

But, treat him allus good and kind, And never strike him with a stick, Ner aggervate him, and you'll find He'll never do a hostile trick.

A hoss whose master tends him right And worters him with daily care, Will do your biddin' with delight, And act as docile as _you_ air.

He'll paw and prance to hear your praise, Because he's learn't to love you well; And, though you can't tell what he says, He'll nicker all he wants to tell.

He knows you when you slam the gate At early dawn, upon your way Unto the barn, and snorts elate, To git his corn, er oats, er hay.

He knows you, as the orphant knows The folks that loves her like theyr own, And raises her and "finds" her clothes, And "schools" her tel a womern-grown!

I claim no hoss will harm a man, Ner kick, ner run away, cavort, Stump-suck, er balk, er "catamaran," Ef you'll jest treat him as you ort.

But when I see the beast abused, And clubbed around as I've saw some, I want to see his owner noosed, And jest yanked up like Absolum!

Of course they's differunce in stock,-- A hoss that has a little yeer, And slender build, and shaller hock, Can beat his shadder, mighty near!

Whilse one that's thick in neck and chist And big in leg and full in flank, That tries to race, I still insist He'll have to take the second rank.

And I have jest laid back and laughed, And rolled and wallered in the grass At fairs, to see some heavy-draft Lead out at _first_, yit come in _last_!

Each hoss has his appinted place,-- The heavy hoss should plow the soil;-- The blooded racer, he must race, And win big wages fer his toil.

I never bet--ner never wrought Upon my feller-man to bet-- And yit, at times, I've often thought Of my convictions with regret.

I bless the hoss from hoof to head-- From head to hoof, and tale to mane!-- I bless the hoss, as I have said, From head to hoof, and back again!

I love my God the first of all, Then Him that perished on the cross, And next, my wife,--and then I fall Down on my knees and love the hoss.

WHEN DOCTORS DISAGREE

BY S. E. KISER

He looked at my tongue and he shook his head-- This was Doctor Smart-- He thumped on my chest, and then he said: "Ah, there it is! Your heart! You mustn't run--you mustn't hurry! You mustn't work--you mustn't worry! Just sit down and take it cool; You may live for years, I can not say; But, in the meantime, make it a rule To take this medicine twice a day!"

He looked at my tongue, and he shook his head-- This was Doctor Wise-- "Your liver's a total wreck," he said, "You must take more exercise! You mustn't eat sweets. You mustn't eat meats, You must walk and leap, you must also run; You mustn't sit down in the dull old way; Get out with the boys and have some fun-- And take three doses of this a day!"

He looked at my tongue, and he shook his head-- This was Doctor Bright-- "I'm afraid your lungs are gone," he said, "And your kidney isn't right. A change of scene is what you need, Your case is desperate, indeed, And bread is a thing you mustn't eat-- Too much starch--but, by the way, You must henceforth live on only meat-- And take six doses of this a day!"

Perhaps they were right, and perhaps they knew, It isn't for me to say; Mayhap I erred when I madly threw Their bitter stuff away; But I'm living yet and I'm on my feet, And grass isn't all I dare to eat, And I walk and I run and I worry, too, But, to save my life, I can not see What some of the able doctors would do If there were no fools like you and me.

THE BOAT THAT AIN'T[4]

BY WALLACE IRWIN

A stout, fat boat for gailin' And a long, slim boat for squall; But there isn't no fun in sailin' When you haven't no boat at all.

For what is the use o' calkin' A tub with a mustard pot-- And what is the use o' talkin' Of a boat that you haven't got?

FOOTNOTES:

[4] From "Nautical Lays of a Landsman," by Wallace Irwin. Copyright, 1904, by Dodd, Mead & Co.

HOW JIMABOY FOUND HIMSELF

BY FRANCIS LYNDE

When Jimaboy began to live by his wits--otherwise, when he set up author and proposed to write for bread and meat--it was a time when the public appetite demanded names and _naïveté_. And since Jimaboy was fresh enough to satisfy both of these requirements, the editors looked with favor upon him, and his income, for a little while, exceeded the modest figure of the railroad clerkship upon which he had ventured to ask Isobel to marry him.

But afterward there came a time of dearth; a period in which the new name was no longer a thing to conjure with, and artlessness was a drug on the market. Cleverness was the name of the new requirement, and Jimaboy's gift was glaringly sentimental. When you open your magazine at "The Contusions of Peggy, by James Augustus Jimaboy," you are justly indignant when you find melodrama and predetermined pathos instead of the clever clowneries which the sheer absurdity of the author's signature predicts.

"Item," said Jimaboy, jotting it down in his notebook while Isobel hung over the back of his chair: "It's a perilous thing to make people cry when they are out for amusement. Did the postman remember us this morning?"

Isobel nodded mournfully.

"And the crop?" said Jimaboy.

"Three manuscripts; two from New York and one from Boston."

"'So flee the works of men Back to the earth again,'"

quoted the sentimentalist, smiling from the teeth outward. "Is that all?"

"All you would care about. There were some fussy old bills."

"Whose, for instance?"

"Oh, the grocer's and the coal man's and the butcher's and the water company's, and some other little ones."

"'Some other little ones'," mused Jimaboy. "There's pathos for you. If I could ever get that into a story, with your intonation, it would be cheap at fifteen cents the word. We're up against it, Bella, dear."

"Well?" she said, with an arm around his neck.

"It isn't well; it's confoundedly ill. It begins to look as if it were 'back to the farm' for us."

She came around to sit on the arm of the chair.

"To the railroad office? Never! Jimmy, love. You are too good for that."

"Am I? That remains to be proved. And just at present the evidence is accumulating by the ream on the other side--reams of rejected MS."

"You haven't found yourself yet; that is all."

He forced a smile. "Let's offer a reward. 'Lost: the key to James and Isobel Jimaboy's success in life. Finder will be suitably recompensed on returning same to 506 Hayward Avenue, Cleland, Ohio.'"

She leaned over and planted a soft little kiss on the exact spot on his forehead where it would do the most good.

"I could take the city examination and teach, if you'd let me, Jimmy."

He shook his head definitely. That was ground which had been gone over before.

"Teach little babies their a b c's? I'm afraid that isn't your specialty, heart of mine. Now if you could teach other women the art of making a man believe that he has cornered the entire visible supply of ecstatic thrills in marrying the woman of his choice--by Jove, now! there's an idea!"

Now Jimaboy had no idea in particular; he never had an idea that he did not immediately coin it into words and try to sell it. But Isobel's eyes were suspiciously bright, and the situation had to be saved.

"I was just thinking: the thing to do successfully is the--er--the thing you do best, isn't it?"

She laughed, in spite of the unpaid bills.

"Why can't you put clever things like that into your stories, Jimmy, dear?"

"As if I didn't!" he retorted. "But don't step on my idea and squash it while it's in the soft-shell-crab stage. As I said, I was thinking: there is just one thing we can give the world odds on and beat it out of sight. And that thing is our long suit--our specialty."

"But you said you had an idea," said Isobel, whose private specialty was singleness of purpose.

"Oh--yes," said Jimaboy. Then he smote hard upon the anvil and forged one on the spur of the moment. "Suppose we call it The Post-Graduate School of W. B., Professor James Augustus Jimaboy, principal; Mrs. Isobel Jimaboy, assistant principal. How would that sound?"

"It would sound like the steam siren on the planing mill. But what is the 'W. B.'?"

"'Wedded Bliss,' of course. Here is the way it figures out. We've been married three years, and--"

"Three years, five months and fourteen days," she corrected.

"Excellent! That accuracy of yours would be worth a fortune on the faculty. But let me finish--during these three years, five months and fourteen days we have fought, bled and died on the literary battle-field; dined on bath-mitts and _café hydraulique_, walked past the opera-house entrance when our favorite play was on, and all that. But tell me, throb of my heart, have we ever gone shy on bliss?"

She met him half-way. It was the spirit in which they had faced the bill collector since the beginning of the period of leanness.

"Never, Jimmy, dear; not even hardly ever."

"There you are, then. Remains only for us to tell others how to do it; to found the Post-Graduate School of W. B. It's the one thing needful in a world of educational advantage; a world in which everything but the gentle art of being happy, though married, is taught by the postman. We have solved all the other problems, but there has been no renaissance in the art of matrimony. Think of the ten thousand divorces granted in a single state last year! My dear Isobel, we mustn't lose a day--an hour--a minute!"

She pretended to take him seriously.

"I don't know why we shouldn't do it, I'm sure," she mused. "They teach everything by mail nowadays. But who is going to die and leave us the endowment to start with?"

"That's the artistic beauty of the mail scheme," said Jimaboy, enthusiastically. "It doesn't require capitalizing; no buildings, no campus, no football team, no expensive university plant; nothing but an inspiration, a serviceable typewriter, and a little old postman to blow his whistle at the door."

"And the specialty," added Isobel, "though some of them don't seem to trouble themselves much about that. Oh, yes; and the advertising; that is where the endowment comes in, isn't it?"

But Jimaboy would not admit the obstacle.

"That is one of the things that grow by what they are fed upon: your ad. brings in the money, and then the money buys more ad. Now, there's Blicker, of the _Woman's Uplift_; he still owes us for that last story--we take it out in advertising space. Also Dormus, of the _Home World_, and Amory, of the _Storylovers_--same boat--more advertising space. Then the _Times_ hasn't paid for that string of space-fillers on 'The Lovers of All Nations.' The _Times_ has a job office, and we could take that out in prospectuses and application blanks."

By this time the situation was entirely saved and Isobel's eyes were dancing.

"Wouldn't it be glorious?" she murmured. "Think of the precious, precious letters we'd get; real letters like some of those pretended ones in Mr. Blicker's correspondence column. And we wouldn't tell them what the 'W. B.' meant until after they'd finished the course, and then we'd send them the degree of 'Master of Wedded Bliss,' and write it out in the diploma."

Jimaboy sat back in his chair and laughed uproariously. The most confirmed sentimentalist may have a saving sense of humor. Indeed, it is likely to go hard with him in the experimental years, if he has it not.

"It's perfectly feasible--perfectly," he chuckled. "It would be merely pounding sand into the traditional rat-hole with all the implements furnished--teaching our specialty to a world yearning to know how. You could get up the lectures and question schedules for the men, and I could make some sort of a shift with the women."

"Yes; but the text-books. Don't these 'Fit-yourself-at-Home' schools have text-books?"

"Um, y-yes; I suppose they do. That would be a little difficult for us--just at the go-off. But we could get around that. For example, 'Dear Mrs. Blank: Replying to your application for membership in the Post-Graduate School of W. B., would say that your case is so peculiar'--that would flatter her immensely--'your case is so peculiar that the ordinary text-books cover it very inadequately. Therefore, with your approval, and for a small additional tuition fee of $2 the term, we shall place you in a special class to be instructed by electrographed lectures dictated personally by the principal.'"

Isobel clapped her hands. "Jimmy, love, you are simply great, when you are not trying to be. And, after a while, we could print the lectures and have our own text-books copyrighted. But don't you think we ought to take in the young people, as well?--have a--a collegiate department for beginners?"

"'Sh!" said Jimaboy, and he got up and closed the door with ostentatious caution. "Suppose somebody--Lantermann, for instance--should hear you say such things as that: 'take in the young people'! Shades of the Rosicrucians! we wouldn't 'take in' anybody. The very life of these mail things is the unshaken confidence of the people. But, as you suggest, we really ought to include the frying size."

It was delicious fooling, and Isobel found a sketch-block and dipped her pen.

"You do the letter-press for the 'collegiate' ad., and I'll make a picture for it," she said. "Hurry, or I'll beat you."

Jimaboy laughed and squared himself at the desk, and the race began. Isobel had a small gift and a large ambition: the gift was a cartoonist's facility in line drawing, and the ambition was to be able, in the dim and distant future, to illustrate Jimaboy's stories. Lantermann, the _Times_ artist, whose rooms were just across the hall, had given her a few lessons in caricature and some little gruff, Teutonic encouragement.

"Time!" she called, tossing the sketch-block over to Jimaboy. It was a happy thought. On a modern davenport sat two young people, far apart; the youth twiddling his thumbs in an ecstasy of embarrassment; the maiden making rabbit's ears with her handkerchief. Jimaboy's note of appreciation was a guffaw.

"I couldn't rise to the expression on those faces in a hundred years!" he lamented. "Hear me creak:"

DON'T MARRY

until you have taken the Preparatory Course in the Post-Graduate School of W. B. Home-Study in the Science of Successful Heart-Throbs. Why earn only ten kisses a week when one hour a day will qualify you for the highest positions? Our Collegiate Department confers degree of B. B.; Post-Graduate Department that of M. W. B. Members of Faculty all certificated Post-Graduates.

A postal card brings Prospectus and application blank.

Address: The Post-Graduate School of W. B., 506 Hayward Avenue, Cleland, Ohio.

Isobel applauded loyally. "Why, that doesn't creak a little bit! Try it again; for the unhappy T. M.'s, this time. Ready? Play!"

Her picture was done while Jimaboy was still nibbling his pen and scowling over the scratch-pad. It was a drawing-room interior, with the wife in tears and the husband struggling into his overcoat. To them, running, an animated United States mail-bag, extending a huge envelope marked: "From the Post-Graduate School of W. B."

Jimaboy scratched out and rewrote, with the pen-drawing for an inspiration:

HEARTS DIVIDED BECOME HEARTS UNITED