CHAPTER V

While this banter had been passing among the company in the great oak library below, Miss Mettleby lay on her little white bed where she had flung herself in a deeper and sterner mood than had ever been hers before. One after another possible explanation of her great knight’s terrible words presented itself to her mind, only to be rejected.

For one quivering moment the thought that if the woman who passed for Mrs. Fair were not, as he had said, his wife, he was free to—but, no, for that meant that Maxwell Fair was a scoundrel who could not only place a woman in such a nameless position but also desert her when she had borne children to him. It was a frightful view from any point—and yet, at the bottom of her heart she felt that the man who had obtained such a mastery over her soul was not, could not be, so base.

Racked by this futile effort to see light through the darkness Miss Mettleby started as she heard a tap at her door and the quiet, earnest voice of Mrs. Fair asking if she might come in. Her first impulse was to take this strong, sweet woman, so terribly her fellow-sufferer, into her confidence, but before she had called out to her to enter all such mad ideas had flown. Trying to banish all evidence of her recent tempest of feeling, the governess respectfully begged her mistress to come in.

It was nothing, Mrs. Fair said, with a great show of forced pleasantry, but a little surprise for Mr. Fair—a parcel. Would Miss Mettleby hide it while they were at dinner, and tell her where she had put it after? Both women assured each other that they had not been crying—just a headache. And, yes, Miss Mettleby would find a hiding-place for the surprise.

So Mrs. Fair went down to greet her guests, and when she had heard the company go from the library to dinner, Miss Mettleby ran down to that deserted room with the big, brown-paper parcel in her hands. She had at once thought of the old Italian chest as the very place in which to hide Mr. Fair’s surprise. She peeped into the library to make sure that her ears had not deceived her. The room was empty, and the girl crept in.

Fearing that some of the footmen or other servants might enter, she took the precaution to draw the portières across the door into the passage and then hurriedly removed the books and other things that Mr. Fair had placed upon the chest. This done, she was just going to lift the lid, when she heard a peculiar hissing noise which would have startled her at any time and which, with her nerves keyed up, now filled her with genuine terror. She turned from the chest and listened.

(_To be continued in the April number._)

_A Trust-Buster_

COBWIGGER—By the way, my dear, I haven’t seen anything of the gas bill this month.

MRS. COBWIGGER—Oh, Henry, it came over a week ago, but it was so much I didn’t dare show it to you for fear you would blame me for being extravagant. Here it is.

COBWIGGER (_looking at bill_)—Hoppity-hornets! What a bill for a small family! I don’t blame you at all, my dear. It isn’t your fault; it’s this grasping corporation. But I’ll get ahead of them all right.

MRS. COBWIGGER—How can you?

COBWIGGER—Pshaw! It’s just like a woman to ask such a foolish question. How am I going to get ahead of this monopoly? Why, tell the old gas company to take out its meter.

MRS. COBWIGGER—And then what will you do?

COBWIGGER—Why, put in lamps and patronize the Standard Oil Company.

_Kernels_

Many a politician who talks about an honest dollar never earned an honest penny.

If there wasn’t a sucker born every minute a lot of people in this world would have to work for a living.

The cost of keeping up appearances is usually defrayed with other people’s money.

The man whose mind moves like clockwork isn’t the fellow who has wheels in his head.

Many a politician would be a statesman if there were more money in it.

The thought of work makes some people more tired than if they had really done the work.

The man who thinks that his money will do almost everything for him is the one who did almost everything for his money.

Marriage is the only union that doesn’t make a man keep regular hours.

_A Positive Proof_

“Are you sure that Percy really loves you?”

“Positive. Why, at the dinner last night he offered to divide his last dyspepsia tablet with me.”

_The Butcheries of Peace_

BY W. J. GHENT

_Author of “Our Benevolent Feudalism,” “Mass and Class”_

We hear much of the butchery of war. Mr. Edward Atkinson and his fellow-anti-militarists are always opulent with statistics of casualties in armed conflicts; and in their violent denunciation of warfare are eagerly joined by the various peace societies, the Women’s Christian Temperance unions and such militant, though ephemeral, bodies as the Parker Constitutional Clubs. A prominent educator has characterized the Civil War as the Great Killing, and the popular imagination has been led to look upon it as a carnival of almost unexampled bloodshed. The militarism of gun and sword is denounced as though it were the greatest scourge of the race, and its horrors are pictured in the most lurid colors.

The horrors of _industrial_ militarism, on the other hand, claim but scant attention. Under our present civilization, dominated by the ethics of the trading class, they are, by the overwhelming mass of the people, taken as a matter of course. And yet the fiercest and bloodiest of modern wars—excepting alone the present Russo-Japanese conflict—result in smaller losses in deaths, maimings and the infliction of mortal diseases than are caused by the ordinary processes of the capitalist system of industry. A modern Milton might appropriately remind us that

Peace hath her butcheries no less renowned than war.

If the Civil War is to be regarded as the Great Killing, it must be so regarded only in relation to other wars; for in comparison with capitalist industry as it obtains in the United States of America in this decade, the Civil War can only rightly be regarded as the Lesser Killing. It lasted, moreover, for but four years; while the killings and other casualties of our industrial militarism go on year after year in an ever-increasing volume. And as the Civil War eliminated the physically best of the race, so does the present system of industry eliminate the physically best. Only it does not stop there, but takes also the helpless and the weak.

Let us see what comparisons of casualties can be made. According to the figures in the Adjutant-General’s office, the fatalities in the Northern Army during the four years of the Civil War (exclusive of deaths from disease) were as follows:

Killed in battle 67,058 Died of wounds 43,012 Other causes 40,154 ------- Total 150,224 Yearly average 37,556

There were also 199,720 soldiers who died of disease. There are no means of comparing the number of these fatalities with the fatalities from disease contracted in dangerous and unsanitary occupations. It is probable that they do not approximate one-tenth of the latter. But, since there are no available figures for comparison, they must be omitted from present consideration.

The losses of the Confederates will never be known. The records of their armies were but imperfectly kept, and such as were properly made were in many instances lost or destroyed. Even the strength of the Confederate armies is a matter about which there has been an unceasing dispute between Northern and Southern historians since the Civil War. It is not to be doubted that the Confederates suffered a greater mortality relative to their numerical strength than did the Federals, for they were employed to the last available man on the firing line, whereas hundreds of thousands of Federals, held as reserves or stationed as guards, rarely saw the action of battle. In certain engagements, moreover, such as the battle of Chickamauga, the Confederate losses far exceeded the Federal losses. Assuming the purely arbitrary figure of 65 per cent. of the Federal fatalities as representing the fatalities of the Confederates (exclusive of deaths from disease), we have a total of 97,645, or a yearly average of 24,411. Adding the figures for both sides we have an annual average of 62,112 fatalities occurring in a struggle to the death, wherein every device, every energy which men can employ against one another for the destruction of life were employed.

When we come to the statistics of industrial fatalities, we find something like the records of the Confederate armies. The figures are notoriously, confessedly incomplete, and often so much so as to be entirely misleading. Even the tables of railroad accidents compiled by the Interstate Commerce Commission are known to show totals far below the actual casualties. A writer in the New York _Herald_ for December 4, 1904, has analyzed some of these tables and pointed out their defects. But, defective as they are, they furnish an approximate basis for comparisons with some of the sanguinary conflicts of the Civil War. The killings on interstate roads for the year ended June 30, 1904, are reported at 9,984; the woundings at 78,247. The State roads probably added about 975 killings and 7,500 woundings. To these may be added the casualties on the trolley lines, approximately 1,340 killed and 52,169 wounded. We have thus a basis for comparison with the losses at Gettysburg, Chancellorsville and Chickamauga:

_Losses in Three Battles (both sides), 1863_

Killed Wounded Gettysburg 5,662 27,203 Chickamauga 3,924 23,362 Chancellorsville 3,271 18,843 ------ ------ 12,857 69,408

_Losses in Railroad Accidents, 1904_

Killed Wounded Interstate roads 9,984 78,247 State roads *975 7,500 Trolley lines *1,340 52,169 ------ ------- 12,299 137,916 *Estimated.

The factories probably destroy more lives than do the railroads. But the figures are not obtainable. The statistics of factory casualties given in Bulletin No. 83 of the Census Bureau are ridiculous. Were the factories placed under a Federal supervision law, and were their owners compelled to report accidents to the authorities, a vastly different condition would be revealed. For the coal mines, on the other hand, we have something like authentic figures. The United States Geological Survey reports the casualties in mining coal for the year 1901 as 1,467 killed and 3,643 wounded. Except for the low ratio of wounded to killed, this would make a fair comparison with any one of a number of important engagements during the Civil War. Pennsylvania alone furnished an industrial Bull Run.

_Battle of Bull Run, 1861_

Killed Wounded Federals 470 1,071 Confederates 387 1,582 ---- ----- Total 857 2,653

_Pennsylvania Coal Mines, 1901_

Killed Wounded Anthracite 513 1,243 Bituminous 301 656 ---- ----- Total 814 1,899

When we pass from the record of particular industries to the general casualty record we are met by a mass of unintelligible figures. Bulletin No. 83 gives the rate of fatal accidents in the cities wherein registration is required as 100.3 in each 100,000 of population. For the whole registration record the rate is 96.3. On a basis of 80,000,000 population this would mean a yearly loss of from 77,040 to 80,240 lives. Mr. Frederick L. Hoffman, of the Prudential Insurance Company, in a letter printed in Mr. Robert Hunter’s recent volume, “Poverty,” estimates the rate as between 80 and 85 per 100,000. This would mean from 64,000 to 68,000 killings. “If we say that twenty-five are injured to every one killed, and consider ... the fatal accident rate to be 80 in every 100,000, we have it that 1,664,000 persons are annually killed or more or less seriously injured in the United States. If all minor accidents were taken into consideration, it is probable that the ratio of non-fatal accidents to fatal accidents would be nearly 100 to 1.” This would mean approximately 4,800,000 minor woundings every year.

We cannot separate, on the basis of present figures, the fatal accidents which would be inevitable under any form of society and those which are consequent upon the present capitalist system of production, with its brutal indifference to life. We can only estimate. We have, for instance, in the census reports, an entry of “burns and scalds,” but nothing about boiler explosions; we have a certain number of deaths from drowning, but we are not told whether they occurred in frightful disasters like mine floods or the destruction of a _General Slocum_—for which capitalist industry is solely responsible—or in accidents wherein the individual’s whim or caprice alone was responsible. And finally we have an appalling record of suicides; but in how many of these business troubles or other economic causes were the impelling motives for self-destruction we cannot tell.

What we do know is that the overwhelming number of the fatalities that all of us learn of, instance by instance, are due to economic causes; that railroad, factory and mining accidents are for the most part needless, and due almost entirely to the brutal indifference of capital to the lives of the workers, and that far the greater number of suicides of which we read or hear are of beings who have been sent to death through economic troubles. Under the benign reign of capitalist industry we have a yearly list of fatalities somewhere between 64,000 and 80,240 and of serious maimings of 1,600,000, whereas two great armies, employing all the enginery of warfare, could succeed in slaughtering only 62,112 human beings yearly.

It is time we heard less of the butchery of war; time we heard more of the butchery of peace. And yet it is doubtful if we shall hear a different strain from those now most prominently before the public as advocates of peace. The advocacy of peace, in so far as it emanates from the retainers and other beneficiaries of the capitalist class, is based not so much upon humanitarian grounds as upon the ground that the worker is serving a more useful purpose when mangled in the Holy War of Trade than when slaughtered in armed conflict. It is the waste of profits on human labor, rather than the waste of life, that most deeply affects them. They are not always conscious of this, because they instinctively identify their moral notions with the material interests of the class they serve. But an unconscious or subconscious motive may be the most powerful of impulses to speech and action. And thus there is every reason to believe that we shall continue to hear the horrors of war most loudly denounced by the very ones who keep most silent regarding the horrors of industrial “peace.”

* * * * *

It is curious how fond men grow of each other when they are making money together.

_Remembered_

BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX

His art was loving. Eros set his sign Upon that youthful forehead, and he drew The hearts of women, as the sun draws dew. Love feeds love’s thirst as wine feeds love of wine. Nor is there any potion from the vine Which makes men drunken, like the subtle brew, Of kisses crushed by kisses; and he grew Inebriated with that draught divine.

Yet in his sober moments, when the sun Of radiant summer paled to lonely fall And passion’s sea had grown an ebbing tide, From out the many Memory singled one Full cup that seemed the sweetest of them all— The warm, red mouth that mocked him and denied!

_Martyrdom_

BY LEONARD CHARLES VAN NOPPEN

The world cries loud for blood; for never grew One saving truth that blossomed, man to bless, That withered not in barren loneliness Till watered by the sacrificial dew. Behold the prophets stoned—the while they blew A warning blast—the sad immortal guess Of Socrates—the thorn-crowned lowliness Of Christ! And that black cross our Lincoln knew! ’Tis only through the whirlwind and the storm That man can ever reach his starry goal; Someone must bleed or else the world will die. Upon the flaring altar of reform Some heart lies quivering ever. To what soul That dares be true, comes not the martyr’s agony?

_The Debt_

BORROWBY—By Jove, old man! I owe you an everlasting debt of gratitude!

GRIMSHAW—No, you don’t, Borrowby! You owe me fifty dollars in money.

_The Heroism of Admiral Guldberg_

THE MOST AMAZING NAVAL BATTLE EVER FOUGHT

BY ROBERT BARR

We must not allow the thunder of the guns around Port Arthur to deaden our ears to accounts of heroism in the past. Other admirals have attacked fortified strongholds before Togo was heard of. Other admirals have striven for the command of the sea before Alexieff blundered into a war for which he was not ready. I record the capable strenuousness of Admiral Guldberg, who strove to defend a country not his own, and did the best he could with the materials provided him.

Ajax defied the lightning, and Guldberg defied the French, possessors of the second most powerful navy afloat. Therefore three cheers for old Guldberg and more power to his elbow.

A dozen years ago, when Siam resolved to take its place among the great nations of the earth, that country imported from Europe certain men who were supposed to know how to do things. An Englishman from Oxford endeavored to evolve a school system; a German from Krupp’s establishment was made head of the Royal railway department, although there were no railways at that time in the country to look after; still, as there was no education either, he started fair with the Englishman. Another German looked after telegraphs, and he also had a clean slate to begin on. The reconstruction of the army and navy was intrusted to the care of a pair of Danes, notable fighters of yore and master mariners, as all the world knows. Commodore de Richelieu had been a Danish officer, and it would have astonished the cardinal of that name to have seen him fighting against the French. De Richelieu had charge of the forts, and the training of the men to defend them. Admiral Guldberg commanded the fleet, and endeavored with indifferent success to teach the Siamese something about navigation.

In 1893, while these useful Danes were endeavoring to put some backbone into Siamese incompetency, the diplomatic services of France and Siam began sending picture post-cards to each other. Diplomacy is invariably polite, but when it takes a hand in the game, prepare for squalls. Although I have the Blue-books before me relating to this tragic occurrence, I am quite unable to determine the rights of the case. Probably France and Siam were both in the wrong, but be that as it may, France persisted in her intention, little dreaming that right round the bend of the river Admiral Guldberg was waiting for her. The rights and wrongs in these affairs depend a great deal on the power of the other party.

I imagine if France wished to send two gunboats up the Hudson River, and the President of the United States ordered the war vessels to proceed no further than New York Bay, France might perhaps have considered herself in the wrong, and the war vessels would not have proceeded; but as the other party in the case under consideration was merely the helpless kingdom of Siam, it is a historical fact that the two members of the French fleet, _Inconstant_ and _Comète_, crossed the Rubicon; in other words, the bar—and entered the River Me-nam against the current and the wishes of His Majesty of Siam; and this took place on that unlucky day, the thirteenth of July, 1893.

Paknam was the Port Arthur in this instance. It lies three miles from the mouth of the river and thirty miles by water south of the capital, Bangkok, although on the opposite bank of the stream a railway sixteen miles in length runs into the capital. At Paknam everything was prepared for a desperate resistance. The forts were well manned and the cannon were loaded. Commodore de Richelieu was in command, glad that diplomacy had broken down, as it usually does, and that now military renown was to be his. The Siamese soldiers have one defect: they believe in the couplet that “he who fights and runs away will live to fight another day.” Indeed, they better the lines, and run away before even showing fight. Thus, in all the wars Siam has engaged in she has never lost a man, just as if she were the Cunard line of steamers.

When the Siamese soldiers realized that their gallant Commodore was actually going to fire off the guns, they unanimously got over the garden wall with a celerity that amazed the man from Denmark. Nothing daunted, the resolute de Richelieu held the fort, and himself fired off the guns one after another. When this cannonade had been accomplished he was helpless, for he could not reload without assistance, so he got himself into a steam launch, sailed across the river and took train to Bangkok.

Authorities differ as to the result of the Commodore’s cannon fire. One says that several Frenchmen were killed and wounded, another that no harm was done. So far as I am aware the French gunboat made no reply, but steamed majestically up the river, while their enemy was steaming with equal majesty on a special engine over the rocky road to Bangkok.

While the French fleet was proceeding toward a peril of which they had not the slightest suspicion, we have time to consider the equipment of Admiral Guldberg, who will not be so easily got rid of as his countryman, the Commodore.

Three years before there had been built at Hong Kong a steam yacht for His Excellency the Governor of the Philippines, which at that time was under Spanish rule. When the yacht was finished the Governor of course wanted it, but wished to pay on the instalment plan, whereas the builders said they were not engaged in the three years’ hire system business, and having some acquaintance with Spanish financial arrangements, they declined to deliver the goods except on a basis of cash down. Such a hard money determination was enough to knock the bottom out of any negotiation with a Spanish official, so the Governor folded his toga proudly about him, and in the purest Castilian practically repeated the words of the old song to the effect that the yacht might go to Hong Kong for him, which it did not need to do, being there already. So in Hong Kong it remained, until in ’91 an emissary of the Siamese Government bought it, and took it round to Bangkok.

The Siamese armed this terrific vessel with old muzzle-loading cannons that had hitherto occupied the position of corner posts of various compounds about the capital. The boat had been intended for pleasure and not for war, so there were no portholes for the muzzles of the guns. This difficulty was got over by building a low deck-house the length of the vessel, and placing the cannon athwart this structure, one pointing to port, another to starboard, another to port, another to starboard, and so on, the ordnance being chained down, or roped or tied with string, so that it would not cause the yacht to tumble a somersault when fired. The arrangement had the advantage of economy, as no gun-carriages were needed, and as the cannon could be loaded from the deck. But there was also the drawback, which perhaps would have been felt more in any other navy than that of Siam, which consisted of the fact that you could not aim the cannon at anything in particular. Still, a gunner might have much enjoyment in shooting at the landscape in general. A British naval officer of large experience stated solemnly that he never understood the horrors of warfare until he saw this vessel. The arrangement of the cannon made the craft somewhat top-heavy, and so the authorities wisely ordained that she was never to put to sea where the waves might upset the apple cart.

As if the cannon were not enough, her name was one likely to strike terror into the heart of the stoutest enemy. She was called the _Makut Rajakumar_, and she was listed in the naval annals of Siam as a small cruiser. This sea-dog of war was the flagship of Admiral Guldberg, commanded and captained by the Dane himself, with a full crew of twenty-seven fighting Siamese, not to mention two engineers and four stokers.

The French pretend that two vessels opposed the coming of their two warships, and while this is technically true, it is not actually so, and as the statement tends to detract from the undoubted bravery of Admiral Guldberg, it may as well be stated that the second vessel was a small steam scow which carried only one gun, whose muzzle projected overboard where the bowsprit is on a sailing vessel, and because the gun was stationary there, chained there as were those on the _Makut Rajakumar_, it could be loaded only when the scow was moored to a wharf. This barge was commanded by Captain Schmieglow. His crew deserted him in a body before she left the wharf, and as the good Captain did not understand the engine he contented himself with firing the cannon down the river, which concussion so dislocated the machinery that the scow ran her nozzle agin’ the bank of the opposite shore, and there the Captain was helpless. So his Admiral had to fight the battle alone.

Again French historians maintain that their warships never fired a shot at the floating lunatic asylum which assailed them, and it is also stated that the Admiral’s cannon balls never touched them. That may all be true enough, but it in no way interferes with my assertion that Admiral Guldberg did the very best he could with the material in hand, and that he put up one of the finest fights ever recorded in the history of the sea.

And now we come to the battle, and as the French had a certain hand in it, the stirring lines of French Canada’s poet, Dr. Drummond, may fittingly be quoted to open the strife.

One dark night on Lake St. Pierre, The wind she blow, blow, blow; And the crew of the wood scow _Julia Plante_ Got scared and ran below.

The unfortunate occurrence which ultimately wrecked the _Julia Plante_ happened also on board the _Makut Rajakumar_. The moment the French war vessels appeared the entire crew of the Siamese cruiser dived below, bewailing their lot, and leaving Admiral Guldberg alone on deck. The helmsman deserted the wheel, and the engineer his engine. The French fleet was still some distance to the southward, so the Admiral rushed after his craven crew, and kicked most of them aloft again, wild Danish oaths from his lips keeping time to the energetic swaying of his foot, commanding them to stand by the guns. It was no use; with a yell of terror they again descended, falling over each other down into the hold. The Admiral ran to the wheel, swerved his vessel; then let go the spokes, seized a lighted torch, and fired the port side cannons one after another. Back he dashed to the wheel again, turned his boat up the river, for the Frenchmen were now passing him, fled again to the unfired guns and gave the French the second broadside.

Now, to his horror, he saw that the French ships, better engined than his own, were leaving him without firing a shot, and from the prow he shook his fist at them, daring them to stand up to him, but neither the mouth of man nor the mouth of cannon made answer.

Flinging his cocked hat to the deck, and tossing his laced coat on top of it, rolling up his sleeves and seizing the rammer, he swabbed out the old cannon, and reloaded, while the decrepit engine, unattended, jogged away up the river after the rapidly disappearing French warships. That task accomplished, he cast his eye ahead and saw the river was clear, so sprang down into the stokehold, and sent a few shovelfuls of coal under the boiler, then came on deck again wiping his perspiring brow. By this time the French boats were quite out of gunshot, and the only consolation left for the courageous Dane was that at least he was chasing them.

At this most inopportune moment there arose a galling and Gallic laugh from a coasting schooner lying at anchor in the river. It is never advisable to laugh at an exasperated man, as these hilarious mariners were soon to learn. Slow as the _Makut_ was she could certainly outstrip a small French coasting vessel at anchor. The angry Admiral turned his red face toward the Sound, and saw before him the _J. B. Say_, a French trading craft, tauntingly flying the tricolor at the masthead. The infuriated Admiral remembered that his adopted country was at war with this hated emblem, so he roared across the muddy waters:

“Haul down that flag and surrender!”

The crew replied with the French equivalent of “Go to thunder!” which the Admiral at once proceeded to obey. He ran to the wheel, steered his steamer in a semicircle, headed her down the river and sprang to the guns. Thunder spoke out the first cannon, and missed. Thunder again the second, with an after crash of woodwork, the ball carrying away part of the bulwarks.

“Stop it, you madman!” shrieked the crew.

“Surrender!” roared the Admiral, but they were now working madly at the windlass, trying to hoist the anchor. The _Makut Rajakumar_ had passed the boat, and now the Admiral took to the wheel again, swooped around, and came on with his other battery. The first shot struck fair in the prow, and the second, to the consternation of the Frenchmen, hit just at the waterline, tearing a fatal hole in the timber. The third shot went wide, and the Admiral allowed his steamer to forge ahead while he swabbed out the guns and reloaded them.

By the time this was finished and he had turned round again the _J. B. Say_ was under way, but with a dangerous list to one side. The steamer speedily overtook her, and crash! crash! went the guns again, and once more she was struck in a tender place, which was quite unnecessary, for the craft was palpably sinking, in spite of the efforts of four men at the pumps.

At last the heated Admiral ceased fire, for the Frenchmen, taking to the longboat, had abandoned their vessel, and were rowing for the shore. The _J. B. Say_ with a wobble or two settled down and disappeared beneath the surface of the muddy Me-nam. Admiral Guldberg descended to the engine-room, stopped the engines, and kicked the engineer into some sense of his duties aboard the cruiser. He informed his huddled naval brigade, who were scared almost white by the firing, that the Battle of Paknam had ended gloriously for the Siamese flag, after which announcement he urged them on deck by means of boot and fist. As there was nothing visible to frighten the crew, the Admiral himself being the only object of terror in the neighborhood, discipline once more resumed its sway. The engineer responded to the tinkle of the bell, and the cruiser _Makut Rajakumar_ began pounding its way up to the capital, pausing only to capture the French flag which fluttered from the masthead of the sunken _J. B. Say_.

Admiral Guldberg steamed in triumph to Bangkok, but had to take the wheel himself when the town was sighted, for the moment his crew caught a glimpse of the French cruiser floating peacefully in front of the embassy, they promptly went below again, as was the custom of Sir Joseph Porter when the breezes began to blow.

It would be joyful to add that Admiral Guldberg received the recognition he deserved, but it is hardly necessary to state that such was not the fact. The Siamese Government apologized abjectly for their Admiral and his action. They said he had fired without orders. The Minister of Foreign Affairs congratulated the commander of the French ship _Inconstant_ on his boldness and daring in forcing a way to Bangkok. The owners of the _J. B. Say_ were lavishly compensated. Admiral Guldberg was degraded to plain captain, and the government had little difficulty in proving that no Siamese obstructed the advance of the French, which statement was true enough.

_A Sociological Fable_

There was trouble in the Poultry yard; things were Changed from the way they had been, so that it was becoming Hard for some of the Fowls to get a Sufficiency of Food. Just as much Corn was being Scattered by the Farmer’s Wife as formerly, but some Knowing Cocks had built Wide-mouthed Funnels over the Heads of the other Fowls, so that much of the Supply that was intended for the Whole Community was diverted to the Knowing Cocks and their Broods.

There was much Discontent because of the Scarcity of Food and many were the Plans that were Broached to remedy the Situation. “See!” said a Great Goose, pointing to the Supplies that lay beneath the Funnels of the Knowing Cocks, “how unjust it is that some should have so much and others so little. The Knowing Cocks and their Broods can never use up their supply, while I and my Green Goslings go Hungry. Can nothing be done to help me?” he squawked, raising his Unseemly Voice in order to attract general attention. “Can nothing be done for me and for my family?”

At this many Quacks began to be heard. One said that the Supplies of the Knowing Cocks ought to be Seized and Distributed equally in the Community; another said that the Knowing Cocks ought to be Forced to Exchange their Corn with the other Fowls, in the Proportion of Sixteen Grains of that Held by the Knowing Cocks to each grain belonging to the other Fowls. And another insisted that the Only way to Right the Wrong was to Compel the Knowing Cocks to Contribute to a Common Fund a large Part of the Excess that Reached them through their Funnels.

But at last a Sage Hen, that had somehow found her way into the Community, succeeded in Making herself Heard: “Of what use is it,” she Cried, “to ask how Many Pounds of Cure are needed, when one Ounce of Prevention will Suffice? Let us Go to the Fountain Head of the Wrong,” she continued, Pointing to the Funnels. “As long as Some of the Community are Allowed to be in Possession of Undue Opportunities, Evil must happen to the others. Take the Funnels away from the Knowing Cocks!”

No sooner said than Done. The Funnels were Seized and Destroyed; and thereafter the Corn that fell from the Hand of the Farmer’s Wife was Equitably distributed in the Community.

MORAL

If on the road a traveler lies Fast bound—and you should see him— Don’t take his head upon your lap And give him medicine and pap, But cut his cords and free him.

F. P. WILLIAMS.

_The Old 10.30 Train_

BY MARION DRACE

It’s raining out again tonight, A dismal, pelting rain, That drives against my window With a dripping, and again With a rattling stormy fury, Sheets of water, waves of gray, Made gruesome by the thunder And the lightning’s livid play. It brings to me the gloom of life, An odd, most welcome pain, And once again the whistle of the old 10.30 train.

With all this storm without, and me So silent here alone, With all the distant past in view, Its evil to atone; With chin on hand, I wonder how I’d feel if I could be A boy again, with mother near Me praying at her knee. How all the cares of life would fade, If I could hear again From out my cot the whistle of the old 10.30 train.

I hear it far departing This gloomy night and me, A-joying in the dying wail From which it seems to flee. The long, low cry is wafted back Through night and rain and wind, A cry that seems congenial like Another soul that’s sinned. It makes me long for home and for My cot, so cleanly plain, To doze just with the whistle of that old 10.30 train.

Ah, life is not of solitude, Nor childhood joys alone, Its mirth not all departed, though We reap the evil sown. But nights of rain and solitude Bring back the happy past— The freight that came so regular My eyes to close at last. From all the now I quick would flee— It seems so full of pain— If I could sleep forever with that whistle’s wail again!

Gallows Gate

BEING AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF DICK RYDER, OTHERWISE GALLOPING DICK, SOMETIME GENTLEMAN OF THE ROAD

BY H. B. MARRIOTT-WATSON

’Twas two o’clock of a bright wild March day that I cleared St. Leonard’s Forest, and came out upon the roads at the back of Horsham. I was for Reading, but chose that way by reason of the better security it promised, which, as it chanced, was a significant piece of irony. Horsham, a mighty quiet, pretty town, lay in a blaze of the sun, enduring the sallies of a dusty wind, and, feeling hot and athirst after my long ride, I pulled up at an inn and dismounted.

“Host,” says I, when I was come it; “a pint of your best Burgundy or Canary to wash this dust adown; and rip me if I will not have it laced with brandy.”

“Why, sir,” says he, “a cold bright day for horseback,” and shakes his head.

“Damme, you’re right,” says I. “Cold i’ the belly and hot in the groin. Here’s luck to the house, man,” and I tossed off the gallipot. “Why, goodman, ye’ll make your fortune on this,” I said with a derisive laugh, and flung open the door, to go out; when all of a sudden I came to silence and a pause.

“’Tis the officers,” says the landlord, who was at my ear. “Gadslife, ’tis the sheriff’s men from Lewes.”

“Lewes!” says I slowly; “what be they here for?”

“Why,” says he in a flutter, “there was him that was taken for a tobyman by Guilford. He was tried at Lewes, and will hang.”

“If he be fool enough to be taken, let him be hanged and be damned,” says I carelessly.

When I was got upon my horse I began to go at a walk down the High street, for though, as was according to nature, I was inquisitive about the matter, I was too wary to adventure ere I was sure of my ground. And this denial of unnecessary hazards, as is my custom, saved me from a mishap; for as the procession wound along, the traps and the carriage between ’em, there was one of them that turned his head aside to give an order, and, rip me if ’twas not that muckworm, traitor and canter, the thief-taker, Timothy Grubbe. I had an old score with Timothy, the which I had sworn to pay; but that was not the time nor the opportunity, and so I pulled in and lowered my head, lest by chance his evil eye might go my way. As I did so, something struck on the mare’s rump, and, looking back, I saw a young man on horseback that had emerged from a side street.

“Whoa, there,” says I cheerfully. “Are you so blinded by March dust as not to see a gentleman when he goes by?”

He was a slight, handsome-looking youth, of a frank face but of a rustic appearance, and he stammered out an apology.

“Why, I did but jest,” I said heartily. “Think no more on’t, particularly as ’twas my fault to have checked the mare of a sudden. But to say the truth I was gaping at the grand folks yonder.”

He stared, after the traps and says he in an interested voice: “Who be they? Is it my Lord Blackdown?”

Now this comparison of that wry-necked, pock-faced villain Grubbe to a person of quality tickled me, but I answered, keeping a straight face.

“Well, not exactly,” says I, “not my lord, but another that should stand or hang as high maybe, and shall some day.”

“Oh,” says he, gazing at me, “a friend of yours, sir?”

He was a ruddy color, and his mouth was habitually a little open, giving him an expression of perpetual wonder and innocence; so that, bless you, I knew him at once for what he was at heart—a simple fellow of a natural kindliness and one of no experience in the world, and a pretty dull wit.

“Not as you might call him, a friend,” said I gravely, “but rather one that has put an affront upon me.”

“You should wipe it out, sir,” says this innocent seriously. “I would allow no man to put an affront on me, gad, I would not!”

“Why,” said I drily, “I bide my time, being, if I may say so, of less mustard and pepper than yourself. Nevertheless it shall be wiped out to the last stain.”

“Gad, I like that spirit,” says he briskly, and, as if it constituted a bond betwixt us, he began to amble slowly at my side. “If there is any mischief, sir,” says he, “I trust you will allow me to stand your friend.”

Here was innocence indeed, yet I could ha’ clapped him on the back for a buck of good-fellowship and friendliness, and, relaxing my tone, I turned the talk on himself.

“You are for a journey?” says I.

He nodded, and his color rose, but he frowned. “I am for Effingham,” he answered.

“So am I,” said I, “at least I pass that way,” which was not so, for I was for Reading, and had meant to go by Guilford. Yet I was in no mind to risk an encounter with Grubbe and his lambs, who were bound for Guilford if what the innkeeper said was true; and the way by Effingham would serve me as well as another.

He looked pleased, and says he: “Why, we will travel in company.”

“With all my heart!”

The traps had disappeared upon the Guilford road in a mist of dust, and we jogged on comfortably till we came to cross-roads, where we turned away for Slinfold, reaching that village near by two of the clock. Here my companion must slake his thirst, and I was nothing loath. He had a gentlemanly air about him for all his rustic habit, and very pleasantly, if with some awkwardness, offered me of a bottle.

“You mind me,” said I, drinking to him, for I liked the fellow, “of a lad that I knew that was in the wars.”

“Was you in the wars?” asks he eagerly.

I had meant the wars of the road, which, indeed, are as perilous and as venturesome as the high quarrels of ravening nations.

“I served in Flanders,” said I.

“My father fought for His Gracious Majesty Charles I,” says he quickly, “and took a deep wound at Marston Moor. There was never a braver man than Squire Masters of Rockham.”

“I’ll warrant his son is like him,” said I.

He bowed as if he were at Court. “Your servant, sir,” says he, smiling well pleased, and eyed me. “You have seen some service, sir?”

“Why, as much as will serve, Mr. Masters.”

He looked at me shyly. “You have my name, now?” said he, and left his question in the air.

“You may call me Ryder,” said I.

“You have had your company?” he went on in a hesitating voice.

“Not always as good company as this,” I replied, laughing.

“I knew it,” he said eagerly; “you are Captain Ryder?”

“There have been those that have put that style on me,” I answered, amused at his persistence.

“I am glad that I have met you, Captain,” said this young fool, and put his arm in mine quite affectionately.

“I have been unhappily kept much at home, and have seen less than I might of things beyond the hills. Not but what Sussex is a fine shire,” he adds, with a sigh.

“Why, it is fine if so be your home be there,” I replied.

“My home is there,” he said, and paused, and again the frown wrinkled up his brow.

He said no more till we were in the saddle again and had gone some half a mile, and then he spoke, and I knew his poor brain had been playing pitch and toss with some thought.

“Captain Ryder,” he said abruptly, “you have traveled far and seen much. You might advise one junior to you on a matter of worldly wisdom.”

Sink me, thinks I, what’s the boy after? But, says I gravely, from a mutinous face: “You can hang your faith on me for an opinion or a blow, Mr. Masters.”

“Thank you,” says he heartily, and then thrust a hand into his bosom and rapidly stuck at me a document. “Read that, sir,” said he impulsively.

I opened it, and found ’twas writ in a woman’s hand, and subscribed Anne Varley; and the marrow of it was fond affection.

Why, ’twas but a common love billet he had given me, of the which I have seen dozens and received very many—some from persons of quality that would astonish you. But what had I to do with this honest ninny and his mistress? I had no nose for it, and so said I, handing him back his letter.

“It has a sweet smack and ’tis pretty enough inditing.”

“Ah,” says he quickly, “’tis her nature, Captain. ’Tis her heart that speaks. Yet is she denied by her parents. They will have none of me.”

“The more to their shame,” I said.

“They aspire high,” says he, “as Anne’s beauty and virtues of themselves would justify. Yet she does love me, and I her, and we are of one spirit and heart. See you how she loves me, poor thing, poor silly puss! And they would persuade her to renunciation. But she shall not—she shall not; I swear it!” he cried in excitement. “She shall be free to choose where she will.”

“Spoke like a man of temper,” said I approvingly. “You will go win her forthright.”

“I am on my journey to accomplish that now,” says he. “She has writ in this letter, as you have seen, that her father dissuades her, and she sighs her renunciation, adding sweet words of comfort that her affection will not die—no, never, never, and that she will die virgin for me. Say you not, sir, that this is beautiful conduct, and, am I not right to ride forth and seize her from her unnatural parents, to make her mine?”

“Young gentleman,” said I, being stirred by his honest sincerity and his bubbling over, “were you brother to me, or I to Mistress Anne, you should have my blessing.”

At that he glowed, and his spirits having risen with this communication, he babbled on the road of many things cheerfully, but mostly of love and beauty, and the virtues of Mistress Anne of Effingham Manor.

I will confess that after a time his prattle wearied me; ’twas too much honey and cloyed my palate. If he had known as much of the sex as has fallen to my lot he would have taken another stand, and sung in a lower key.

Well, ’twas late in the afternoon when we reached the hills beyond Ewhurst, and began to climb the rugged way to the top. The wind had gone down with the sun in a flurry of gold in the west, to which that eastern breeze had beat all day; and over the head of Pitch Hill last year’s heather still blazed in its decay.

When we had got to the Windmill Inn, that lies packed into the side of the wooded hill, we descended for refreshment, and I saw the horses stalled below for baiting. Now that house, little and quiet, perches in a lonely way in the pass of the hill, and upon one side the ground falls so fast away that the eye carries over a precipitous descent toward the weald of Surrey and the dim hills by the sea. And this view was fading swiftly in the window under a bleak sky as Masters and I ate of our dinner in the upstairs room that looked upon it. He had a natural grace of mind despite the rawness of his behavior, and his sentiments emerged sometimes in a gush, as when, says he, looking at the darkening weald:

“I love it, Captain. ’Tis mine. My home is there, and, God willing, Anne’s too shall be.”

“Amen!” said I heartily, for the boy had gone to my heart, absurd though he was.

And just on that there was a noise without the door, the clank of heavy feet rang on the boards, and Timothy Grubbe’s ugly mask disfigured the room.

He came forward a little with a grin on his distorted features, and, looking from one to the other of us, said he:

“My respects, Captain, and to this young plover that no doubt ye’re plucking. By the Lord, Dick Ryder, but I had given you up. Heaven sends us good fortune when we’re least thinking of it.”

Masters, at his word, had started up. “Who are you, sir, that intrudes on two gentlemen?” he demanded with spirit. “I’ll have you know this is a private room. Get you gone!”

“Softly, man,” says Grubbe, in an insinuating voice. “Maybe I’m wrong and you’re two of a color. Is it an apprentice, Dick, this brave lad that talks so bold and has such fine feathers?”

“If you do not quit,” said I shortly, “I will spit your beauty for you in two ticks.”

“Dick Ryder had always plenty of heart,” said he in his jeering way. “Dick had always a famous wit, and was known as a hospitable host. So I will take the liberty to invite to his sociable board some good fellows that are below, to make merry. We shall prove an excellent company, I’ll warrant.”

Masters took a step toward him.

“Now, who the devil soever you may be, you shall not use gentlemen so,” he cried, whipping out his blade.

But Grubbe turned on him satirically. “As for you, young cockchafer,” said he, “it bodes no good to find you in this company. But as you seem simpleton enough, I’ll give you five minutes to take your leave of this gentleman of the road. Dick, you’re a fine tobyman, and you have enjoyed a brave career, but, damme, your hour is struck.”

I rose, but, ere I could get to him, young Masters had fallen on him.

“Defend yourself, damn ye,” he said, “you that insult a gentleman that is my friend! Put up your blade!” and he made at him with incredible energy.

Uttering a curse Grubbe thrust out his point and took the first onrush, swerving it aside; and ere I could intervene they were at it.

My young friend was impetuous, and as I saw at once, none too skilful; and Grubbe kept his temper, as he always did. He stood with a thin, ugly smile pushing aside his opponent’s blade for a moment or two, until, of a sudden, he drew himself up and let drive very low and under the other’s guard. The sword rattled from Masters’s hand, and he went down on the floor. I uttered an oath.

“By God, for this shall you die, you swine!” said I fiercely; and I ran at him; but, being by the door, he swept it open with a movement and backed into the passage.

“The boot is on t’other leg, Dick,” says he maliciously. “’Tis you are doomed!” and closing the door behind him he whistled shrilly.

I knew what he intended, and that his men were there, but I stooped over the boy’s body and held my fingers to his heart. ’Twas dead and still. I cursed Grubbe and started up. If I was not to be taken there was only the window, looking on the deeps of the descending valley. I threw back the casement and leaped over the sill. Grubbe should perish, I swore, and I doubled now my oath.

I could ha’ wept for that poor youth that had died to avenge my honor. But my first business was my safety, and I crept down as far as I might and dropped. By that time the catchpolls were crowding into the room above. I struck the slanting hill and fell backward, but, getting to my feet, which were very numb with the concussion of the fall, I sped briskly into the darkness, making for the woods.

I lay in their shelter an hour, and then resolved on a circumspection. ’Twas not my intention to leave the mare behind, if so be she had escaped Grubbe and his creatures; and, moreover, I had other designs in my head. So I made my way back deviously to the inn and reconnoitered. Stillness hung about it, and after a time I marched up to the door cautiously and knocked on it.

The innkeeper opened it, and, the lamp burning on my face, started as if I were the devil.

“Hush, man!” said I. “Is the officer gone?”

He looked at me dubiously and trembling. “Come,” said I, for I knew the reputation of those parts, “I am from Shoreham Gap yonder, and I was near taken for an offense against the revenue.”

“You are a smuggler?” said he anxiously. “They said you were a tobyman.”

“They will take away any decent man’s name,” said I. “I want my horse. You have no fancy for preventive men, I’ll guess.”

And this was true enough, for he had a mine of cellars under his inn and through the roadway.

“But your friend?” said he, still wavering. “Him that is dead——”

“As good a man as ever rolled a barrel,” said I.

He relaxed his grip of the door. “’Tis a sore business for me this night,” he complained.

“Nay,” said I. “For I will rid your premises of myself and friend, by your leave, or without it,” says I.

He seemed relieved at that, and I entered. The horses were safe, as I discovered, for Grubbe must have been too full of his own prime business to make search, and, getting them out, I made my preparations. I strapped the lad’s body in the stirrups, so that he lay forward on the horse with his head a-wagging; but (God deliver him!) his soul at rest. And presently we were on the road, and threading the wilderness of the black pine woods for the vale below toward London.

The moon was a glimmering arc across the Hurtwood as I came out on the back of Shere, and, pulling out of the long lane that gave entry to the village, reined up by the “White Horse.” From the inn streamed a clamor of laughter, and without the doorway and wellnigh blocking it was drawn up a carriage with a coachman on his seat that struck my eyes dimly in the small light. I was not for calling eyes on me with a dead man astride his horse, so I moved into the yard, thinking to drain a tankard of ale if no better, before I took the road over the downs to Effingham. But I was scarce turned into the yard ere a light flaring through the window poured on a face that changed all the notions in my skull. ’Twas Grubbe!

Leaving the horses by I returned to the front of the inn, and says I to the coachman that waited there, as I rapped loud on the door:

“’Tis shrewish tonight.”

“Aye,” says he in a grumbling, surly voice. “I would the country were in hell.”

“Why, so ’twill be in good time,” said I cheerfully; and then to the man that came, “Fetch me two quarts well laced with gin,” says I, “for to keep the chill of the night and the fear o’ death out.”

The coachman laughed a little shortly, for he knew that this was his invitation.

“Whence come you then?” said I, delivering him the pot that was fetched out.

He threw an arm out. “Lewes,” said he, “under charge with a tobyman that was for chains yonder.”

He nodded toward the downs and drank. I cast my eyes up and the loom of the hill just t’other side of the village was black and ominous.

“Oh,” says I, “he hangs there?”

“At the top of London Road,” says he, dipping his nose again. “There stands the gallows, where the roads cross and near the Gate.”

“Gallows Gate,” said I, laughing. “Well, ’twas a merry job enough.”

“Aye,” says he. “But by this we might ha’ been far toward London Town, whither most of us are already gone. But ’twas not his wish. He must come back with the Lewes sheriff and drink him farewell.”

“Leaving a poor likely young man such as yourself to starve of cold and a empty belly here,” said I. “Well, I would learn such a one manners in your place, and you shall have another tankard of dogs-nose for your pains,” says I, whereat I called out the innkeeper again, but took care that he had my share of the gin in addition to his own. By that time he was garrulous, and had lost his caution, so, keeping him in talk a little and dragging his wits along from point to point, I presently called to him.

“Come down,” said I, “and stamp your feet. ’Twill warm you without as the liquor within.” And he did as I had suggested without demur.

“Run round to the back,” says I, “and get yourself a noggin, and if so be you see a gentleman on horseback there asleep, why, ’tis only a friend of mine that is weary of his long journey. I will call you if there be occasion.”

He hesitated a moment, but I set a crown on his palm, and his scruples vanished. He limped into the darkness.

’Twas no more than two minutes later that I heard voices in the doorway, and next came Timothy Grubbe into the night, in talk with someone. At which it took me but thirty seconds to whip me into the seat and pull the coachman’s cloak about me, so that I sat stark and black in the starlight. Grubbe left the man he talked with and came forward.

“You shall drink when ye reach Cobham, Crossway,” says he, looking up at me, “and mind your ways, damn ye!”

And at that he made no more ado, but humming an air he lurched into the carriage. I pulled out the nags, and turned their heads so that they were set for the north. And then I whistled low and short—a whistle I knew that the mare would heed, and I trusted that she would bring her companion with her. The wheels rolled out upon the road and Timothy Grubbe and I were bound for London all alone.

As I turned up the London road that swept steeply up the downs I looked back, and behind the moon shone faintly on Calypso and behind her on the dead man wagging awkwardly in his stirrups.

I pushed the horses on as fast as might be, but the ruts were still deep in mud, and the carriage jolted and rocked and swayed as we went. The wind came now with a little moaning sound from the bottom of the valley, and the naked branches creaked above my head, for that way was sunken and tangled with the thickets of nut and yew. And presently I was forced to go at a foot pace, so abrupt was the height. The moon struck through the trees and peered on us, and Grubbe put his head forth of the window.

“Why go you not faster, damn ye?” says he, being much in liquor.

“’Tis the hill, your honor,” said I.

He glanced up and down.

“What is it comes up behind?” says he, shouting. “There is a noise of horses that pounds upon the road.”

“’Tis the wind,” says I, “that comes off the valley and makes play among the branches.”

He sank back in his seat, and we went forward slowly. But he was presently out again, screaming on the night.

“There is a horseman behind,” says he. “What does he there?”

“’Tis a traveler, your honor,” says I, “that goes, no doubt, by our road, and is bound for London.”

“He shall be bound for hell,” says he tipsily, and falls back again.

The horses wound up foot by foot and emerged now into a space of better light, and I looked around, and there was Grubbe, with his head through the window and his eyes cast backward.

“What fool is this,” says he, “that rides so awkwardly, and drives a spare horse? If he ride no better, I will ask him to keep me company, if he be a gentleman. Many gentlemen have rode along of me, and have rode to the gallows tree,” and he chuckled harshly.

“Maybe he will ride with you to the Gallows Gate, sir,” says I.

“Why, Crossway,” says he, laughing loudly, “you have turned a wit,” and once more withdrew his head.

But now we were nigh to the top of the down, and I could see the faint shadow of the triple beam. With that I knew my journey was done, and that my work must be accomplished. I pulled to the horses on the rise, and got down from my seat.

“Why d’ye stop, rascal?” called Grubbe in a fury, but I was by the door and had it opened.

“Timothy Grubbe,” said I, “ye’re a damned rogue that the devil, your master, wants and he shall have ye.”

He stared at me in a maze, his nostrils working, and then says he in a low voice: “So, ’tis you.”

“Your time has come, Timothy,” said I, flinging off my cloak, and I took my sword. “Out with you, worm.”

He said never a word, but stepped forth, and looked about him. He was sobered now, as I could see from his face, which had a strange look on it.

“Ye’re two rascals to one, Dick,” says he slowly, looking on the dead man on his horse which had come to a stop in the shadows.

“No,” says I, “this gentleman will see fair play for us.”

Grubbe took a step backward. “Sir,” says he, addressing the dead man—but at that moment Calypso and her companion started, and came into the open.

The moon shone on the face of the dead. Grubbe uttered a cry, and turned on me. His teeth showed in a grin.

“No ghost shall haunt me, Dick,” says he. “Rather shall another ghost keep him company,” and his wry neck moved horribly.

I pointed upward where the tobyman hung in chains, keeping his flocks by moonlight. “There’s your destiny,” said I. “There’s your doom. Now defend, damn ye, for I’ll not prick an adder at a disadvantage.”

He drew his blade, for no man could say that Timothy Grubbe, time-server and traitor as he was, lacked courage. Suddenly he sliced at me, but I put out and turned off the blow.

“If you will have it so soon,” said I, “in God’s name have it,” and I ran upon him.

My third stroke went under his guard, and I took him in the midriff. He gave vent to an oath, cursed me in a torrent, and struck at me weakly as he went down.

He was as dead as mutton almost ere he touched the ground.

I have never been a man of the church, nor do I lay any claim to own more religion than such as to make shift by when it comes to the end. No, nor do I deny that I have sundry offenses on my conscience, some of which I have narrated in my memoirs. But when it comes to a reckoning I will make bold to claim credit in that I rid the world he had encumbered of Timothy Grubbe—the foulest ruffian that ever I did encounter in the length of my days on the road.

I climbed the beam and lowered the poor tobyman, and it took me but a little time to make the change. The one I left where he had paid the quittance in the peace of the earth, and t’other a-swinging under the light of the moon on Gallows Gate.

I have said my journey was done, but that was not so. There was more for me to do, which was to deliver poor Masters at his lady-love’s and break the unhappy news. And so, leaving the carriage where it stood with the patient horses that were cropping the grass, I mounted the mare and began to go down the long limb of the downs to the north.

’Twas late—near midnight—when I reached Effingham and found my way to the manor. I rapped on the door, leaving Calypso and t’other in the shadows of the house, and presently one answered to my knock.

“What is it?” says she.

“’Tis a stranger,” says I, “that has news of grave import for Mistress Anne Varley, whom I beg you will call.”

“She cannot hear you,” said she. “’Tis her wedding night.”

“What!” said I in amazement, and instantly there flowed in on me the meaning of this.

“Curse all women save one or two!” thinks I. And I turned to the maid again with my mind made up.

“Look you, wench,” said I. “This is urgent. I have an instant message that presses. And if so be your mistress will bear with me a moment and hold discourse, I’ll warrant she shall not regret it—nor you,” says I, with a crown piece in my palm.

She hesitated and then, “Maybe she will refuse,” says she. “She hath but these few hours been wed.”

“Not she,” said I, “if you will tell her that I bring good news, great news—news that will ease her spirit and send her to her bridal bed with a happy heart.”

At that she seemed to assent, and with my crown in her hand she disappeared into the darkening of the house. It must have been some ten minutes later that a light flashed in the hall and a voice called to me.

“Who is it?” it asked, “and what want you at this hour?”

I looked at her. She was of a pretty face enough, rather pale of color, and with eyes that moved restlessly and measured all things. Lord, I have known women all my life in all stations, and I would ha’ pinned no certainty on those treacherous eyes. She was young, too, but had an air of satisfaction in herself, and was in no wise embarrassed by this interview. I had no mercy on her, with her oaths of constancy writ in water that figured to be tears and her false features.

“Madam,” said I civilly, “I hear you’re wed today to a gentleman of standing.”

“What is that to you, sir?” she asked quickly.

“’Tis nothing, for sure,” said I, “but to a friend of mine that I value deeply ’tis much.”

“You speak of Mr. Masters,” said she sharply, and with discomposure. “Sure, if he be a gentleman, he will not trouble me when he knows.”

“Anne!” said a voice from the top of the stairs, “Anne!”

’Twas her bridegroom calling. Well, she should go to him in what mood she might when I had done with her.

“He will never know,” says I, “unless he hear it from yourself.”

“Anne!” said the voice above the stairs.

“He shall not—I will not,” she cried angrily. “I will not be persecuted. ’Twas all a mistake.”

I whistled. Calypso emerged from the night, and behind Calypso was the horse with its burden. An anxious look dawned in her face. “I am insulted,” says she and paused quickly.

“Edward!” she called, and put a hand to her bosom.

“Anne, darling!” cried the voice, “where are you? Come, child, ’tis late.”

The horse came to a stop before the door with the body on the saddle, bound to the crupper.

“What is it?” she cried in alarm, and suddenly she shrieked, recognizing what was there. “It is an omen—my wedding night!”

“Aye,” says I, “which be your bridegroom, he that calls or he that is silent? Call on him and he hears not.”

Peal after peal went up now from her, and the house was awake with alarm. I turned away, leaving her on the doorstep, and mounted the mare.

As I cantered off into the night I cast a glance behind me, and a group was gathered at the door, and in that group lay Mistress Anne fallen in a swoon, with the sleeping figure on the horse before her.

_The Judge and the Jack Tar_

BY HENRY H. CORNISH

It’s like this here, Your Honor, see? As near as I can tell, A gentleman hired my boat, and he Was quite a proper swell. He brought a lady down with him To make a longish trip And so we scrubbed her thoroughly—

_Judge_—The lady? _Tar_—No! The ship

Well—cutting off my story short To come to what befell We started, but put back to port Which much annoyed the swell. She fell between two waterways And got a nasty nip, So we rigged her out with brand-new stays—

_Judge_—The lady? _Tar_—No-o! The ship.

At last we put to sea again And started for the west, All spick and span without a stain When all at once, I’m blest, Her blooming timbers got misplaced, Which quite upset the trip, The water washed around her waist—

_Judge_—The lady’s? _Tar_ (_nodding_)—And the ship’s.

That’s all, I think, Your Honor, now, I’ll state to you my claim. Five hundred dollars, you’ll allow, Won’t build her up the same. Her rudder’s gone, her nose is broke, Her flag I’ve had to dip She’s lying now upon the mud—

_Judge_—The lady? _Tar_—No-o-o-o! The ship.

_Object, Matrimony_

BY CAROLINE LOCKHART

With a turn of his red wrist, Porcupine Jim guided his horse in and out among the badger holes which made riding dangerous business on the Blackfoot Reservation. Perplexity and discontent rested upon Porcupine’s not too lofty brow. Though he looked at the badger holes and avoided them mechanically, he saw them not.

“Would you tank, would you tank,” he burst out finally in a voice which rasped with irritation, “dat a girl like Belle Dashiel would rudder have dat pigeon-toed, smart-Aleck breed dan me?”

Porcupine’s pinto cayuse threw back one ear and listened attentively to the naïve conceit of his rider’s soliloquy.

“Look at me!” demanded Porcupine, changing the reins to his left hand that he might make a more emphatic gesture with his right. “A honest Swede, able to make fifteen dollars a day at my trade. Me as has sheared sheep from Montany to the Argentine Republic, gittin’ bounced for dat lazy half-breed dat can’t hold a yob two mont’!”

Porcupine’s thoughts upon any subject were not varied, and he burst forth at intervals with a reiteration of the same idea until he came to the ridge where he could look down upon the house of Dashiel, the squaw-man, who kept a sort of post office in a soapbox.

Porcupine had come twenty-five miles for his mail. Not that he expected any, but to be gibed at by Belle Dashiel had the same fascination for him that biting on a sore tooth has for a small boy. Gradually the knowledge had come to his slow-working mind that the half-breed girl’s interest in him rose solely from the fact that John Laney was his partner in the assessment work which they were doing in the mountains on a tenderfoot’s copper claim.

Laney’s father had been an Irish steamboat captain on Lake Superior, his mother, a Chippewa squaw, and the cross had produced an unusual type. The Indian blood which keeps a half-breed silent and shy before strangers had no such effect upon Laney. His prowess was his theme and his vanity was a byword on the Reservation. He obtained his fashions from the catalogue of a wholesale house in Chicago which furnishes the trusting pioneer with the latest thing in oil drills or feather boas. It was common belief that Laney’s high celluloid collar would some day cut his head off.

Laney’s waking hours were spent in planning schemes of primitive crudeness whereby he might acquire affluence without labor. In his dreams the tenderfoot tourist was generally the person who was to remove him from penury.

“Hello, Porcupine!” called Belle Dashiel, coming to the door with a pink bow pinned on a pompadour of amazing height.

“Hullo yourself!” replied Porcupine, elated at his ready wit and the cordiality in her voice.

“How’s John?”

The smile faded from his face.

“Good ’nough,” he replied shortly.

“When’s he comin’ down?”

“Dunno. Any mail for me?”

“A letter and a paper.”

“Who could be writin’ to me?”

Porcupine looked surprised.

“Didn’t you expect nothin’?” Belle Dashiel’s eyes shone mischievously.

“Yass, I tank, mebby.” A deeper red spread over the Swede’s sunburned face.

He opened his letter and spelled it out laboriously, his chest heaving with the effort.

“A man over in Chicago he tank I’m in turrible need of a pianny,” he said in disgust, as he put the circular in the stove.

Porcupine lingered till the chill of the night air crept into the sunshine of the September day. Then he put spurs to his patient cayuse and hit the trail which led into the fastnesses of the Rockies.

The light was not quite gone when he happened to think of the paper he had thrust in his coat-pocket. There might be news in it! Bacon-Rind-Dick had told Two-Dog-Jack that there was a war over in Jay-pan. Porcupine removed the wrapper and the words _Wedding Chimes_ stared him in the face.

As he read, he laid the reins on his horse’s neck and let the pinto pick his own road. The matrimonial sheet opened up a vista of romantic adventures and possibilities of which the Swede had never dreamed. His imagination, which naturally was not a winged thing, was fired until he saw himself leading to his shack up the North Fork of the Belly River the fairest and richest lady in the land. All he had to do was to send five dollars to _Wedding Chimes_ and thus join their matrimonial club. Upon the receipt of the five dollars, the editor would send him the names and addresses of several ladies who were all young, beautiful, wealthy and anxious to be married. He could open a correspondence with one or all of them, and then choose for his bride the lady whose letter appealed to him most.

Porcupine strained his eyes reading descriptions of lily-white blondes and dashing brunettes. When he could see no longer, he folded the precious paper and buttoned it inside his coat.

His cayuse was puffing up the steep mountain trail in the darkness of the thick pines and spruces when Porcupine suddenly let out a yell which startled the prowling lynx and made his pinto snort with fright. It was a wild whoop of exultation. There had come to Porcupine one of those rare revelations which have made men great. He fairly glowed and tingled with the inspiration which had flashed upon him as though someone had gone through his brain with a lantern.

When he rode into camp, where Laney sat before the fire eating bacon out of a frying-pan, Porcupine’s deep-set blue eyes were shining like stars on a winter’s night.

“Yass, I got de greatest ting in de mail you ever see, I tank!”

Laney’s face expressed curiosity as the Swede sat down on a log and turned his felt hat round and round upon his bullet-shaped head—a trick he had when excited. With great deliberation and impressiveness he produced the paper and handed it to Laney. Laney set the frying-pan where his wolfhound could finish the bacon and opened the paper.

“Young, beautiful, immensely rich; obj., mat.,” he read. Laney’s eyes sparkled. He read for half an hour of successful weddings brought about by the editorial Cupid. Porcupine at last roused him from his absorption.

“Laney, I got a scheme, I tank. I’ll join up with one of dem clubs and you carry out de corryspondance with one of dem ladies. You are a better scholar den me and write a pooty goot letter. Den, if it goes all right, I’ll go and see her and tell her I ain’t exactly de man dat done de writin’, but I’m just as goot.

“’Tain’t no use for you to get into de club, because you are all the same as promised to Belle Dashiel. Sure,” Porcupine went on, “Belle ain’t rich nor beautiful like dem ladies in _Weddin’ Chimes_, but she’s a goot little girl.

“Old Dashiel ain’t got more dan fifty head of beef cattle, and dey say he got a lot of runts in de last Govermint issue, but a ting like dat don’t cut no ice if you’re stuck on de girl.”

Laney moved uneasily and avoided Porcupine’s eyes.

“Now for me,” continued the Swede, “I can marry any millionaire I want to.”

* * * * *

As soon as the mails could get it there, the editor of _Wedding Chimes_ received a neatly penciled and eloquent letter from one John Laney, setting forth his especial needs and preferences, with considerable stress laid upon the financial standing of the matrimonial candidates.

The day the list was due Laney rode down for the mail. The eagerness with which he took the letter from her hand did not escape Belle Dashiel.

“Got a new girl, John?” she asked lightly, though she watched his face with suspicious eyes.

“Perhaps,” replied Laney, and all her urging could not detain him.

By the light of the camp-fire Laney and Porcupine studied the list of names and addresses sent from the office of the matrimonial paper.

“This a-here one suits me,” said Laney. “‘Mayme Livingston, Oak Grove, Iowa.’ It’s a toney-sounding name.”

“It’s me dat’s gittin’ married,” Porcupine suggested significantly. “But Mayme’s all right, I tank. Go on ahead and write.”

So Laney, with the assistance of a sheet of ruled notepaper and a lead pencil which he moistened frequently in order to shade effectively, composed a letter which he and Porcupine regarded not only as a model of cleverness but an achievement from a literary point of view. The legal tone which gave it dignity was much admired by Porcupine. The letter read:

BELLY RIVER, MONT. MISS MAYME LIVINGSTON:

DEAR MADAM: Whereas I have paid up five dollars and have the priveledge of writing to any lady on the list sent from the aforesaid matrimonial paper, I, the undersigned, have picked out you, Miss Mayme Livingston party of the first part, obj. mat.

I am an American, five feet seven, and quite dark. I am interested in copper mines and cattle. I can ride anything that wears hair and last winter I killed two silver-tips and a link. I am engaged somewhat in trapping also. They say I am a tony dresser and I can dance the Portland Fancy or any dance that I see once. I play the juice-harp, mouth organ and accordian. I have a kind disposition and would make a good husband to any lady who had a little income of her own.

Let me hear from you as soon as you get this and tell me what you think of my writing. Respy. Yrs. JOHN LANEY.

In witness whereof that this letter is true I have hereunto set my hand and fixed my seal. Porcupine Jim X his mark.

The days which followed the mailing of the above composition were the longest Laney and Porcupine had ever known. They discussed Miss Livingston until they felt they knew her. Porcupine thought she had black eyes, black hair, was inclined to stoutness, but with a good “figger.”

The name of Livingston to Laney conjured up a vision of blonde loveliness in red satin, slender, shapely, with several thousand dollars in a handbag which she kept always with her.

Miss Livingston’s letter came with delightful promptness. There was an angry glow in Belle Dashiel’s Indian eyes as she handed the salmon-pink envelope to Laney.

“Who you writin’ to?” she demanded.

“Business,” replied Laney bruskly, and strode out of the house.

Porcupine, who had also come down, lingered a moment to tell her she looked prettier each time that he saw her.

Miss Livingston’s letter read:

Mr. John Laney deer sir. i take a few minutes to tell you how glad i was to heer from you Away off in montana i have not got Much Noos to rite but i will explain abot Myself i am a suthoner and quite Dark to my Father was a rice planter before the war which ruhined us i hav a good Voice and sing in the Quire i danz most evry Danc goin i have a Stiddy incom and make hansom presints to annybody i Like if i met a perfect Genelman i wold Marry him i cannot rite annymore Today bekaws i hay Piz to make rite offen to Miss Mayme Livingston i think your Ritin is good i wish you wold send your Fotegraf

Laney’s brow was clouded as he folded the letter. “She ain’t much of a scholar,” he said. “You hardly ever see a scholar use little ‘i’s.’”

“What differunce does dat make when she’s got a stiddy income?” replied Porcupine quickly. “And den what she said about handsome presents. Sure, she’s a hairess, I tank.”

Laney brightened at these reminders, and immediately set about composing another letter calculated to impress the wealthy, if unlettered, Miss Livingston.

“Dear madam,” soon developed into “Dearest Mayme,” and “deer sir” as speedily became “darlig John,” and, with each salmon-pink envelope’s arrival, Laney’s coolness toward Belle Dashiel became more marked.

“Porcupine,” said Laney, who had begun to show some reluctance in reading the correspondence to his partner, “the lady is gettin’ oneasy to see me, and when we finish runnin’ that drift in the lead, I think I’ll take a trip over to Iowa and see her.”

“But where do I come in, mebby?” demanded Porcupine.

“That’s what I’m goin’ for—to fix it up for you. Reely, Porcupine,” and he looked critically at the rawboned Swede, whose hair stood up like the quills on the animal from which he had received his sobriquet, “it wouldn’t be right for you to break in on a lady without givin’ her warning of what you was like.”

“I know I ain’t pooty,” replied Porcupine unperturbed, “but I can make fifteen dollars a day at my trade.”

The tenderfoot’s assessment money went toward buying Laney a wardrobe which almost any one of Laney’s relatives or friends would have killed him in his sleep to possess.

A jeweler, advertising in _Wedding Chimes_, received an order for a one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar scarfpin, to be paid for in instalments. Porcupine, whose nature was singularly free from envy, could not but feel a pang when he saw the large horseshoe of yellow diamonds glittering in Laney’s red cravat.

Laney had read that no gentleman should think of venturing into polite society without a “dress suit.” An order was sent for a seventy-five-dollar suit of evening clothes to the Chicago firm from whom they bought their mining tools. When the clothes arrived Laney dressed himself in them one evening in their shack up the North Fork of Belly River, and Porcupine’s face showed the admiration he felt, as Laney strutted like a pheasant drumming on a log.

Laney, who numbered among his accomplishments the ability to draw a rose or a horse so that almost anybody would know what it was, gave an original touch to his costume by purchasing at the Agency a brown broad-brimmed felt hat and painting a red rose directly in front under the stiff brim.

When the drift was run and Laney’s wardrobe was complete, he and the Swede set out across the Reservation to the railroad station.

“Pardner,” said Porcupine as he looked wistfully at the broadcloth coat with satin revers and the tail sloped away like a grasshopper’s wings, “dey ain’t a friend you got, but me, dat would trust you to do their courtin’ for them togged out like dat—sure, dat’s so!”

There was a derisive glint in Laney’s small back eyes; he held the slow-witted Swede in almost open contempt for his innocence. Porcupine shook hands with him on the platform and wished him good luck. “You’ll do your best for me, pard?” he asked anxiously.

“Trust me,” replied Laney gaily, intoxicated by the attention he was receiving from the tourists in the Pullman car.

Porcupine stopped at Dashiel’s on his return. Belle Dashiel met him at the door and her eyes were blazing. Without being able to define the process of reasoning by which he arrived at the conclusion, Porcupine felt that his brilliant plot stood an infinitely better show of success that he did not find her in tears.

“Where’s he gone at?” She stamped her moccasined foot imperiously.

“I wouldn’t like to say,” replied Porcupine in a voice which denoted a wish to shield his partner and yet a noble, if unusual, desire to tell the truth.

“Tell me!” she commanded, and she put her small hand on the big Swede’s arm as though she would shake him.

“I tank,” answered Porcupine meekly; “I dunno, but I tank he’s gone to get married.”

As Laney sat in the day coach in his evening clothes, his broad hat tilted back from his coarse, swarthy face, a constant procession filed through the aisle and every eye rested upon his smiling and complacent countenance. He passed two restless nights sleeping with his head on his patent-leather valise, and monotonous days eating peanuts and slaking his thirst at the ice-tank in the corner of the car. The farther he got from home, the more attention he attracted, which was some recompense for the inconvenience he was enduring.

He had plenty of time to decide a question which had much perplexed him: Could he immediately address the lady as “Mayme” and kiss her upon sight, or should he call her Miss Livingston and merely shake her hand? If too demonstrative, he might frighten her—capital is shy, as all men know. On the other hand, women resent coldness—now there was Belle Dashiel. Something which, if developed, might have proved to be a conscience, gave him a twinge, and he hastened to put the half-breed girl from his thoughts.

He reviewed the subject of his greeting from all possible sides, and decided that, in view of the many endearing phrases which Miss Livingston’s letters had contained and the neat border of “o’s,” labeled “kisses,” which had ornamented her last letter, he could feel reasonably safe in planting a chaste salute upon her trembling lips. Also he wondered how long it would be before he could hint at a small loan.

When they returned from their bridal tour they would take the best room in the hotel at the Agency, and he and work would be strangers ever after. He would send to Great Falls for a top buggy, and buy a mate to drive with his brown colt. He would get a long, fawn-colored overcoat and a diamond ring. He paused in the erection of his air castle to read again the letter which had reached him just before his departure.

“i will be at the Depo in a purple Satin wast with red roses in my Hat you can’t help but see me,” said the penciled lines. “i am tickled to deth that you are coming be Sure an com on the 3.37 thursday o how can i wait till then.”

Laney smiled contentedly and returned the letter to his pocket. For the hundredth time he consulted the time-table. “Jimminy Christmas!—only three hours more!” He hastened to wash his hands and face, having postponed that ceremony until he should near Oak Grove. The bosom of his pleated shirt was rumpled, and his dress clothes showed that he had slept in them; but trifles could not mar his happiness. He oiled his black hair from a small bottle containing bear grease scented with bergamot, and adjusted his cravat that the horseshoe might show to advantage.

When after a century of nervous tension the train whistled at the outskirts of Oak Grove, Laney’s knees were trembling beneath him and it seemed as though the thumping of his heart would choke him. He swallowed hard as, the solitary arrival, he descended the car steps and looked about him.

There was a flash of purple satin and an avalanche seemed to bury Laney in a moist embrace.

“Hyar yo’ is, honey!” cried a ringing, triumphant voice in his ear as he struggled to free himself. “Ah knowed you’d come!”

“Good Gawd!” cried Laney as he broke loose and jumped back. “Black! Black as a camp coffee-pot!”

“Yes, honey, I’se black, but I’se lovin’!” and Miss Livingston advanced upon him with sparkling eyes and an expanse of gleaming ivories.

“What for a game you been giving me?” demanded Laney, retreating to the edge of the platform. “You said you were the daughter of a Southern planter.”

“So I is, so I is,” replied that lady in a conciliatory tone. “Mah father planted rice foah Colonel Heywood down in South Caroliny till he died.”

“But your money, your steady income——”

“Eb’ry Sataday night Ah draws mah little ole five dollars foah cookin’ in a res-ta-rant.”

Miss Livingston’s mood suddenly changed. From a pleading, loving maiden she became an aggressive termagant; from the defensive she assumed the offensive, gripping her pearl-handled parasol in a suggestive manner.

“Say, yo’ Wil’ Man of Borneo, dressed up in them outlannish clothes, what you mean tellin’ me yo’ was an American?”

Laney made a feeble effort to explain that he was of the race of true Americans, but he might as well have tried to be heard above the roaring of a storm in the Belly River cañon.

“Black, is I?” continued the dusky whirlwind, her voice rising to a shriek. “Maybe you think yo’ look like a snow-bank! What kin’ of a rag-time freak is yo,’ anyhow? If you think yo’ can ’gage mah ’ffections den ’spise me ’cause Ah ain’t no blonde, you’se mistaken in dis chile! Ah don’ stand for no triflin’ from no man. If yo’ scorn me, yo’ ‘What is it’ from de sideshow, Ah’ll have yo’ tuck up foah britch of promise!”

John Laney waited to hear no more. He grabbed his shining valise from the platform and ran down the nearest alley.

The _Iowa Granger_ said editorially in its next issue:

We had a narrow escape from death last Thursday evening. We were mistaken by an intoxicated redskin for the editor of a matrimonial publication known as _Wedding Chimes_. Had we not pasted the infuriated savage one with the mucilage pot, and defended ourself with the scissors which, fortunately, we had in our hand at the time, undoubtedly the paper of September 12th would have been the last issue of the _Iowa Granger_. Our compositor came to our rescue in the nick of time.

The redskin is now in the calaboose, but refuses to divulge his name or residence. It is believed, however, that he belongs to the medicine show which sold bitters and horse liniment in our midst last week.

When the coyotes howled that evening on the hill which overlooked the road, they saw a radiant Swede with his arm about a pretty half-breed’s slender waist; and Dashiel fed the pinto cayuse a pint of oats, which was the surest kind of sign that he looked upon the pinto’s owner as somewhat closer than a brother.

_Equal to the Occasion_

An old darky preacher down South one Sunday found a poker chip in the collection basket. The minister knew enough of the ways of the wicked world to realize that the little ivory disk represented more money than the average contribution, and he was loath to lose the amount. Rising to his full height in the pulpit, he said:

“Ef de sportin’ gent what done put de pokah chip in de collection plate will be kind ’nuff to tell where hit kin be cashed in, de congregation will ax de Lawd to forgib him de error ob his ways.”

* * * * *

Our lives are made up of selfishness and self-sacrifice. Both are much the same.

The Rivers of the Nameless Dead

BY THEODORE DREISER _Author of “Sister Carrie”_

The body of a man was found yesterday in the North River at Twenty-fifth street. A brass check, No. 21,600, of the New York Registry Company was found on the body.—_N. Y. Daily Paper._

There is an island surrounded by rivers, and about it the tide scurries fast and deep. It is a beautiful island, long, narrow, magnificently populated, and with such a wealth of life and interest as no island in the world has ever before possessed. Long lines of vessels of every description nose its banks. Enormous buildings and many splendid mansions line its streets.

It is filled with a vast population, millions coming and going, and is the scene of so much life and enthusiasm and ambition that its fame is, as the sound of a bell, heard afar.

And the interest which this island has for the world is that it is seemingly a place of opportunity and happiness. If you were to listen to the tales of its glory carried the land over and see the picture which it presents to the incoming eye, you would assume that it was all that it seemed. Glory for those who enter its walls seeking glory. Happiness for those who come seeking happiness. A world of comfort and satisfaction for all who take up their abode within it—the island of beauty and delight.

The sad part of it is, however, that the island and its beauty are, to a certain extent, a snare. Its seeming loveliness, which promises so much to the innocent eye, is not always easy of realization. Thousands come, it is true; thousands venture to reconnoiter its mysterious shores. From the villages and hamlets of the land is streaming a constant procession of pilgrims, the feeling of whom is that here is the place where their dreams are to be realized; here is the spot where they are to be at peace. That their hopes are not, in so many cases, to be realized, is the thing which gives a poignant sadness to their coming. The beautiful island is not possessed of happiness for all.

And the exceptional tragedy of it is that the waters which surround the beautiful island are forever giving evidence of the futility of the dreams of so many. If you were to stand upon its shore, where the tide scurries past in its never-ending hurry, or were to idle for a time upon its many docks and piers, which reach far out into the water and give lovely views of the sky and the gulls and the boats, you might see drifting past upon the bosom of the current some member of all the ambitious throng who, in time past, has set his face toward the city, and who entered only to find that there was more of sorrow than of joy. Sad, white-faced maidens; grim, bearded, time-worn men; strange, strife-worn, grief-stricken women, and, saddest of all, children—soft, wan, tender children, floating in the waters which wash the shores of the island city.

And such waters! How green they look; how graceful, how mysterious! From far seas they come—strange, errant, peculiar waters—prying along the shores of the magnificent island; sucking and sipping at the rocks which form its walls; whispering and gurgling about the docks and piers and flowing, flowing, flowing. Such waters seem to be kind, and yet they are not so. They seem to be cruel, and yet they are not so; merely indifferent these waters are—dark, strong, deep, indifferent.

And curiously the children of men who come to seek the joys of the city realize the indifference and the impartiality of the waters. When the vast and beautiful island has been reconnoitered, when its palaces have been viewed, its streets disentangled, its joys and its difficulties discovered, then the waters, which are neither for nor against, seem inviting. Here, when the great struggle has been ended, when the years have slipped by and the hopes of youth have not been realized; when the dreams of fortune, the delights of tenderness, the bliss of love and the hopes of peace have all been abandoned—the weary heart may come and find surcease. Peace in the waters, rest in the depths and the silence of the hurrying tide; surcease and an end in the chalice of the waters which wash the shores of the beautiful island.

And they do come, these defeated ones, not one, nor a dozen, nor a score every year, but hundreds and hundreds. Scarcely a day passes but one, and sometimes many, go down from the light and the show and the merriment of the island to the shores of the waters where peace may be found. They stop on its banks; they reflect, perhaps, on the joys which they somehow have missed; they give a last, despairing glance at the wonderful scene which once seemed so joyous and full of promise, and then yield themselves unresistingly to the arms of the powerful current and are borne away. Out past the docks and the piers of the wonderful city. Out past its streets, its palaces, its great institutions. Out past its lights, its colors, the sound of its merriment and its seeking, and then the sea has them and they are no more. They have accomplished their journey, the island its tragedy. They have come down to the rivers of the nameless dead. They have yielded themselves as a sacrifice to the variety of life. They have proved the uncharitableness of the island of beauty.

_Wouldn’t Admit It_

MARJORIE—At the meeting of the Spinsters’ Club the members told why they had never married.

MADGE—What reason did they give?

MARJORIE—All kinds, except that they had never got the chance.

* * * * *

_Satiated_

WASHINGTONIAN—Wouldn’t you like to visit the Senate some day while you’re here?

GUEST—No, I guess not. You see, I’m a member of the Board of Visitors for the Old Woman’s Home up where I live.

* * * * *

_Invaluable_

CRAWFORD—Is he a good lawyer?

CRABSHAW—Sure. He knows how every law on the statute books can be evaded.

_Another View of the Simple Life_

BY ZENOBIA COX

For the past few months we have had a deluge of optimism. From various sources we are told that man ought to be happy. “Whatever is, is good,” is the handwriting on the wall. Content is preached from what George Eliot called “that Goshen of Mediocrity,” the pulpit; and politicians publish their elastic statistics, proving prosperity and content. This proselyting Optimism reached its height in the advent of Charles Wagner to our hospitable shores and in the thrusting of his little book, “The Simple Life,” under the nose of the public.

The book was published here several years ago, but has lain unnoticed until today. Our sudden torridity of welcome makes one reflect upon a dog who tramples on the grass beneath his feet and feeds on offal; suddenly he begins to eat the grass and then we cry, “The dog is sick!” Humanity has a canine instinct for its needs. Its tastes must ripen. We can neither hasten nor retard them.

As it takes the fever of intoxication to appreciate the purity of water; as the quiet of repose must follow the stress of effort, so man now turns to the sweet nothingness of a dream, amid the warring clash of realities.

That Wagner’s idyl of simplicity is but a dream, a sigh of the imagination, only idealists can deny. Civilization and Simplicity! Bedlam and Elysium! Nirvana on the Tower of Babel! All these alliances are equally possible.

The very fact of his dream arousing such a storm of approval awakens suspicion. Insistence is always a confession of doubt. Man never talks so much of his happiness as when he is unhappy. This is demonstrated in marriage.

Wagner’s arrival in America was singularly opportune. Certainly it was fortunate that his little olive branch was given to the public just when it was clamoring for something. Its palms were itching for some of the sugar-plums the Privileged Few had wrested from it, and it was beginning to get noisy. Yes, that hydrocephalic infant, the Proletariat, was beginning to sob for the golden spoon in the mouth of Special Privilege, when, lo and behold! the powers behind the throne go to Paris and bring back the soothing syrup of Wagner and his philosophy. The infant lets the Pharisee dope him, and he drops the unintelligible complexities of Franchises, Trusts, Labor Problems and Wrongs to grab the little woolly lamb of Content.

Surely the importers of Wagner are altruists, to try thus to make the public so happy. And that Wagner has had importers as well as indorsers, the Initiated know. Nevertheless, Wagner is a remarkable man. He is remarkable in resembling two historical characters and also in possessing the aptitudes for several vocations.

He resembles Rousseau. Rousseau sang the same little Psalm of Simplicity in the most artificial and febrile period of France. The Philistines shrieked the same applause, and even tried to eat the prescribed grass. He resembles Mme. de Pompadour. When no longer she could charm the palled fancy of Louis XV as Circe, coquette, dancer or _grande dame_, she assumed the garb of a peasant girl.

That was one of the early triumphs of simplicity. Art is always a surprise. Its sole function is to astonish. Therein Wagner is an artist.

He is also a civil engineer, for he has mastered the cosmic momentum. The world is a seesaw. It exists by the eternal balance of contrasts. Wagner, seeing the excess, has given us the weight to restore our equipoise. He has led us back like refractory children to drink of milk after we have eaten _marrons glacés_ and liked them. Of course they have given us indigestion, and that is where Wagner fills the role of physician; he diagnoses our disease, he places his finger upon the very “Malady of the Century,” and he prescribes—sugar pills. This shows his great wisdom, for sugar pills and the dissecting-knife should form the sole equipment of every physician.

Wagner is also a philanthropist. His aim is to make us happy, and his method is to make us believe that a gridiron is a lyre and that cobblestones may be Apples of the Hesperides. He tells us that as things now are, each child is “born into a joyless world; that the complexities of our lives have led us into the Slough of Despond; that Civilization has been futile, for it has left us miserable.” And for all our ills he gives us the panacea of content, simplicity and repose. He summons us to be “merely human, to have the courage to be men and leave the rest to Him who numbered the stars. Each life should wish to be what it is good for it to be, without troubling about anything else.”

This is the gospel of non-resistance, of quietism. The absurdity of it is attested by every step we take, for do they not say we could not walk were it not for the resistance of the ground? Eating, alone, is a triumph over opposition. He wishes to steep us in the _dolce far niente_ of Content, and tells us in order to do so all that is needed is our confidence and trust.

“An imperturbable faith in the stability of the universe and its intelligent ordering sleeps in everything that exists. The flowers, the trees, the beasts of the field live in calm strength, in entire security.”

We must remember that Wagner lives in Paris, and, therefore, make allowances for this last statement. He probably has never seen any beasts of the field except in the cages of the Zoo, else he could not have such exuberant faith in their confidence and security. He could never have studied the stealthy horrors of the forests—the furtive panther—the relentless viper—their trembling victims—and possess such a genial conviction of the mercy and goodness of this scheme of creation. No, he must look away from nature for his examples of harmony and peace.

His perpetual refrain is, “Be human and be simple.” Civilization’s answer is that the two are incompatible. Evolution tends to complexity as inevitably as growth leads to death. The beginnings of all things are simple—people, theories of government and vegetable seeds. But the laws of life will not leave them thus. Like American policemen, their continual order is “move on.”

We would have had no history had it not been for man’s love of novelty. It is the one enduring thing. The anthropology of the world is but the record of man’s taste for the strange. Yet Wagner says, “Novelty is ephemeral. Nothing endures but the commonplace, and if one departs from that, it is to run the most perilous risk. Happy he who is able to reclaim himself, who finds the way back to simplicity.”

After reading pages of hazy verbiage descriptive of this simplicity, one cannot but see that his ideal is a vapory creation, a fusing of the honest animality of the savage and the calloused quietism of the lotus-eater.

Simplicity! What prototypes have we for it in all humanity? Two possible types suggest themselves, the savage and the hermit. But Darwin shows us that we cannot find simplicity in the savage. Like civilized man, his instincts are toward exaggeration. He, too, in his limited way, tries to escape from the realities of life. His protest against truth is tattooing. His idea of beauty is distortion.

As the great anatomist, Bichat, long ago said, “If everyone were cast in the same mold, there would be no such thing as beauty. If all our women were to become as beautiful as the Venus de Medici, we should soon wish for a variety. We should wish to see certain characters a little exaggerated beyond the existing common standard.”

All the philosophizing of the optimist won’t thwart this tendency of human nature, and it is as futile to bewail “the Vice of the Superlative,” the complexities and hyperboles of life, as it would be to bewail the inevitability of death. Thus we see we cannot find simplicity in man’s primitive form, the savage.

We must, then, look for it in one of his acquired forms—in the idealist who can make of himself a mental Robinson Crusoe, or in the hermit of the monastery or the desert. It must be in some isolated being that we seek simplicity, for certainly it can never be found amid “the madding crowd” and its “ignoble strife.” In solitude alone can one cultivate that contemplative apathy of the mind which Wagner calls peace, which Mahatmas call divinity, and wives call selfishness.

But solitude is not good for man. With it we punish our worst criminals and our old maids. Victor Hugo says, “It makes a god or a devil of man.” Neither of these superlative beings could exist in Wagner’s temperate zone. Wagner yearns for quiet and rest, and where can we find them? Scientists tell us nothing in the world is at rest. There are but two spots on the earth which don’t move with it—the poles. And God has made them uninhabitable—as a lesson.

If Wagner could reach them, he might build his Utopia there, warm it with a rainbow and fertilize it with the waters of Lethe.

Yet humanity must have these Arcadian dreams. The epochs are strewn with them. Periodically man grows tired of the spiced flavors of his repasts and would fain go out in the woods and gather manna from heaven. The effort has always been disastrous. We had the experiment of the Perfectionists, the Icarians, the Owenites, the Harmonists and Brook Farm. They were all founded on simplicity and were all dissolved because of the difference between theory and practice. This is unfortunate.

An ideal is like a schoolboy’s ruler—it is very good to measure by, but is very frail to build a habitation with. Optimism is a good thing, and so is Pessimism. But Optimism alone is popular; man does not like to be told the faults of the universe any more than to be told of his own faults. This accounts for his hospitality to all the myopic dogmas of Optimism, and his antipathy to the equally true tenets of Pessimism.

It is as if one faction believed only in the actuality of the day, and the other admitted only the existence of night. Their polemics suggest the law of gravitation run mad. What if there were only a law of attraction and none of repulsion? Certainly we would all be merged into one. But this union would be chaos and extinction. Our repulsions and suspicions save us. They make an individual where the Optimist with his one law of attraction would have an inert mass. The Lord’s Prayer should be changed to “Deliver us from evil—and good.”

Too great a bias toward a recognition of either is dangerous. The one inculcates content—the other discontent. But of the two, discontent is by far the safer. If content had been universal, our present degree of enlightenment and justice would have been impossible.

Content means egotism, inaction and stagnation. Discontent means reformation, revolution and progress. All our great men were discontented. All our imbecile kings were contented—and tried to make their serfs so. Whose mind was the most beneficial to the world—the fermenting, aggressive brain of Luther, or the tranquil cerebellum of the gorged Vitellius? Civilization has arisen from discontent. Discontent means upheaval, and upheaval is to a nation what plowing is to the corn. Sir Robert Peel defined agitation to be “the marshaling of the conscience of a nation to mold its laws.”

What we want at present is not peace, but agitation. There are too many wrongs to be righted—too many national dragons to be slain to respond yet awhile to Wagner’s call to disarmament! What we need are spears, not olive branches; the flag of battle, not the flag of truce.

Wagner wishes to give us happiness. But man’s effort for selfish, personal happiness has caused all the miseries of the world.

It is by persistently closing their eyes to the sorrows of man that our commercial pirates can so tranquilly exist. I believe that when man sees that he cannot make life enjoyable he will then turn his attention to making it endurable. At present our safest philosophy is the belief in progress by antagonism, and our duty is to unsheathe the sword of rebellion from the scabbard of ignorance, and do battle against all despots and oppressors!

_Defined_

“WHAT is domestic economy, Professor?”

“Buying your cigars with the money you save on your wife’s clothing.”

* * * * *

_The Modern Table_

FREDDIE—What is interest, dad?

DAD—Six per cent is legal rate, 25 is pawnbroking, 100 is usury, while 600 is high finance.

* * * * *

_The Faddist_

COBWIGGER—When did your home cease to be a happy one?

DORCAS—When my wife joined a lot of clubs that made a business of making other people’s homes happy.

* * * * *

_A Family Secret_

CRAWFORD—I hear he does nothing but talk about his money.

CRABSHAW—Yes. He tells everything about it except how he made it.

* * * * *

_Too Tempting_

ENGLISH TOURIST—Your members of Congress pass bills, don’t they?

LOBBYIST—Not the kind I offer them.

* * * * *

PROFITS of small comforts—the great ones are so hard to get.

_The Corner in Change_

BY WILLIAM A. JOHNSTON

“Must be something doing,” said the night-clerk to the room-clerk, nodding in the direction of a middle-aged man who was being piloted toward the elevator by a bell-boy. “That’s Martin, the banker, going up to see the Senator. There’s three others ahead of him. The Senator was expecting them, too, for he told me when they came in to have them shown up to his sitting-room at once.”

“Who are the others?” asked the room-clerk, raising his eyes from his ledger to look after the departing form of the man who—next to Russell Sage—was reputed to have command of the largest amount of ready money of any man in the United States.

“Well,” replied the night-clerk, taking advantage of the dulness of a rainy night in the spring to engage in more extended conversation than the exigencies of his calling usually permitted, “the first one to arrive was Congressman Woods. He’s stopping over at the Waldorf. This is only his second term in the House, but they say he is practically leader of his party. Not ten minutes after him was Higgins, who used to be comptroller, or something of the sort. He’s made a pile of money in the Street in the last few years. They say that last corner in wheat netted him about two million. I wouldn’t care if I stood close enough to him to get a tip once in awhile on the way things were going. There would be more in it than following the horses, although that ain’t saying much, judging by the run of bad luck I have had lately. Just before Martin came in Tom Connors went upstairs.”

“Tom’s rather out of his latitude, ain’t he?” said the room-clerk. “It ain’t often he gets in with such big fellows, is it?”

“Don’t you fool yourself,” replied the night-clerk. “Maybe Tom Connors doesn’t get his name in the society news as often as the rest of them, but all the same he stands about as near next the Senator as anyone in town. Tom Connors has a big pull in Washington, and almost as big a one with the bankers here. With the chances he has the only reason Tom Connors ain’t a millionaire is because he’s such a spender. Tom is a working partner in a good many Senate deals or steals, whichever you want to call them, unless I’m much mistaken.”

The arrival of several guests put an end to the conversation. The room-clerk turned once more to his ledger and the night-clerk began reaching for keys and yelling, “Front!” An hour or two later the men behind the desk were at leisure again when “Ed” Wallace strolled up. To him the night-clerk imparted the information that the Senator was having some sort of a séance in his rooms, incidentally mentioning who were there.

Wallace hastened over to the corner where several members of that unorganized organization, “the political combination,” the brightest reporters of the big newspapers, were exchanging reminiscences. “The most news with the least work” is the motto of the “combination.” It means that whatever news one of them gets, all get—with considerably less labor than if each worked independently, and with the chance of a rival newspaper scoring a “beat” reduced to the minimum.

Various theories as to the meaning of the conference upstairs were suggested and rejected. The five men in the Senator’s rooms were not political allies—that the reporters well knew. That they were all, with the exception perhaps of the Western representative, warm personal friends, they knew equally well. But despite its knowledge of the men and its familiarity with the political situation, the “combination” was unable to deduce anything that could be printed.

“I’ll give it up,” said Stanley Titus. “The only thing I see is for Wallace to go upstairs and see what is going on. The Senator will talk to him if he’ll talk to anyone, and perhaps we can get a line on what’s doing.”

When Wallace, two minutes later, knocked on the door of the Senator’s sitting-room, it was the Senator himself who opened it—just about two inches—and peered impatiently into the hall.

“Oh, it’s you, is it, Wallace?” he said. “Well, my boy, what can I do for you?”

“The combination would like to know if you have anything to say for publication about the conference that is going on in there,” replied Wallace.

The Senator put his head a little farther out the door. “I will tell you something, but you will understand that it is not for publication,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper as Wallace leaned forward expectantly. “I’ve got all the blues.” And the door was shut in Wallace’s face.

But there were no chips or cards on the table to which the Senator returned after shutting the door. The five men, their wrinkled brows betokening hard thinking, were intently studying neatly tabulated statements—long rows of figures—that might mean much or little, depending entirely on the observer’s information as to their purpose.

“As I was saying,” the Senator began, taking up the conversation where he had dropped it to answer the knock, “I am fully convinced that $10,000,000 will see it through. Out of that the expenses of engineering the deal will amount to, say, a million. The actual expenses of collection should not exceed more than ten per cent., and I believe with Mr. Connors that a good part of it can be done with five per cent. That million is all we stand to lose, for the rest will be invested in goods worth their face value, whether the plan succeeds or fails. I believe that it will succeed and I am ready to guarantee one-fourth of the sum needed. If each of the others present, with the exception of Mr. Connors, will do the same, we will have the money. As Mr. Connors is the originator of the plan and will have to superintend the carrying out of the details, I think that without being expected to invest any money he should receive one-tenth of the net profits, and the residue can be divided equally among the rest of us.”

There were no dissenters to the Senator’s proposition, least of all Tom Connors. After some little discussion as to details, the date for carrying out the plan was fixed as the first Friday in October, or rather the first Friday and Saturday, as it was calculated that two days would be required to consummate the work.

When the conference adjourned an hour later Mr. Higgins, the former comptroller, Representative Woods and the Senator each had agreed to have by the first day of September $2,500,000 in available cash, which Mr. Martin, the banker, joining with $2,500,000 of his own, could utilize in carrying out the scheme proposed by Tom Connors, who in lieu of capital had pledged himself to an immense amount of hard work, in consideration of which he was to receive one-tenth of the profits.

There was no good reason for calling it the Fractional Currency Bill, for in reality it was an anti-fractional currency bill. It provided that after the fifteenth day of September the Government of the United States should not issue or cause to be issued, or coin or cause to be coined, any half-dollars, quarters, dimes, nickels, two-cent pieces or pennies, and also that none of the fractional currency already in existence in the possession of the United States should be put into circulation for a period of five years after the date on which the law became operative.

The bill made its appearance in the House and Senate a few days after the opening of the special session called by the President to meet on the twelfth day of July. Strange to say, neither the Senator nor Representative Woods seemed to be much interested in it. Both voted for it after having made brief speeches in its support, but they were only two of many that did the same. The father of the bill in the House was Hicks, of California, and in his State the measure was known as the Hicks bill. The patron of the measure in the Senate was Gordon, of Maine. Neither of these men heretofore had been recognized as having much influence with their associates, but in this instance their pet bill at once found favor in the eyes of their colleagues.

It is a peculiar thing about the American law-maker—the real author of legislation—that he seldom, if ever, appears at the front. He is content that some of the small fry shall have the distinction of fathering the laws and be recorded in history as the men who did this or that for their country’s good. The real leaders of American political life and actions seem to think that post-mortem fame is more than outweighed by more substantial ante-mortem things.

Simple as the measure seemed to read, so equally simple were the strongest arguments used in its support. The actual metal in a penny was worth perhaps the tenth of a penny. There was a startling difference between the face value and the bullion value of the nickel. Even the silver coins if offered as metal in the open market would fetch less than half the amount that they called for. Eventually, if more and more of these “tokens of value” were issued, the people would refuse to accept them except far below par. The time to stop such depreciation was before it had begun, the supporters of the measure in both houses declared, and there was none to gainsay them. Those who had always opposed the greenback theory could not consistently oppose this line of reasoning. So the bill in its transition into law met little opposition.

Strange to say, the newspapers, not even the tragedy-shrieking, sensation-making, scandal-hunting ones, saw aught in the Fractional Currency Bill to make it worth more than a casual mention. What was said about it was good. One or two of the Far West publications who had viewed with dismay the gradually increasing number of pennies in their vicinity, welcomed it openly and gladly, for they felt that it would avert the possibility of reducing their prices to the one, two or three cent standard of the East. The Eastern newspapers that had been cutting each other’s throats by selling twelve and sixteen pages of printed matter at less than the cost of the white paper itself, saw in the measure, if as predicted it resulted in the gradual withdrawal of the penny from circulation, a chance to demand and receive a higher price for their issues without being hurt by the lower prices of rivals. Naturally, the newspapers did not oppose the measure.

As for the people—what do the American people, individually, know or care what is done in Washington? For the most part the knowledge of the community at large is confined to what it reads of the doings of Congress in the Washington letters and to the criticisms it sees in its pet editorial columns. If nothing is said about a particular bill, the public knows nothing. Merchants, bankers, shipping interests, railroads, labor unions, are aroused to action only when they see in a bill an attempt to work injury to themselves. In the case of the Fractional Currency Bill those who knew of it saw nothing in it likely to injure them, and so there was no opposition.

Thus it was that the bill prohibiting the issue of the fractional currency of the United States for a period of five years from the fifteenth day of September received the signature of the President and was duly recorded among the laws of the nation.

Seven o’clock in the morning of the first Friday in October found Tom Connors at his desk in his offices on the second floor of the Safe Deposit Building. He had rented a suite of rooms there several months before and had put on the door the simple sign, “Thomas E. Connors, Broker.” There was nothing unusual about the appearance of the office. In the anteroom there were a few chairs, a table and an office-boy. In another room a leased wire was run in and a telegraph operator was seated. In the office of the “broker” himself there were only such paraphernalia as might be found in any broker’s office.

Even in an inner room there was hardly anything to arouse suspicion. Some persons might have wondered a little if they had noticed that what was to all appearances a door of a coat-closet in reality opened on a secret staircase that led directly to the floor below and into one of the strong rooms of the Safe Deposit Company of which Mr. Martin, the banker, was president.

It was not very many minutes after the arrival of his employer that the office-boy realized to his regret that Friday was to be almost as busy a day for him as the day before had been. Ordinarily, he had had plenty of time to read his favorite literature, interrupted perhaps by a dozen callers and half a dozen errands to do, but on Thursday he had observed sorrowfully that Mr. Connors’s clients seemed to be increasing. If he had kept count he might have known that no less and no more than one hundred persons had called on Mr. Connors. Mr. Connors saw all of them. Some of them he saw alone. Others were admitted to his room by twos and threes. In one instance ten men entered the inner office and emerged from it twenty minutes later in a body. But what all those men were doing there was not of half so much interest to the office-boy as was the fate of Daredevil Mike, whom the end of the chapter had left facing the muzzles of seven rifles in the hands of seven desperate moonshiners.

Perhaps the office-boy’s respect for Mr. Connors’s callers would have been increased had he known that each of the men when he left the office had a package of one-dollar bills. There was not one of them that had not at least $100; others had as much as $500. There was not one of them that Mr. Connors did not know was to be trusted thoroughly. The men were carefully selected. Some of them on previous occasions during political campaigns had been supplied with money by Mr. Connors to be distributed in the places where it would do the most good. A few of them were not unknown in the records of crime, but as Mr. Connors had remarked to Martin, the banker, to whom he had shown the list, “There ain’t one of them that would throw down a friend.”

One of these men had arrived in the office shortly after Mr. Connors, and as soon as he was admitted to the private office and the door had been shut, he exclaimed:

“Say, Connors, that was a regular cinch. It did not take me more than an hour to clean up that market. No explanations had to be made, either.”

“Where’s the stuff?” asked Mr. Connors bruskly, and Mullins, his caller, began emptying on the desk from every pocket in his clothing a varied assortment of small change.

“You’ll find there’s ninety-five dollars there all right, as per agreement,” said Mullins. “I didn’t have to spend much over a dollar, either. It was a package of tobacco here and some potatoes for the old woman there, where some old codger wouldn’t give me change unless I bought something. But in most cases I would go to a stall and tell them a neighbor wanted five dollars in small change till the bank opened, and nearly every time I would get it. I don’t believe there’s a hundred pennies left in that market.”

While he had been talking a clerk from the Safe Deposit Company had entered Mr. Connors’s office by the private staircase. He carried to the room below the money Mullins had turned in, returning shortly with two receipt slips, one of which went to Mr. Connors and the other to his caller.

“Now, Mullins,” said Mr. Connors, “I want you to go up to the big cable-car barn where the conductors turn in their money. Here’s $500 more, and stay there until you are relieved. If you run out of money telephone me. Get in some inconspicuous corner and pass the word around among the conductors that ninety-five pennies or nineteen nickels are worth a dollar to you. If they want to know what is up tell them that it is a theatrical advertising dodge; tell them that you are writing a story for a Sunday newspaper—tell them anything.”

Hardly had Mullins been dismissed when another of the syndicate’s agents came in to report and was hurried off to some other part of the city. In some cases the men received an allowance of five per cent. on all the money they handled. In other cases it was a little more. So the work went on all that day and the next. Ten men were kept at work in ten sections of the city seeing that paper money replaced the silver, nickels and coppers in the tills of the small shops. Few, if any, of the shopkeepers realized that anything was amiss. The agents were all instructed to do their work without arousing any suspicion. They had orders every time they rode on a surface-car or patronized the Elevated roads to offer a dollar bill in payment of their fare. Wherever they saw an opportunity to get a bill changed they took it.

A clerk of the Safe Deposit Company reported at noon to Mr. Connors that 12,071,624 pennies, 437,589 nickels, 366,427 dimes, 444,886 quarters and 139,553 half-dollars had been turned in by the assiduous collectors. Telegrams received from Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago and various other cities showed that the efforts there had met with equal success. With the $3,000,000 in small change that Mr. Connors had succeeded in amassing in the preceding weeks through banks and money brokers, he was well satisfied.

At three o’clock on Friday afternoon there was not a bank in the city that had not had its store of small change much depleted by the raids of the dry-goods and department stores. Half an hour later an organized descent was made on all the big department stores by the agents of the syndicate. Ninety of the collectors—the others being still engaged elsewhere, according to orders previously issued, their movements being known only to Mr. Tom Connors—visited in succession the biggest stores in the shopping district, making in various departments a series of purchases of articles advertised at four cents or six cents, or some other small sum that meant at least ninety cents in change from a dollar bill. When Friday evening came the syndicate had succeeded in stripping the shopping district of all its small change.

The work of collecting on Saturday was necessarily much slower, but when Saturday evening came the syndicate had nearly $9,000,000 in fractional currency in its possession and everyone was wondering what made change so scarce. The grand _coup_ was effected at midnight Saturday night. Agents of the syndicate were waiting with paper money at the headquarters of all the penny-in-the-slot machines. More than a million dollars, mostly of pennies, was hurried in guarded trucks to the Safe Deposit offices.

On Sunday afternoon there was another conference in the Senator’s rooms. Connors submitted his report. He told how the markets, the car-barns, the “L” stations, the department stores, the five-and-ten-cent shops had been skilfully but legally looted of all their small change. Not only in one city but in all cities of over ten thousand inhabitants had this been done successfully. There was triumph in his tones as he read the final figures: “Cost of collection, $482,621. Total small change in vaults, $9,464,867.63.”

The Senator smiled a satisfied smile.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I think we can safely say that our corner is complete. We have cornered the small change. The department stores, the street railways, business everywhere will be at a standstill tomorrow. Small change is essential to modern business. The business men must have it. They must come to _us_ for it. If business stops for a single day, there is hardly a large establishment that can survive. We have them at our mercy! How merciful we are to be, Mr. Martin, I think we should leave to you.”

The others nodded assent.

Mr. Martin adjusted his glasses. He took Mr. Connors’s report and glanced at it with deliberation.

“As the Senator observed,” he began, “the retail business houses must have small change. They must have pennies. Even on Saturday afternoon they were trying to get them. They were offering premiums. As high as six dollars was offered for five dollars in pennies. By Monday noon, with disaster, with suspension, with failure before them, they will gladly pay any price for small change.”

“But, gentlemen”—the banker smiled a philanthropic smile—“we must be generous. We can offer the retailers liberal terms—we can offer them all the small change they want for immediate delivery by Monday noon. We can make the terms seven dollars for five dollars in small change. From what I know of the conditions, I am confident that all the small change we have amassed will be gladly taken at that price. We have on hand in round numbers nine and one-half millions. For this we will receive $13,300,000. Deducting our capital, and the half million that it cost us for collection, this will still leave us $2,800,000, or something more than a half million apiece after Mr. Connors has had his tenth.”

Monday dawned bright and clear, and Mr. Martin was early in reaching his office at the Safe Deposit Company. So was Mr. Connors. The last thing on Saturday night circulars had been mailed to all the principal retailers and to the street railway companies announcing that the Safe Deposit Company was prepared to supply an unlimited amount of small change on short notice.

“The street-cars caught it hard this morning,” whispered Mr. Connors as he dropped downstairs for a moment to see how things were going. “How are things progressing? Any answers to the circulars yet?”

Mr. Martin shook his head, but he glanced at the clock.

“It’s too early,” he said. “It’ll take them an hour or two to realize what a bad situation they are in.”

“I suppose it will,” said Connors as he went upstairs to send out scouts.

An hour later he was back downstairs in Mr. Martin’s office. The Senator was there, too. Both he and Martin looked worried.

“Say,” said Connors, “something’s gone wrong somewhere. The department stores seem to be doing business the same as ever. And there’s pennies everywhere!”

“That’s just what the Senator was telling me,” said Mr. Martin, with a puzzled air.

“Well, where in blazes are all the pennies coming from?” demanded Connors angrily.

“That is just what Mr. Martin and I expected you to tell us!” said the Senator severely. “Did you clean out all the small change from the markets?”

“And from the department stores?” echoed the banker.

“And from the car-barns?”

“And from the five-and-ten-cent stores?”

“And from the slot machines?”

“And from the children’s banks?”

“Yes, and from a thousand places more!” said Connors.

“How about the churches?” asked the Senator slowly.

All three looked blank. They understood now why the corner had failed.

For everybody knows that, no matter what happens, there are always plenty of pennies in the church collection plates.

_Car Straps as Disease Spreaders_

BY JOHN H. GIRDNER, M.D.

The leather straps in the street-cars of New York and all other cities, to which people have to hang when unable to get a seat, are not only unmentionably filthy, but they are a means of spreading disease. Each one of these straps is a focus of infection, a continual repository and source of supply of every kind of disease germ and about every kind of filth known to mankind. These car straps are made of leather. They are riveted around the pole from which they hang, when the car is built, and there they remain until they or the car are worn out. They are never removed to be cleaned or disinfected. And they are never renewed until the old one is rotten from age and use. Thousands upon thousands of all sorts and conditions of people, hailing from everywhere and with every imaginable variety of filth and infection befouling their hands and fingers, grasp these straps at all hours of the day and night.

Some idea of the conglomeration of materials which these thousands of hands deposit, remove and mix up on the car straps might safely be left to the imagination. Microscopic examination of scrapings taken from straps in use on cars in New York City has revealed infectious material and filth of all kinds. Cultures made from these scrapings and injected into guinea pigs caused their death in a few hours.

Car straps may readily be the means of conveying the virus of some of the most loathsome diseases, especially those attended with a discharge, or where there are open ulcers or eruption on the skin. In traveling about the city people hold on to the car straps from a few minutes to half an hour. The perspiration of the hand moistens the leather and whatever of filth or virus happens to be on the hand is literally soaked into the strap and there it remains until another hand comes along and carries some of it away or makes another deposit of similar character or both. It is true that the skin everywhere, and especially the thick skin on the hands, is an excellent protection against poisonous material brought into contact with it, otherwise man could not live at all. Here is a good example of what is meant: You might cover your entire arm with vaccine virus and it would not “take” if the entire skin was intact, but scratch it ever so little, making a small raw spot, and the virus enters the system and you have all the symptoms of a successful vaccination. So it is in handling straps which have been handled by others with virus of any kind on their hands; if there are no raw or sore places on your hand you are not in danger, but a slight abrasion, a cut or hang-nail may be sufficient to cause infection, as happened to a patient of mine only recently.

There is another danger: virus on the hand may be carried to the eyes by the fingers and cause mischief when there is no abrasion on the hand to admit it to the system.

Aside from the dangers pointed out, there is the esthetic side. It is far from pleasant to hold on to one of these straps if one stops to think what may be, and what certainly is, on the strap. You can put on gloves; but it is not even pleasant to think of wallowing one’s gloves in such material.

You cannot disinfect leather without destroying it; even if these leather straps could be removed from the poles. Here is the remedy: Use straps made of webbing instead of leather, and attach them to the poles with a device which would make it possible to remove the straps readily. Remove the straps at proper intervals, once a month or so, and thoroughly disinfect them with heat and formaldehyde. They will come out of this thoroughly cleaned and without injury to the strap itself. Webbing straps are stronger than leather. Tests made at Brown University of the comparative tensile strength of the two materials showed that, while leather straps of the regulation kind broke under 400 or 500 pounds, it took 600 and 700 pounds to break webbing straps. The webbing strap is also more pleasant to grasp in the hand than leather.

Every argument is in favor of substituting webbing for leather as material for car straps except the small item of expense to the companies of making the change. The cost of disinfecting them from time to time would be trifling. The president of the Board of Health of New York City has, in fact, expressed his willingness to disinfect the straps free of charge to the companies, if they will bring the straps to the department’s disinfecting plant at such intervals as he shall designate.

Spitting in cars is properly prohibited because there is some danger of spreading tuberculosis by this means. And it is also a practice revolting to well-bred people. As a means of conveying the germs of a number of loathsome diseases, the present car straps are more dangerous than is spitting on the floor. And it is certainly revolting to a man or woman of ordinary habits of cleanliness to be obliged to hang on to a piece of leather which is so filthy that one would not touch it under any other circumstances.

_His Profanitaciturnity_

“Deacon Timothy Tush is a man of few words,” said the landlord of the Pruntytown tavern, “but he makes ’em count.

“Of course, it was aggravating enough to have caused ’most anybody to indulge in any kind of language that came to hand, and plenty of it—to have the hired man cut up such a dido. To be sure, foolishness is bound up in the heart of a hired man; but Deacon Timothy’s hired man went further than the law allows when he attempted to smoke out a hornet’s nest up in the barn loft, with a skillet of live coals and two spoonfuls of sulphur; after, of course, having driven up with an ox-cart of hay and clumb up into the loft and found the nest. Being a hired man, he couldn’t possibly act any other way.

“He did exactly what might have been expected when a hornet stung him on the neck; he jumped backward, stuck his foot through a rotten board and flung the live coals in every direction. The Deacon was coming along with old Juckett, the horse doctor, just as the hired man tumbled out of the loft door, considerably afire and literally infested with hornets, and landed on the load of hay, setting fire to that, too. The oxen ran over the Deacon and old Juckett, scattered burning hay ’most everywhere, tore the cart to flinders, and would have burnt up the whole place if it hadn’t been for the neighbors.

“As it was, barn, cart and load of hay were totally destroyed, the oxen singed, the Deacon sadly battered, old Juckett’s left leg broken, and the hired man so unanimously stung and fried that the doctor said he really didn’t know where to begin on him. And—but, let’s see! Where was I? Oh, yes! All the Deacon said when it happened was ‘Suzz! suzz!’ but I can’t help thinking it was the most profane suzzing I ever had the pleasure of listening to.”

_The Say of Reform Editors_

The Reform editor is a political waif on the tempestuous sea of strife.

It would have been money in his pocket if he had never been born.

He has a devil part of the time, and a devil of a time all the time.

The smallest thing about him is his pocketbook and the largest his delinquent list.

He says more kind things of other people and gets more “cussings” than any other man living.

When he first takes the job of reforming the world he thinks it can be finished in six months or a year.

Then he puts it off another year and borrows some money of his father-in-law.

Then he enlists for three years or more during the war and borrows some more money.

At this stage of the game he takes a new grip on the situation and starts in to finish up the job in the next campaign.

But a cog slips and the dadgummed thing slides merrily down the broad road to destruction.

The editor tears his hair and says some cuss words.

The devil grins and throws the shooting-stick at the office cat.

Every opposition paper trots out its rooster, and the editor waits for the world to come to an end or the moon to turn to blood.

At this point in the proceedings it is time to borrow some more money.

He would quit business, but he can’t.

When a man undertakes to reform the world he is never out of a job.

He always sees something that needs his attention.

But the Reform editor is made of the right kind of metal.

He is always out of money, but seldom out of heart.

He used to dream of the time when he could bathe his wearied feet in the rippling waters of success.

When every man would do unto his brother as he would have his brother to do unto him.

When in Utopia’s green fields and by the side of its babbling brooks he could end his days.

But he is over that now.

All he can do is to attract some attention and set the people to thinking.

Here’s to the Reform editor.

He may have chosen a rough and tempestuous road, but the lightning strokes of his gifted pen and thunder tones of his voice will purify the moral and political atmosphere.—_Morgan’s Buzz Saw._

* * * * *

“A READER of _The Commoner_ asks where he can secure a copy of a book entitled ‘Ten Men on Money Isle.’ If anyone who is able to give the information will send it to _The Commoner_ on a postal card the information will be published for the benefit of the readers.”

And the foregoing from Bryan’s _Commoner_!

“Ten Men on Money Isle” is one of Colonel S. F. Norton’s best books, and one of the most popular on the money question. It is a book that made thousands of converts to Populism, the triumph of which gave Mr. Bryan two terms in Congress and placed him prominently before the American people. Every Populist newspaper advertised it, quoted it and praised it. Greenbackers, alliancers, union laborites, socialists, single taxers, students of political economy and sociology and everybody else with intelligence and energy enough to give attention to public questions, were familiar with the modest little book and its author. And yet W. J. Bryan, the child of Populism, never heard of it—doesn’t know his political father, as it were. Oh, pshaw! You can’t fool me! Bryan isn’t that ignorant.—_The People’s Banner._

* * * * *

If the Populist vote was thrown out in all other counties as it was in Monroe, Tom Watson should have had about 5,000 votes in Iowa this election. One thing sure, the Republican papers admit that 75,000 legal voters in Iowa did not vote this year 1904; that means that over a hundred thousand did not vote. There was no choice between Parker and Roosevelt, and these men thought Watson could not win, so they did not vote.—_Iowa Educator._

* * * * *

We look upon the battle of Waterloo as a tremendous catastrophe because 57,000 people were killed in that memorable conflict, but in ten years the railroads of the United States have killed 78,152 persons, and all for the sake of earning dividends on watered stock. How many Waterloos are comparatively soon forgotten!—_Field and Farm._

* * * * *

On Christmas Eve a private conference of prominent Bryan Democrats was held in Lincoln, Neb., at which Mr. Bryan presided, having for its purpose the development of a scheme to re-Bryanize the Democratic party and put out another bait for the Populists. The details of the plan will, no doubt, be given out at an early day. The Pops have been gold-bricked by Democrats enough to learn that any plan, promise or pledge from that source has nothing good for them in it. Keep in the middle of the road! Don’t be caught by these political trimmers!—_Southern Mercury._

* * * * *

Roosevelt wants Congress to provide work for the Indians on the reservations. The Indians won’t work. Nothing is said about the two million men who are out of work. To provide them with jobs would be to disband the great army of the unemployed, without which capitalism could not exist.—_Iowa Educator._

* * * * *

President Roosevelt says there should be no rebates allowed on freight rates by the railroads. It is plain to be seen that if we had government ownership the President would not allow “rebates,” but it is safe to say nothing will be done, for these railway corporations have a way to interest members of Congress in these profits, so that no law to curb them can be got through Congress. If we had government ownership even a Republican President would give us relief, but as it is he is powerless.—_The Forum, Denver, Col._

* * * * *

It is easy to see now that the St. Louis convention was the crowning event of damphoolishness.

Almost anyone can be fooled part of the time, but nobody but a fool can be fooled all the time.

The yellow-hammers that are now in control of the Democratic party insist that they are going to hold on.

The consensus of opinion among Populists seems to be that they won’t take any more of Dr. Bryan’s medicine.

The Democratic party may not be dead, but it is disfigured beyond recognition, crippled beyond recovery, and disgraced beyond redemption.

As principle has been abandoned, and there are not enough offices to go round, there is nothing to hold the pieces of the Democratic party together.

There is a man down in Texas who is so particular as to “what’s in a name” that he won’t kiss a “grass widow” for fear of catching the “hay fever.”

If the South will set its face forward instead of backward it will see the dawn of a new era, an era that will make her the mistress of the commerce of the world.

One of the most spectacular scenes ever exhibited in this old world of ours is presented by a lot of laboring men howling for what they want and voting for what they don’t want.

When the politicians of the South want to steal something, or do some other mean thing, they dig up the “nigger domination snake” in order to distract the attention of the people from their own meanness.—_Morgan’s Buzz Saw._

* * * * *

Reformers make a mistake in thinking all the reform element is outside of the Republican party. The greatest obstruction today in the way of reform is the Democratic party. If it would gently sink to rest as the Whig party did, the forceful men in the Republican party would lead a movement that would give us quick and substantial relief. Seventy-five per cent. of the Republicans have advanced ideas and are anxious for reform. To be sure, the party is in the strong clutch of greed, as much so as the Democratic party was in 1850, but the Whig party had the good sense to die in 1854, and the Free Soil Democrats, the strong men of the then dominant party, came out and formed the Republican party, a party of the people, by the people and for the people. And this party would have given us splendid service in economic reforms had not the great Civil War required its attention; while the nation was torn by this internecine struggle the vampires of greed, who have no politics, fastened themselves upon this grand new party, and long before peace came were so intrenched in power that such men as Lincoln, Morton, Wade, Stevens and a host of other great Republican leaders were compelled to bow in submission. They saw and comprehended the dire results that would follow the machination of these ghoulish hounds of hell, but they were powerless.

Wade and Stevens were moved to tears, Lincoln’s soul was torn by grief. “We submit,” said Stevens, “to save the life of a nation.”

Thus did grasping greed take advantage of our extremity and make the struggle for existence a strife more fierce than war.—_The Forum, Denver, Col._

* * * * *

Back of all politics is the System. What the System is we now know fairly well from the exposures of Ida Tarbell, Steffens, Lawson and others. The System is not a political but an industrial form of control. Its rewards and punishments are economic. The greater part of the population of the United States lives under conditions of economic slavery of one kind or another. Political liberty does not in any way mean or guarantee industrial liberty. Hence the impending revolution in this country is not to be political but industrial.—_Tomorrow._

* * * * *

A hundred thinkers grow gray a-thinking; a hundred discoverers grow old a-discovering; a financier comes along, grabs the theories and the finds, hires folks to straighten ’em out, and rides in his automobile while the poor fellows of ideas eat mush and water by the roadside. The men who do brain-work get the crust-crumbs which fall from the commercial sponge-cake. Brains are poor collaterals to raise money on.—_The Scythe of Progress._

* * * * *

The _Saturday Evening Post_ says that there is to be a new deal in politics. It predicts a realignment and declares that “there is a great body of Republicans who really belong on the Democratic side, and a smaller, but still large number of Democrats who ought to be Republicans.” Let the exchange take place—the sooner the better. Harmony in belief and in purpose is the only basis of co-operation in politics.—_The Commoner._

* * * * *

There is no danger of Bryan stealing the Populist platform while Tom Watson is standing on it.—_Morgan’s Buzz Saw._

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