Earl Derr Biggers Tells Ten Stories (2024)

Stories first published in The Saturday Evening Post
Collection published by Bobbs-Merrill Co., Indianapolis, 1933

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

MOONLIGHT AT THECROSSROADS

Illustrated by James H. Crank

Published in The Saturday Evening Post, Apr 23,1927

"YOU lie, Hilary," said the woman in the deckchair. She looked very lovely but a bit weary in the light of thedying sun. Behind a jeweled hand, she stifled a little yawn. "Youknow you lie."

"My dear Isabelle, isn't that rather unfair?" The tall,distinguished-looking man stood with his back to the rail, hishands thrust deep into the pockets of a tweed coat. His thin,handsome face was calm; though he stared down at the pale-goldhair, the violet eyes of a famous beauty, he appearedunmoved.

A famous beauty, yes, he was thinking, but a beauty past hernoontime. Too bad that even the loveliest flowers must fade.

"Unfair? I think not," the woman answered. "You were always aliar—I see that now. That wonderful time at Mentone?"

The man shrugged. "Why go back to Mentone?"

"Why not? I believed you then, because I wanted to believe.But now I know—when you said there was no other

"Isabelle!" He knelt by her chair, but she looked away, downthe deck, at a middle-aged man who stood by the rail, idlyswinging a monocle over the side and staring off to where the sundipped down into a sea as crimson as his own complexion."Isabelle, if we must go back to Mentone, let's go back to thehappiness of those weeks—the perfume of the roses, the palemoon in the star-decked sky, those warm nights on theterrace."

"Sir James!" called the woman. The man down the deckgalvanized into life. "Sir James enters on the word 'terrace'"she explained.

"Ah—er—ah—yes—pardon me," remarked SirJames, arriving promptly. "I was admiring the sunset."

He stuck the monocle in his eye and was suddenly an actor."Er—er—ter-race." He clattered his feet on thespotless deck. "I come in. My line, old chap. Here you are, liketwo love birds, and so and so and so, ending—"

"Just a moment." The tall man had risen quickly to his feet."I—I don't understand. According to my part"—he tooka rumpled roll of manuscript from his pocket—"I have ascene here—a rather good scene—"

The woman sighed wearily. "That stupid fool of aNixon—he gave you the original part. The scene you speak ofwas never played in the London production. Mr. Thatcher can tellyou." She glanced at Sir James. "He was with me in London."

"Quite true," agreed Mr. Thatcher, dropping the monocle. "Thescene was struck out at the first rehearsal, old chap—thefirst rehearsal at which Miss Clay appeared, I mean. I enter onthe word 'terrace.'"

The tall man smiled. "I see," he said. "A corking good scenefor Hilary, I thought it. He recalls to her all that they meantto each other at Mentone; for a brief moment he has almost wonher again. She is very nearly in his arms."

"I'm sorry," said the woman coldly.

"My one chance in the piece," persisted the tall man.

The woman's eyes narrowed, her mouth hardened. "The scene isout," she said. "You understand that, Mr. Wayne?"

"Naturally," bowed the man. "Naturally, it's out."

Her eyes flashed. "Just what do you mean by that?"

"You are the star," he replied. He paused. "Your word is law."He took out a pencil and scribbled something on the script."There, the scene is out. And doubtless it won't matterparticularly—in Australia."

Two young people came suddenly upon them—a slender girlwith sleek, bobbed, coal-black hair, an English boy with rosycheeks and frank gray eyes. They stopped. "Rehearsal?" cried theboy. "I say, did you want us?"

"No," said the star. The couple moved on; the girl called backover her shoulder, "Isn't it a glorious evening?"

The three by the rail looked after them. "All their eveningsare glorious," Wayne remarked gently. "Their days too. They'regoing to be married in Sydney, they tell me. And young Mixell wasabout at the end of his rope when this engagement offered. Yousee, Miss Clay, what happiness your tour is bringing toothers."

The woman shrugged. "Happiness, you say? I wonder. It happensthat I was married once, myself. Happiness, perhaps, for a littletime." It was characteristic of her that though she was speakingnow of her own experience, what she said still had the ring oflines from a play.

"Ah—er—yes," said Wayne. "But tocontinue—let me get this right. Isabelle, if we must goback to Mentone—and so and so—warm nights on theterrace—"

Mr. Thatcher restored his monocle. "Here you are, like twolove birds. Frightfully silly line, that. I always hated it. Idon't suppose I could say— "

The ship's clock spoke sharply, four times. Passengers wereappearing on deck with that air of bright expectancy those onshipboard wear as the dinner hour approaches.

"Six o'clock," remarked Sibyl Clay. "We may as well drop it. Imust dress, even for one of these beastly dinners." Her facelighted suddenly with a charming smile. Swinging about, Wayne sawthe cause. A good-looking, tanned man of thirty-five or so wasdrawing near. "Come here, Mr. Maynard," continued the famousstar. "I am very, very angry with you. You have neglected me allday."

The newcomer obeyed. He was flattered, as any man would havebeen. "I was punishing myself," he told her, "for my sins."

"What tiny, unimportant sins they must be," said SibylClay.

"On the contrary," he answered, "I have to-day endured theultimate in torture. I'm sure you gentlemen agree?"

"Quite," said Thatcher. Wayne merely smiled.

"Rather nice evening," Maynard remarked. "A sample of ourHawaiian climate. I hope you're going to like Honolulu. It's myhome town, you know."

"I shall love it," the actress promised.

"You're stopping over, I trust," ventured Maynard.

The lovely lips pouted. "Hardly at all. So stupidlyarranged—my tour. I should like to have played in Honolulu,but we spent nearly a week in Los Angeles, and now we must hurryon to Australia at once. They're so eager for me over there.Isn't it sweet of them?"

Maynard seemed disappointed. "Then it's only between boats?"he inquired.

"Yes," Wayne told him. "We land at ten Tuesday morning, Ibelieve. The boat from Vancouver comes in at two and sails forSydney at ten that night. We shall have only twelve hours in yourHonolulu, Mr. Maynard."

Maynard shook his head regretfully. "Not enough," he said."Twenty-four hours—and none of you would ever leave us. Buttwelve—why, you'll have hardly a taste of ourmoonlight!"

"Sit down—do," urged Sibyl Clay, "and tell me about yourmoonlight, Mr. Maynard."

The tanned young man dropped quickly into the chair at herside. She looked up at the two members of her company.

"Our rehearsal will be resumed to-morrow morning in thelounge. We'll take this piece from the beginning."

Wayne bowed. "By the way," he said, holding out his part, "itseems rather useless my learning lines that are no longer in thepiece."

"See Nixon," advised the woman sharply. "He will give you thepart as Bentley played it in London." Her eyes went back to DanMaynard's face, their expression altered magically.

"I've heard so much of your Hawaiian moonlight " shebegan.

Norman Wayne and Thatcher strolled off to a distant part ofthe deck. Wayne's mouth was set in rather grim lines.

"So that scene's out," he said. "I might have known."

Thatcher nodded. "Of course," he replied. "A selfish littlebeast, this Clay woman. I've played with her—I know. Butone doesn't rise to the heights without a bit of trampling, oldchap."

"I suppose not."

"Rather surprising—her mention of her marriage. Hewasn't a bad sort—her husband, I mean. She killed hisspirit, squandered his money, tossed him aside like a flattenedorange. Oh, she's been on the make, my lad. You'll have verylittle opportunity I was surprised when you took the engagement,a bully good actor like you."

"Oh, one wants a change. I've always hankered to take a lookabout, down yonder. The South Seas—they fascinate me.Travel and see the world, I thought. I presume your reasons werequite different. You've been in Australia before, you said."

"Started there," nodded Thatcher. "No, I'm not precisely goingfor the ride. But engagements are none too plentiful at home, youknow."

"We've all learned that," admitted Wayne. "Rather rough timefor the artist. Ah, yes, whether our sweet star fancies the roleor not, she's a great philanthropist. A year in repertoire inAustralia—it's a life-saver for some of us. Forinstance—"

He nodded toward a little old lady who approached at a rapidgait. "And how's our Nellie to-night?" he inquired as she cameup.

A beautiful smile appeared on the lined old face. "Keen asmustard," said Nellie Fortesque. "Working again. Bless you, Ithought my run had ended for ever. Working, and the weather'sperfect, and my tired heart has stopped jumping about. I don'tthink I've ever been so happy."

"Wayne here," remarked Thatcher, "has just discovered that hisbest scene is out of our opening piece."

The old lady tapped Wayne on the shoulder.

"Don't you care," she comforted. "Don't you worry. You'll playsecond fiddle, my boy, and a very soft music at that. We allwill. But what of it? We're working. And if our star is a littletouchy, can you blame her? Australia for a year—it makes ushappy, but it makes her sad. She's passed the hilltop; she'scoasting down. Poor child! I was on that hilltop once myself. ButI mustn't stop here chatting. I'm walking two miles beforedinner."

She went on down the deck, and Wayne smiled after her. "It'sadded ten years to her life, this engagement," he said. "It'srescued Harry Buckstone at the very door of the almshouse. It'sgiven young Mixell and that girl their chance to marry. It'sshowing me the world. Odd turn, isn't it, that so notably selfisha woman should be the instrument of so much happiness? ... Well,I must go below."

As he passed Sibyl Clay's deck chair he saw that she wasleaning very close to Dan Maynard's broad shoulder and talking ina low voice. Wayne smiled. The great star was playing Julietagain—Juliet, so young, so fair, so innocent.

* * * * *

THE Pacific, an ocean of many moods, was stillbeneficently calm the following morning. They gathered in thelounge at ten o'clock, as happy a group of players as one couldhave found on land or sea: Wayne, studying an amended part;Thatcher, gay old Nellie Fortesque, the veteran Harry Buckstone,the two young lovers, a few quiet Britishers who had minor rolesin the plays Sibyl Clay was to offer to Australia. The sun pouredthrough the port-holes; the creaking ship plowed westward towardthe East.

"Feeling younger every minute," Nellie said. She smiled at thegirl with the bobbed hair. "Look out, Zell, my dear, I shall beasking for your roles by the time we reach Sydney."

"They're yours without a struggle," said the girl. She spoketo the old woman, but it was at the boy she looked.

"I may even try to take Tommy away from you," warned Nelliehumorously.

"At that point," said the girl, "the struggle wouldbegin."

"Living's cheap in Australia, they tell me," remarked HarryBuckstone. "Compared with London, I mean. We shall be able to layby a bit. I shall try, at any rate. Starting rather late, but Irealize it now. Laying by a bit—that's the great idea."

Nixon bustled in; he was a little co*ckney, always flurried andrushed. Not only did he manage the stage but he was Sibyl Clay'sbusiness manager as well.

"'Morning, everybody. Bit of all right, this weather, what?I've had a radio from Sydney. We open there the third ofOctober—the day after we land—with Isabelle. Sixmonths in that city alone—that's the promise, if all goeswell. And after—Melbourne, Auckland—there's no limit,the way I see it. Sibyl Clay's a big name down there. We may notgo home for two years, at least."

"Two years?" Tom Mixell looked inquiringly at the girl. "Wouldyou like that, dear?"

"Why, Tommy," she said, "I'd love it! Home's wherever you andI are—after this."

Sibyl Clay came in. She looked fresh and cool in a marvelousblue gown that matched her eyes. With her came Dan Maynard, good-natured, genial. "I've invited Mr. Maynard to watch us rehearse,"the star explained.

"If you people don't mind," said Maynard. Amid a little chorusof polite reassurance, he took a chair near the door.

"Shall we start?" said Miss Clay graciously. She rehearsed theplays herself. "Zell, my dear—Tom—you two are on atthe rise. We'll say this is the stage, the exit to the gardenover here. Now your first line, Zell dear."

They had never seen her more considerate. A little later poorold Harry Buckstone fumbled a line; he fumbled it again andagain. Worried, Thatcher watched the star's expressive face. Helooked for an explosion that would rock the boat. But Sibyl Claywas infinitely patient, amazingly sweet and kind. The actor whohad been with her in London was at a loss to explainit—until his eye fell suddenly on Dan Maynard, intentlywatching in the background. They rehearsed until one o'clock andthe man from Honolulu remained to the end.

After luncheon Norman Wayne sat in a chair outside hisstateroom, a pile of books by his side. Maynard came along,stopped. "You look rather literary," he remarked.

Wayne laughed. "Reading up on the South Seas," he explained."A part of the world that interests me hugely—alwayshas—those lonely islands away down there at the jumping-offplace."

Maynard dropped into a chair. "Not quite so romantic as theauthors make them out to be," he suggested.

"You've seen them then?" Wayne asked.

"I've run down there occasionally."

"Lucky devil!" said Wayne. "I suppose they are touched up abit in the stories. Still, environment has its effect, and theremust be something in these tales, after all. A forgotten beachbeneath the palms—a few white men in a land meant only forthe brown—hot sun, hot blood, hate, greed, revenge. Aviolent landscape would naturally breed violent deeds."

"Oh, yes, of course. Strange things have happened in the SouthSeas." Maynard lighted a cigarette. "By the way, I was very muchinterested in your rehearsal. A charming woman, Miss Clay."

"Yes—charming."

"I recall seeing her act five years ago in London. Neverdreamed I'd meet her some day."

"A great favorite in London," Wayne said; "for—for quitesome years," he added, with meaning.

"And so sweet and unspoiled, despite her big success."

"Absolutely," agreed Wayne, who was a gentleman.

"Must be a great privilege to work with her," suggestedMaynard.

"One learns constantly." Wayne thought of the lines missingfrom his part in Isabelle.

"Sorry you're not going to stop longer in Honolulu," Maynardwent on.

"We all regret it," answered Wayne. "You were born there, Ibelieve you said?"

"Oh, yes."

"In business there?"

"Well, in a way. Look after the interests my fatherleft—a few sugar plantations, a trust company."

"Some one told me your name was quite well known inHawaii."

"I guess it is. My grandfather came there as amissionary."

"You're not—you're not married, I take it?"

Maynard laughed. "No. Unlucky that way—or lucky, howeveryou care to put it."

He rose and tossed his cigarette over the side. "I live inbachelor comfort in a big house on the beach. Speaking of that,I'd be honored if you and Mr. Thatcher would dine with me to-morrow night. Let's make it early—six-thirty—sinceyou're sailing at ten."

"Very kind of you, I'm sure."

"I hope to persuade Miss Clay to come too."

"I'm sure she will. Speaking for myself, I'll bedelighted."

"Then that's fixed," said Maynard. "I'll leave you now to yourlurid literature."

He went on down the deck. The afternoon drifted lazily by. Ateight that night Wayne came upon Nellie Fortesque, seated besideTom Mixell and the girl in the shadow of a lifeboat on the afterdeck.

"Come and join us," said the old lady. "It's night, and themoon is shining, and we're all in love. We're planning ourfuture. It's wonderful. We're all going to be married inSydney—at least, these children are. We're going to saveour money and go back with full pockets and take London by storm.How does it sound to you?"

Wayne smiled ruefully. "Sounds beautiful—for thechildren. You come away now, Nellie. They want to be alone."

"Oh, no!" cried the girl. "Nellie, don't listen to him!"

But the old lady stood up. "Oh, he's quite right. I was juststealing a little of your happiness—you have so much, mydear." She and Wayne strolled down the deck.

"Beautiful—for the children," said Wayne. "Butfor—"

"Nonsense! You're a mere boy."

"I'm forty-five, Nellie."

"Think of me. I'm seventy-two—seventy-two, and sailingoff into the moonlight—the Hawaiian moonlight they say's sodangerous. Oh, well, I've had my fun. And now I'msafe—secure—for another year at least. That'ssomething at my age. Bless you, it's everything!"

"It's something, even at forty-five," Wayne agreed. Theystopped by the starboard rail. Through a long silence theywatched the waves moving restlessly in the white path of themoon. From the lounge came the sad, plaintive strains of aHawaiian melody. Wayne looked at the woman beside him.

"I remember you, Nellie," he said gently. "I was just ayoungster—you won't mind my saying it? I remember—atthe old theater in York—how beautiful you were. YourViola—"

"Dear boy." Her voice broke. "Those were greatdays—great days for Nellie. If I'd only saved something forthe future; but I thought youth lasted for ever. These childrenthink that too. I'm glad they do."

Another silence. "I think I'll go below," the woman said. "To-morrow will be an exciting day. Good night—and thank youfor remembering."

"Thank you for the memory," said Wayne.

Alone again, he moved aimlessly about the ship. On the upperdeck, at a corner of the wireless operator's cabin, he heard lowvoices. One he recognized—a magic voice that had heldthousands enraptured in the London stalls. He paused for amoment; he was a gentleman, but he lingered.

"Yes, it's quite true," Sibyl Clay was saying. "I've hadeverything I wanted out of life. Every one has been so good tome. Fame, applause—the top of the heap, always."

"It must have been a great satisfaction to you," came DanMaynard's voice.

"Oh, it has been. I've loved it—reveled in it. That'swhy I think it's so very strange—"

"What is so strange?"

"There must be something in the air out this way—I don'tknow—I can't explain it. I only know that if you were tocome to me to-night and tell me that this boat would never reachport, that my career was ended, that I'd just go sailing onthrough eternity over a sea like glass, I—I wouldn't mind,Dan. Not with you aboard."

Wayne lingered for Maynard's answer. When it came, the voiceof the Honolulu man was calm, unmoved. "It's the tropics," heexplained evenly. "You're just on the edge, but they've got youalready. Wait until you see Waikiki.... By the way, I want you tocome to dinner at my house to-morrow night."

"That will be thrilling—dinner with you."

"Wayne and Thatcher are coming too."

"But—" There was disappointment in that magic voice.

"I've already asked them," Maynard went on. "And that remindsme, I promised Thatcher I'd join the two of them for bridge thisevening. He said I must bring you—for a very charmingfourth."

"But it's so much nicer on deck." Wayne could not see, but heknew that pout of her lips. "Can't we stay here?"

Maynard had risen. "A promise is a promise," Wayne heard himsaying.

Norman Wayne slipped away. When, a few moments later, heentered the smoking-room, the three of them were already at atable. Thatcher was dealing the cards.

"I much preferred the deck," Sibyl Clay said. "This stuffy oldroom But men are all alike. They have no appreciation."

"On the contrary," said Wayne, "I'm thrilled to the depths.There's a drizzle in London, no doubt, and little pools of waterin the dark alley that leads to the stage door. But to-morrow weshall stand in the Honolulu sunshine."

"At the crossroads of the Pacific," added Maynard.

"At the crossroads," repeated Wayne. He glanced at his hand."I make it two hearts," he said.

* * * * *

AT nine the next morning the boat from LosAngeles came to a stop in Honolulu harbor. The air was warm andmoist and heavy, uncooled by any breeze. The little group ofplayers gathered at the rail, and with that keen interestcharacteristic of British tourists the world over, stared at theunfamiliar scene. Beyond the water-front, unromantic andcommercial, they saw the white tops of buildings, like islands ina sea of brilliant green, and still beyond, blue peaks against acloudless sky.

Nixon moved among them, worried as always. "You'll have tolook after your own hand luggage," he admonished. "I'll have yourtrunks aboard the Princess Irene as soon as she comes in. Don'tforget, we sail at ten sharp, and for God's sake, don't any ofyou miss the boat."

A gleaming limousine with a Japanese chauffeur was waiting forDan Maynard, and at his invitation Miss Clay, Wayne and Thatcherrode with him to the Alexander Young Hotel. There the threeplayers engaged rooms for the day.

"You'll be comfortable here," said Maynard. "I've just toldthe clerk to take special care of you. I'd like to have you atthe house, but I've been away for months, and no doubt things arerather upset there. However, I'll have everything running onschedule by dinnertime. And if you don't mind, I'm going to callfor you all at two o'clock and show you round a bit."

Sibyl Clay nodded. "You're too good," she said. There was anoticeable lack of enthusiasm in her tone.

For three hours that afternoon Maynard motored them about theisland. His high spirits at being home again were contagious. Hewas no longer a boy, but his manner was boyish and charming, andWayne found himself liking the man more and more the longer heknew him. No host could have been more gracious. They saw andthey admired, and when the Honolulu man set them down at theirhotel at five, he told them that his chauffeur would call forthem in about an hour.

Wayne dressed with care, then repacked his bags and rang for abell-boy. It was a bit after six when he descended to the lobby.He settled his account with the smiling little Chinese clerk anddirected that his luggage be piled near the desk.

"I'll call for it later this evening," he explained.

"Yes, sir," agreed the clerk. "It will be very safe."

He went over and, lighting a cigarette, dropped into a wickerchair. Women tourists turned to stare at him, and no wonder. Aleading man on the London stage for many years, he had in his dayset many feminine hearts to beating faster.

Thatcher appeared, his face more crimson than ever above hiswhite shirt-front, the eternal monocle in his eye. His luggage,too, came with him, and when he had paid his bill, he strolledover to Wayne.

"Clay's late as usual, I see," he remarked.

As he spoke, the great star stepped from the elevator. She hadmade good use of her brief time, Wayne thought as he looked ather. Well into the forties, he knew that, but marvelous are thepossibilities of make-up when intelligently applied. And well sheunderstood the virtue of the perfect costume. About her palechiffon dinner gown she had wrapped a Spanish shawl, asflamboyantly colored as the Honolulu scene.

"I believe the car's outside," said Wayne, rising.

"I am ready," answered the star. He looked into her violeteyes and saw a great general going into battle.

Beautiful, yes, Wayne thought, but unkind of the setting sunto be so hideously bright in the limousine. Did she realize thatshe had passed the hilltop, that she was coasting down, that herdays of fame were numbered? Of course she did. Hard lines on thatlovely face, tired lines. At a candle-lighted dinner table,however, they would not show, and under the Hawaiian moonAnything could happen under the Hawaiian moon.

They rolled along between rows of tall coconut palms, over thelowlands, past rice fields and taro patches, and came presentlyto Waikiki, with its huge hotels and its vast rambling houses.Through a gateway and along a drive that skirted a garden allcrimson and gold, and so up to Dan Maynard's big front door.

Maynard was waiting in his living-room, a great apartmentfurnished in expensive native woods, with greenery everywhere.One side of it was open, save for a protecting screen, to thewhite beach. About the whole establishment there was an air ofwealth, security. To these gypsies of the theater it was a newenvironment, and their hearts stirred in a mild envy. What wouldit be like, to have a home, to stop all worry over money,engagements, to sit here by the murmuring surf and feel thatdisaster could never reach them?

Maynard was looking at Sibyl Clay with keen admiration."You're wonderful," he said. "My poor house has never had such avisitor before. Hundreds of people here would have been thrilledto meet you, but I'm being very selfish."

"I'm glad you are," she smiled. "I shall enjoy the memorymore. Just you and I—and Waikiki."

Wayne and Thatcher felt rather out of it, but co*cktailsrestored them. The Japanese butler announced dinner.

The quick tropic dusk was falling. Wayne's premonition cametrue—the table was candle-lighted, and in that kindly glowthe great Sibyl Clay was young again; young as Juliet, and aslovely. The silver of the Maynard family, famous for generations,sparkled no brighter than her violet eyes; the linen was nowhiter than her slim, girlish shoulders. Again Wayne had thefeeling of a general going into battle, fighting—for what?For security, perhaps; for peace and safety; for a new sort ofhappiness in this strange corner of the world.

Wayne found it difficult to take his eyes from her face, andseemingly Dan Maynard was in the same predicament. The Honoluluman saw, sitting across from him at his own table as though shebelonged there, the most strikingly beautiful woman he had evermet. A sort of intoxication seemed to sweep over him; he talkedfaster and faster, stories of the islands, tales of hisforebears' early adventures. Sibyl Clay had never been known as agood listener, but she listened now; she led him on, she smiledupon him. Intoxicated—he was all of that.

"Ah, but you're not the first, my boy," Wayne thought.

The perfect dinner ended at last, and they retired to thedrawing-room for coffee. Wayne took his cup and strode to thescreen. Beyond, in the scented night, he saw the white parade ofthe breakers, line after foamy line in a sea of moltensilver.

"Always wanted to visit this spot," he remarked, coming backinto the room. "The crossroads." He sat down. "I've been thinkingto-night—each one of us stands at the crossroads at sometime in his life. I stood there myself once, longago—twenty-five years ago. Yes, I was at the crossroads,and one word—one little word—decided my course forever after."

"How was that?" asked Thatcher, putting down his cup.

"Twenty-seven years ago, to be exact," Wayne went on. Heglanced at his host and Sibyl Clay; they appeared to beinterested. "I was a boy of eighteen at the time, born and rearedin a strict household in the cathedral city of York—in thevery shadow of the minster, in fact. My father was a stern hardman; he dominated us all, my mother—all of us. His hardnesshad already driven my elder brother from home. And I, the secondson, his last hope—I wanted to go on the stage.

"You can imagine his horror at that. The theater was the houseof the devil, he said, and he meant it too. He ranted andstormed, but—well, a traveling troupe came our way; theywere doing Gilbert and Sullivan in the provinces. There was anopening in the company and I ran away from home in thenight."

He looked at Maynard. "My dear sir, you can never appreciatethe life I got into. For a short time all went well; then thehouses fell off. We didn't play to the gas. Our salaries stopped,our pitiful luggage was seized for hotel bills, we ate butrarely. Somehow, we struggled on. I had never dreamed such miserycould exist in the world. We managed to reach Dublin, and theremy resistance gave out. I wired a friend for money to gohome.

"I got back to York on Sunday morning—they were ringingthe minster bells. It seemed like heaven to me. I was sick andweary. I wanted no more of the theater; I had been cured of mymadness. For a time I was afraid to go to the house, but alongabout noon my courage returned and I went.

"I entered the little drawing-room. My father and mother weresitting there, reading. For a long while I stood just inside thedoor. They never looked at me. Miserably unhappy, I went to myroom, freshened up, came back down-stairs. Again I stood there, ayoung boy, hungry for sympathy, for a kind word. Finally myfather looked up. His eyes were stony and cold.

"'Well,' he said through his teeth, 'have you had enough ofthe theater?'

"'No!' I cried. Just one little word, sharp with anger andbitterness. Mind you, I had been at the point of forswearing thestage for ever. I was at the crossroads. One kind word, onefriendly look—But at that tone in my father's voice,something broke inside me. 'No, no, no!' I fairly shouted, andwent out of that house for all time. I borrowed money to get toLondon. More misery, more heartbreak—but there was noturning back now. I dropped our family name of Harkness. I becameNorman Wayne, an actor, and—and here I am."

Maynard shook his head. "Poor little kid," he said pityingly."It was cruel—cruel. Tell me, have you everregretted—"

Wayne smiled. "Sometimes," he said. "Sometimes I've wondered,if my poor mother had spoken Oh, well, what's the use? It's allover now."

Thatcher was thoughtfully swinging his monocle on its blackribbon. "By the way," he began, "you say your family name wasHarkness?"

"Yes. Naturally, I dropped it. I wanted no more of my father,not even his name."

"Years ago," continued Thatcher slowly, "I knew a chap namedHarkness. A Yorkshire man he was too. It was in the SouthSeas."

"In the South Seas?"

"Yes. I told you I'd been out there, you know, as a youngchap. This Albert Harkness—"

"Albert?"

"That was his name. I knew him rather well. We were alone forsome months on the island of Apiang, in the Gilbert group. As amatter of fact, I was the last white man to see him alive."

Wayne got slowly to his feet. "You were the last white man tosee old Bertie alive?" he repeated. His face had paled.

"Why, yes. You knew him?"

"He was my elder brother, the one my father had driven fromhome before I left."

"Not really?" Thatcher was silent for a moment. "Odd, isn'tit? We've traveled all the way from London together—

I never dreamed Of course, my name is a stage name too. If I'dmentioned sooner that I was Redfield—"

"Redfield?" said Wayne. "Ah, yes, Henry Redfield. You werewith my brother on Apiang?"

"Precisely. We were traders there."

"And he died—of a fever?" Something in the man's voicebrought a brief, electric silence to that room.

"Of a fever—yes," said Thatcher. "I buried him myself.We were alone among the natives, save for a Chinese cook."

Wayne sat down. "Ah, yes," he said. "So you are Red-field. Youknew old Bertie. We must have a talk about this, myfriend—a long talk."

Sibyl Clay had risen; she stood tall and fair and shining. DanMaynard felt a little catch in his throat as he looked at her."All very interesting, I'm sure," she said. "But, Mr. Maynard,the time is going so quickly, and you have promised to show meWaikiki in the moonlight."

"Of course," cried Maynard, leaping up. "You fellows seem tohave something to talk over, so if you don't mind—"

"By all means," agreed Wayne, and Thatcher nodded.

Maynard held open the screen door and Sibyl Clay went out. Thenight was magic, and filled with the odors of exotic plants,flaming with the crimson blossoms of the poinciana trees. Theyheard the breakers whispering on the beach. Side by side, veryclose, they walked together down a shadowy path.

Maynard was dazed, bewitched. Thirty-five, rich, powerful,women had been near him before; they had tried to win him, but invain.

Always he had guarded his freedom, his independence. Butnow—he was not so sure of himself now. Many women, yes, butnever a woman like this before.

He led her to a bench under a hau tree, some thirty feet fromthe house. Out toward the reef twinkled the lights of Japanesefishing boats; just above the horizon hung the Southern Cross. Acool breeze swept in from the sea, and the hau tree dropped ayellow blossom in her lap.

"Is it what you expected?" Maynard asked.

"It's wonderful," she answered softly. "I know now—Iunderstand—why people come and never want to go away. Lifemust be beautiful here—and old age always round thecorner—the corner one never needs to turn."

"I was born in that house," he told her. "I learned to swim inthese waters. It's home, and I love it."

"I love it, too," she told him. "I'm seeing it for the firsttime, and I adore it. How happy you must be here. But—youare alone. Surely nights like this— How does it come thatyou live here in this paradise alone?"

"It may be," he answered, "because I've never met a woman Icared to ask to—to share it with me."

She was very close. "We must find that woman for you. Tell me,have you ever thought—what sort of woman—"

The cool breeze touched his face. He hesitated, drew back alittle. "Promise me," he began—"you'll be going home one ofthese days—promise me that on your way back you'll stopover for a longer stay."

She shook her head. "No, I shan't go home this way. It's allarranged. When the Australian tour is ended, we return to Englandby way of Suez. Around the world, you see."

"Then," he said, "this is your only night at Waikiki."

"Yes. Just once in a lifetime—at the crossroads."

"It's a wonderful night, for me at least," said Maynard. "Ishall remember it always. But you, when you're back inLondon—"

London! She shuddered inwardly. It was true, what theywhispered about her—she knew it. She was through. Thethought of London appalled her—new faces, new favorites,Sibyl Clay forgotten. But, of course, Dan Maynard must notsuspect.

"Yes, London will be glorious," she said brightly. "They'llgive me a marvelous welcome home; they were all so sorry to seeme go. And Australia—there's a big triumph waiting there, Iknow. But even so—"

"Yes?"

"It's just as I told you last night on the boat. Something hashappened to me, something very strange. I don't care about mycareer any more, Dan. I don't care about Australia, or evenLondon."

"Sibyl," he cried—his voice trembled—"do you meanthat? Because—"

He stopped. From his drawing-room came the sharp crack of arevolver, followed by the crash of breaking glass.

* * * * *

DAN MAYNARD leaped to his feet and ran along thepath to the house, while Sibyl Clay followed more slowly at hisheels. As they entered the drawing-room, the Japanese butler,badly frightened, appeared from the hall.

Maynard gasped in amazement as he looked about that usuallyquiet and peaceful room, for he saw the marks of a terrificstruggle. Chairs were overturned, rugs were displaced. Indeed,the struggle was still going on. In the center of the room Wayneand Thatcher fought desperately for possession of a pistol heldin Wayne's right hand. In another moment Wayne broke away; heraised the pistol and pointed it at his panting antagonist. ButMaynard was too quick for him. He leaped forward, and after amoment of brief effort, wrenched the weapon away.

"For God's sake," he cried, "what does this mean?"

Wayne staggered back against a table. His face was deathlypale, his mouth twitched convulsively, his eyes were blazing."I'll get you, Redfield," he muttered. "I missed that time, butI'll get you yet."

"What does this mean, I say?" repeated Maynard. He slipped therevolver into his pocket, and going over, laid a hand on Wayne'sarm. "Pull yourself together, man. Tatu"—he turned to thebutler—"whisky-and-soda, quick."

The butler went out. Wayne sank weakly into a chair.

"I—I'm sorry, Mr. Maynard," he said. "I broke yourwindow. I'm afraid I'm a rotten bad shot. I owe you anexplanation and an apology. In—in a moment, please." Heburied his head in his arms.

Sibyl Clay came and stood before him. Her eyes were cold; hardlines had appeared about her mouth. "What is this sillymelodrama?" she demanded. "Come, speak up!"

"Just a moment," Wayne repeated.

"Take your time," said Maynard. "And try to calm yourself, ifyou can."

A long silence. The butler appeared with a tray. Maynardhimself poured a drink and offered it to Wayne. The actor's handtrembled as he reached for it; the glass tinkled against histeeth. At a safe distance, Thatcher, his face verging on thepurple now, watched with a wary eye.

"Yes," said Wayne slowly, "I must explain. I told you I wasinterested in the South Seas, Mr. Maynard. I was interestedbecause of my older brother, who ran away from home several yearsbefore I did. For a time he drifted about down there, and finallysettled down as a trader on the lonely island of Apiang. Hispartner was a man named Redfield—this creature who callshimself Thatcher. The same man; he doesn't deny it. You heard himyourself."

"I do not deny it," said Thatcher. "We were together on thatisland, Bert Harkness and I."

"On that lonely island, the only two white men for milesaround. Some sort of feud grew up between them—"

"It's a lie!" cried Thatcher.

"Until finally this swine shot poor old Bertie in theback."

"A lie, I tell you!" Thatcher shouted.

"Shot him in the back, like the yellow coward he is, and thenreported poor Bertie had died of a fever."

"Mr. Maynard, I appeal to you," said Thatcher. "The man ismad. What proof has he—"

"Proof enough," cut in Wayne. "You thought you were safe,didn't you? You forgot that Chinese cook. You thought he didn'tknow, but he did, and two years after, he told the whole story toa missionary named McCandless. The missionary wrote it all tome."

"This happened a long time ago?" inquired Maynard.

"Over twenty years ago," Wayne told him. "When I heard thetrue story of Bertie's death, it was too late. Redfield haddisappeared utterly. The earth had swallowed him up. But I'vebeen waiting. That's why I took this engagement. I've beenwaiting, and now, as luck will have it, I meet Redfield in yourdrawing-room—and I'll never leave him again, not until I'vepaid him back, not until—"

"Ridiculous!" said Sibyl Clay. "In all my life I've neverheard anything so ridiculous. Mr. Thatcher, I'm sure Mr. Maynardwill furnish you with a car. Go to the boat and wait for us."

Thatcher stood up. "Pardon me," he said, "I'll do nothing ofthe sort. This idiot has called me a coward, but I'm not, andI'll not run away like one. No, we'll have this out here andnow."

"I'll get you, Redfield," muttered Wayne. "I'll get you, Ipromise you that."

"Try it!" sneered Thatcher. "I'm an older man than you, yetI'm not afraid. Try it, but look out I don't get you!"

"In the back," said Wayne. "A shot in the back—that'syour specialty."

"You lie!" Thatcher cried.

"Just a moment," pleaded Maynard. "Wayne, I thought you were asensible man. Suppose you do get him, as you say. Think of whatit will mean."

"I've got to get him," said Wayne pitifully. "Poor oldBertie—we were more than brothers. The only member of myfamily I ever loved. Why, when we were boys—"

"Rubbish!" cried Sibyl Clay. Her face was drawn, old. Maynardlooked at her in wonder. He brought forward a chair.

"Sit down," he said.

"Why should I sit down?" she demanded.

"You seem rather tired, that's all," he answered gently. For along moment their eyes met. Sibyl Clay was a great general, butshe knew when her campaign was lost. She dropped into thechair.

"Now let's talk this over quietly," Maynard said. "I canunderstand how you feel, Wayne, old man. Naturally, in the momentof meeting this chap—of recognizing him, I mean—youlost your head. But you must calm down. I like you; you're a goodfellow, and if you take the law into your own hands like this,you know the end. Your whole life wrecked, and what will you haveaccomplished?"

"An eye for an eye," muttered Wayne stubbornly.

"Nonsense! That's archaic. Besides, if you'll pardon my sayingso, your evidence seems a bit flimsy."

"It's all of that," put in Thatcher. "I remember now—Ihad a row with that Chinaman about his wages after Harkness died.This absurd story of his is the Oriental idea of revenge."

"Precisely," said Maynard. "You hear, Wayne? That's quitelikely—"

"Chinese don't lie," objected Wayne. "We all know that."

"Do we?" said Maynard. "Most of them don't, that's true. TheChinese reputation for truthfulness is built upon a pretty solidfoundation. But there are about half a billion of them, and thereare black sheep in that race as in all others. I speak fromexperience. I haven't lived all my life in Hawaii without knowingthe Chinese. Why, my dear fellow, I could give youexamples—"

"For instance," said Thatcher eagerly.

Maynard sat down. "A good many years ago," he began, "we had ahouse-boy— "

Sibyl Clay interrupted. "Now," she said bitterly, "I supposewe are to have your life-story too."

Maynard regarded her coolly. "I am trying to avert acatastrophe," he said. "Kindly remember that." He turned toWayne. "This boy of ours was very young—twenty, Ithink—a Cantonese and a splendid servant. He becameobsessed with some fancied grievance and we let him go. He wentaway and spread the most fantastic lies about us. We had to draghim into court in the end. He broke down and confessed he hadbeen trying to save his face." Wayne listened stubbornly. "WhatI'm trying to get at is, if one Chinese would do that, anotherwould. How do you know that in this instance—"

Wayne shook his head.

"You mean well, Maynard. But this man is guilty; he's guiltyas the devil. Look at him!"

"I see no evidence of his guilt," protested Maynard. "On thecontrary, I see several things that point to hisinnocence—and so would you, in a calmer mood. For example,he was under no compulsion to tell you he was Redfield."

"Precisely," cried Thatcher. "If I'd killed poor Bert, do youthink I'd have revealed myself to his brother?"

"You thought you were safe," said Wayne. "You never dreamedthat Chinese knew what was going on at Apiang."

"Even so," persisted Maynard, "I think he would have remainedsilent. Wayne, will you take my advice?"

"I promise nothing," answered Wayne.

"That missionary is still alive?"

"He was a few years ago—living in Sydney."

"Sydney—your next stop. And the Chinese?"

"He was in Sydney too."

"There you are. Remember, there are courts to settle this sortof thing. Let the matter rest for the present. Admit like a manthat your evidence against this chap is none too good. When youget to Sydney, investigate; learn how that story has stood thetest of time."

"A splendid idea," cried Thatcher. "Give me a chance. I'llhelp with your investigation. I'll prove your story is rot, andI'll prove other things. That brother of yours—you think hewas a saint. Well, he was a dirty blackbirder."

Wayne leaped to his feet. "You liar!" he cried. "Youcontemptible liar! Shoot a man in the back, and then besmirch hisname!"

Maynard got between them just in time. Sibyl Clay sighedwearily. "Will this never end?" she said.

"He'll apologize for that!" Wayne shouted.

"Yes, yes, of course he will," said Maynard. "Come on,Thatcher, you didn't mean it."

"Oh, didn't I?" Thatcher stood glaring through his monocle.Somewhere in the distance a bell tinkled. "I meant every word ofit—a blackbirder! What's that beside the things he'saccused me of here to-night?"

The butler entered. "Telephone ring for Miss Clay," heannounced.

The woman followed the butler out. Maynard went to Thatcherand spoke in a low voice. Thatcher stepped toward Wayne.

"Very good," he said, "I apologize. I withdraw what Isaid."

Wayne nodded. "I've got a beastly temper," he murmured. "Iinherited it. I'm sorry."

The actress returned, walking slowly. "That was Nixon," sheremarked, in a dead tired voice. "It's twenty-five minutes beforeten, and he's frantic. He's picked up our luggage at the hotel.We—we had better go." She looked at Dan Maynard.

"Of course." Maynard went to the hall, and they followed. Hegave the men their hats and sticks; he wrapped the Spanish shawlabout Sibyl Clay. "The car is just outside." In the drive, heturned to them. "I'm taking you down myself. Wayne, get in frontwith me. Thatcher, you ride in the back with Miss Clay."

Kalakaua Avenue was deserted, an ideal speedway, and DanMaynard's idea appeared to be speed. They tore on through thebrilliant Hawaiian night. As they went, the Honolulu man talkedin a low voice to Wayne. In the rear seat, Sibyl Clay sat haughtyand aloof beside the erstwhile Sir James. She was thinking ofLondon, despairingly.

Nixon was pacing the dim pier shed, a man distraught. "Well,you nearly missed it, didn't you?" he cried. "Every one's onboard but you. In heaven's name, get on!"

"Thatcher," said Maynard, "I've had a talk with Wayne. He'sgoing to make an investigation down in Sydney. Until then,there's a truce between you."

"Thanks," said Thatcher. "That suits me perfectly. I'll helpwith the investigation, as I promised."

Maynard stood with Wayne's pistol in the palm of his hand. "Doyou carry this about with you all the time?" he asked.

Wayne nodded. "For the past few weeks—yes," he said.

"I think I'd better keep it," Maynard suggested.

"I fancy you had," Wayne agreed. "Thank you for what you'vedone—and good-by."

He followed Thatcher up the gangplank.

Maynard turned to Sibyl Clay. He felt a little pang of regretas he saw her white face. "Better reconsider," he said. "Ifyou'll come back this way—"

She shook her head. "No," she answered wearily. "There aresome moments, Dan—they come once, and never again. This wasmy only stop in Honolulu." She held out her hand. "Goodnight."

"Good-by, and good luck," said Maynard gently.

The plank was drawn in as she reached the deck, and a fewmoments later the big ship crept from the pier. Slowly it drewaway from the harbor lights, swung round and headed forAustralia.

* * * * *

AN hour later Norman Wayne stood in a friendlyshadow near the prow of the boat. A pipe was between his teeth,and he was staring at the dim shore-line of Oahu.

A short, stocky man came creeping out of the dark, slowly,silently. For a moment he stood at Wayne's back, unperceived.Then he stepped to the rail at Wayne's side. They looked at eachother. Neither spoke. The stout man took out his own pipe andbegan to fill it.

"You're a damned good actor, Wayne," he remarked softly. "I'vealways thought so, but I was never surer of it than I was backthere to-night."

"Thanks," said Wayne. "I give every part my best. My one ruleof life. We weren't a moment too soon with our bit of melodrama,old chap."

Thatcher nodded. "I know. I saw it in her face when they camein."

"I've been suffering a few moments of remorse," went on Wayne."Are you quite sure we did the right thing?"

"Of course we did. It's just as I told you this noon. I knowSibyl Clay—selfish, utterly selfish. She'd have hooked thatchap in another moment—married him to-morrow, probably. Andwhat would have become of us? A lot she'd care. The tour wouldhave ended before it began. She'd have thrown us all over,stranded us nine thousand miles from home, all our hopessmashed—poor old Nellie, Harry Buckstone, the twokids—oh, we did the right thing."

"I was thinking of Maynard."

"Ah, yes, Maynard. A fine chap. She'd have ruined his life,just as she's ruined others. Yes, young Maynard was very near totaking the wrong turn at the crossroads to-night. But we draggedhim back. He'll be grateful to us in the morning."

Thatcher lighted his pipe. "We'd best be careful," said Wayne,glancing over his shoulder. "Mustn't act too chummy until I canpretend to dig up new evidence at Sydney and tell Sibyl Clay Iwas wrong."

"Of course." Thatcher started to move away. "You added a fewdetails to the scenario we worked out at luncheon," he said.

"Naturally. The excitement of the moment, you know. Yes, I hadseveral inspirations."

"There was one in particular I didn't much care for," Thatchercontinued—"that about my shooting poor old Bertie in theback. I wouldn't shoot any man in the back. You know it."

"Nonsense!" said Wayne. "I've read more South Sea stories thanyou have. Men are always shot in the back down there. And if itcomes to that, I didn't like what you said about Bertie—adirty blackbirder."

Thatcher laughed. "You don't mean you've actually got abrother named Bertie?" he inquired.

"Certainly I have. He's a bookseller directly across from theMitre, in Oxford." Wayne looked up at the star-strewn sky. "Howhe would enjoy a tour like this. Poor old Bertie has never beenout of England in his life."

SELLING MISS MINERVA

Illustrated by Ernest Fuhr

First published in The Saturday Evening Post, Feb 5,1921

BILLY ANDERSON was an automobile salesman. Hehad a method all his own. It was much the same method the ancientminstrels must have used in peddling poetry. It involved littlemention of differential, transmission and other grimy pointsabout a car. Instead it was all mixed up with the everlastingstars, the pounding surf, the misty mountain tops. Romanceadapted to business, Anderson called it.

His environment, being Southern California, helped a lot. Theclimate played a gentle accompaniment to his fervid story. Thereis something in the air of that wonderful state, no doubt ofit—a mild, soothing influence that makes poets of retiredwholesale grocers. Hard-boiled widowers from Iowa farms come outto spend a pleasant winter—and not a cent more than theycan help. They end by marrying again at the age ofseventy—and hang the expense!

Anderson foraged up and down and in and out of the big touristhotels, interviewing prospects. The psychology of salesmanshipwas his middle name. He sized each prospect up. Nine out of ten,having shut their roll-top desks far to the east, were ripe forthe romance talk. That was the talk they got.

On a warm and sunny morning late in January, Billy Andersonsat on the veranda of the Maryland Hotel, in Pasadena, oppositeMr. Henry G. Firkins, of Boston. Mr. Firkins was rumored to be aprospect. He looked like a good one.

"Now, if I was trying to sell you a Requa car in your hometown back East," Billy was saying, "I'd probably use anothermethod. But this—this is California, and buying a car inCalifornia is different from buying one anywhere else. Do youknow what the difference is?"

"Well, it's a long haul," said Mr. Firkins. "I suppose I'dhave to pay more freight."

"No, no!" protested Billy. "It's not a question of freight.It's a question of—romance."

"Romance?"

"You've said it! Romance! Mr. Firkins, what man or woman inthis workaday world is too worn with care and worry not to beable on occasion to succumb to its thrill—its glamour?"

"I don't know. Name one."

"I can't! And let me tell you, you don't have to open thecovers of a magazine to meet up with it—not for a minute.There's plenty of romance everywhere, even in the everydaybusiness of selling automobiles. Provided, of course, you lookfor it."

"Son," said Mr. Firkins, "I don't get you."

"What I mean is this," smiled Billy Anderson: "When I sell aman a Requa car out here in California, I sell him not merely aperfect piece of mechanism; I sell him revel and all the romancethat goes with it. I sell him thousands of miles of smoothCalifornia roads; the roar of angry surf on the rocks belowMonterey; the cool silent depths of Topanga Canon; the crumbling,eloquent walls of San Juan Capistrano. I sell him the hush of agreat redwood forest; valleys green with alfalfa fields; thesharp airs and vast panoramas of Sierra summits. Do you get menow?"

"I think I do," admitted Mr. Firkins.

"I want to show it to you, with all its allure andinvitation," Billy warmed up. "I want to create a picture, not ofa wonder-full piece of mechanism but of all the ownership of thatpiece of mechanism will procure for you out here in God'scountry."

He stopped, for Mr. Firkins was staring at him coldly,appraisingly. Could he have made a mistake in his man? On rareoccasions that happened. Certainly there was little answeringgleam in the Firkins eye. Billy Anderson started in on anothertack—regretfully. His was never the soul of a mechanic.

"Of course, I don't want you to think I'm neglecting the otherside of it," he said. "From a mechanical standpoint, the Requa isa masterpiece. I'm sort of taking it for granted you knowthat"

"I ought to know it," answered Mr. Firkins surprisingly. "I'vehad the Boston agency for the Requa the past fifteen years, and Isell it in a number of small Massachusetts towns as well."

Billy Anderson deflated rapidly.

"I didn't know that," he said limply. "It makes me look ratherfoolish. We'll be glad to fix you up with a car while you're outhere. Can I make a date for you with the boss? And I'm sorry ifI've wasted your time."

He stood up.

"Wait a minute," Mr. Firkins said. "Sit down. You haven'twasted anybody's time. Tell me, how long have you been handingpeople out the line of talk that you just gave me?"

"Oh, about three years."

"Does it work?"

"Nearly always. Women have a lot to say about the selection ofthe family car—and that talk gets them. The men I go upagainst are here to relax—to have a good time—yes, Igenerally hook them too. There was only one man in the state ofCalifornia sold more Requas than I did last year," he addedproudly.

"U'm!" Mr. Firkins frowned. "You admit, then, that it's prettyeasy?"

"Like selling candy to an infant."

"Yes? Well, we never get anywhere in this world along the easyroute. Aren't you about ready to tackle something moredifficult?"

"You mean—"

"From what part of the States do you come?"

"I'm going to surprise you," laughed Billy Anderson. "I wasborn right here in Pasadena, twenty-three years ago. Yes,sir—a native son. Examine me closely. You may never meetanother."

"Ever been East?"

"Yes: but I didn't like it."

"What part of the East did you visit?"

"Denver," said Billy Anderson seriously. Mr. Firkinssmiled.

"How would you like to come to Boston and work for me?"

"Boston!" repeated Billy Anderson. "I get a shiver down myspine. And I see snow—big piles of it."

"You're psychic," said Firkins. "I admit the snow. But I'llmake it worth your while. And a young man like you ought tostrike out and see the world."

"I've felt that way at times," Billy admitted. "I did tryHonolulu. Easy, too—selling cars. But not so easy to getthem over after you've sold them. The steamship company has anasty habit of leaving your consignment on the San Franciscopier."

"Nothing like that in Boston," suggested Mr. Firkins.

"I know—but quite aside from the climate, isn't Boston abit chilly? I mean, wouldn't my wild free manner sort of scare'em to death?"

"That," smiled Mr. Firkins, "is exactly my idea. We're tooconservative out there. I want to get things stirring, bring innew blood."

"You want me to jazz up the Boston trade?"

"You've—er—said it," Firkins replied. "I'll begoing back in about six weeks—suppose you go with me. Idon't know what you're getting here, but I'll start you at fivethousand. What do you say?"

"It has an appealing sound to it," Billy admitted. "And I amin a rut here, I know. Yes, I'll take you."

"Good! Give us a trial at any rate. If you don't likeit—well, California will still be standing."

"'Till the sands of the desert grow cold'—and thensome!"

* * * * *

SIX weeks later Billy Anderson called on Mr.Firkins for his final instruction. He was full of enthusiasm forthe task that lay ahead. Mr. Firkins announced that he wasreturning by way of Canada, but that he wanted Billy to go Eastby the direct route.

"My boy," he said rather sheepishly, "I'm going to start in byplaying a mean trick on you."

"Yes? Go ahead."

"There's only one of my agencies that has never made good.Before you come to Boston I'm going to ask you to stop off thereand try your hand for a few months. Did you ever hear ofStonefield, Massachusetts?"

"Never! What sort of a place is it?"

"It's a city in the Berkshire Hills, and it's two sorts of aplace: On one side of the main street, a hustling factory town;and on the other, a group of ancient Brahmans still fighting theCivil War. Anything modern they regard as a slap in the face.They still ride about in carriages drawn by an almost extinctcreature called the horse."

"I don't believe it," said Billy. "Not in this day andage."

"You will believe it—when you see Stonefield. It's thetoughest job in your line in America. I'm ashamed of myself, butI'm going to ask you to tackle it. The leader of the codfisharistocracy is an old friend of mine—Miss MinervaBluebottle. I believe she came to Massachusetts on theMayflower—or it may have been her great-grandparents."

"You want me to sell Miss Bluebottle on the Requa?"

"I want you to try it. The rest of them follow her like sheep.Get her into one of our cars, and you'll sell forty more.But—don't be optimistic. I don't believe it can bedone."

"Oh, I don't know."

"I do. And here's a tip: Don't be too generous with large talkabout California."

"Why not?" Mr. Anderson was thunderstruck.

"Because, though there are many places where a Californiabooster doesn't make much of a hit, I don't know of any spotwhere his talk will fall flatter than in the Berkshires ofMassachusetts. The people there don't do any vulgar boasting, ofcourse; but they happen to know that God spent the whole sevendays making their corner of the world—and left the rest ofthe job to novices."

"Some one ought to tell 'em different," suggested Billy.

"They're pretty deaf," smiled Firkins. "I'll give you a letterto Miss Minerva. If you can sell her you're the wonder of theage."

"I'll sell her," announced Billy firmly.

"I wonder," mused Mr. Firkins. "It'll be worth watchinganyhow. Out here you're regarded as irresistible. I know myselfthat Minerva Bluebottle is immovable. When an irresistible forcemeets an immovable body, what happens then?"

"The cross," smiled Billy Anderson, "will mark the spot wherethe immovable body once stood."

* * * * *

BILLY ANDERSON landed in Stonefield early oneApril morning. April—in California! A riot of blossom andbloom, with the warm sun beaming down. But April here, in thisgrim eastern state! Sad, dirty piles of snow along the curb, anda wind that cut like a cruel word sweeping down from the hills.Billy shivered, and searched his heart for the gay confidencethat had been his when he left Pacific shores. Had he beenreporting his analysis he would have been forced to write,"Confidence—no trace."

He had a sort of breakfast at the leading hotel. The friedeggs were stone cold. What is more depressing than a cold friedegg? Billy went out and found what seemed to be the mainresidential street. A mild little citizen was approaching.

When they were opposite each other, "Say, listen!" criedBilly.

This is the usual form of address in the genial West. But asfar as the mild little man was concerned, it might as well havebeen a bomb. He jumped violently, and nearly lost his eyeglasses.Billy Anderson was conscious of something wrong.

"I beg your pardon," he said, remembering that form ofinterruption from stories he had read about the effete East. "I'mlooking for the house of Miss Minerva Bluebottle."

"Ah—ah—that's it—directly across," said thecitizen.

He hurried on. He was flustered all day. He had been spoken toby a strange man!

Billy Anderson looked at the house on the other side of thestreet. He saw a stern, forbidding type of domicile, left overfrom another day. It was painted a serviceable but ugly darkbrown. Billy crossed the street and accosted a tall lean Yankeewho was sweeping the front walk.

"Work for Miss Bluebottle?" he asked the man pleasantly,offering a cigar.

"Yes," said the sweeper, suspicious of everything, cigarincluded.

"What's your name? What do you do?"

"Name's Carleton Webster. Been with Miss Minerva over fortyyears. Tend furnace in the winter and drive her carriage in thesummer. Say, what you doing—taking the census?"

"No," laughed Billy. "I've just dropped in fromCalifornia—to sell Miss Bluebottle an automobile."

Something flitted across Carleton Webster's sallow, jaundicedface. It must have been meant for a smile.

"Make it an aer-e-o-plane," he said. "Just as muchchance."

"A tough baby, eh?" Billy inquired.

"W-what?"

"I say—she's hard to sell?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Mr. Webster. "But I kintell you, she hates all these newfangled inventions likepizen."

"Well—of course, the automobile's pretty recent. Hasn'treally proved itself, I imagine. Look here—no reason whyyou and I shouldn't be friends. Buy yourself a box of cigars likethe one I just slipped you." He handed Carleton a ten-dollarbill.

"No," said Carleton, shrinking back. "I can't take it. Itwouldn't be right. An' besides, Miss Minerva is peeking out roundthe parlor curtain."

Billy Anderson looked. The curtain fell angrily into place,and in another moment the front door opened. A tall woman,dressed in black, with a fine white coiffure, stepped out on theporch. She walked like a West Point cadet, only straighter. Atthe edge of the porch she paused and sniffed the air throughthin, aristocratic nostrils. It was evidently just the air shehad expected—the clear clean air of the Berkshires,eminently satisfactory and correct. It had her approval, whatmore could it want?

"Carleton," she said in a crisp cool tone, "come and look atthe dining-room fire. It is smoking again."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Carleton, and hurried up the walk.

Once more Miss Bluebottle sniffed. Was it possible that someforeign substance was contaminating the good Berkshire air?Undoubtedly, for a strange young man stood on the sidewalk. Shedid not give the young man a look, but her whole attitude, as shepoised there, accused her servant of an imperfect sweeping of thewalk. The young man should have been gathered up with little oldlast year's leaves.

Billy Anderson stared for one frightened, apprehensive second.His heart sank.

"Massachusetts—there she stands!" he muttered, andturned to find his office as local representative of the Requacar. Later that morning he wrote the first of his letters to MissMinerva Bluebottle.

Miss Minerva found that letter by her plate the next morningwhen she sat down to breakfast beside the cozy fire in herdining-room. She had entered the room in quite a lively frame ofmind, and had even smiled a greeting at her niece, Eloise, whowas already at the table. Eloise was the only daughter of the oneimprovident Bluebottle, who had long ago squandered his substancein riotous Boston and passed to the great beyond. For ten years,in Miss Minerva's household Eloise had played the part of charitychild. She was a tall girl, with wistful, appealing eyes andbeautiful hair. She might have been very pretty, but Miss Minervahad long ago talked her out of it.

"Only one letter—"

Miss Bluebottle took it up. The name of the Requa AutomobileCompany on the envelope brought a frost into her steel-gray eyes.With her lips one firm straight line, she began to read. It wasrather pitiful, Billy Anderson's attempt to inject a littleromance into salesmanship in New England. She skipped, readingonly the lines that seemed to leap out at her:

"Came all the way from the Coast. Want to interest you in theRequa car. Will be selling you a wonderful piece of mechanism,but not that alone. How about a little romance in your life?Selling you more than a car. Selling you the far hills when thegreen leaves first peep out. Selling you the vast panorama of theLebanon Valley—the high ribbon of the Mohawk Trail, whereonce the Indians crept along. And the hills in autumn, all redand orange and brown—like the old-fashioned crazy quilt onyour grandmother's bed."

At this point Miss Bluebottle gasped, and tore the letter intobits. Too bad. The last part was the best. "The poor fool!" shesaid fiercely. "What's the matter, Aunt Minerva?" Eloise asked."Wants to sell me an automobile—and talks about mygrandmother's bed."

"Sounds interesting," smiled Eloise. "Impertinent!" cried MissBluebottle.

Her niece observed that she was breathing rapidly. The cameoset amid pearls on her breast rose and fell angrily. Eloise knewit was a cameo set amid pearls, though she had never seen it.Twenty-seven years before, on the death of her mother, MinervaBluebottle had covered her rings, her pins—all her jewelry,in fact—with crape. This crape she had never removed, justas she had never ceased to wear gowns of black. Twenty-sevenyears of mourning! Unbelievable—if you don't knowStonefield.

If Miss Minerva had read Billy's letter to its brilliantfinish she would have learned that "our Mr. Anderson" was shortlyto visit her to present his plea in person. She didn't, however,and when old Norah that evening announced a young man calling onimportant business she was unprepared.

"Miss Bluebottle?" Billy Anderson grasped her hand. "Andthis—this is your—"

"My niece, Eloise Bluebottle," said the old lady stiffly. "Youhave business with me?"

"I have. I imagine you got my letter this morning."

"Good heavens, the automobile man!"

"The same."

"Then let me tell you, young—"

"Let me tell you, Miss Bluebottle. Way out in California Iheard about you; how you were driving round behind a couple ofantediluvian horses."

"If you refer to Romulus and Remus—"

"Romulus and Remus! Are they as old as that? As I was saying,Mr. Firkins and I talked things over."

"So Henry Firkins sent you?"

"He did. The idea was to jazz things up a bit for you; toinduce you to step on the gas—hit the high spots—seethe world—travel—in a Requa. Of course, to be frank,I haven't as much to sell you here as I would have out inCalifornia. I take it you have seen California?"

"I have never been west of the Hudson," replied Miss Minervaproudly.

"I'm sorry for you." He looked it. "You've never lived. Oh,what I could sell you out there!—the snow-capped peaks ofthe Sierras instead of a string of brown little molehills."

"Sir?"

"Beg pardon—no offense. I know the Berkshires have beenin your family a long time, and you're sort of fond of them. Butreally—if you could see some regular mountains—"

"I have seen the Swiss Alps, and I prefer our ownGreylock."

"Do you?" Billy Anderson gasped. What sort of woman was thisanyhow? "Well, I—I'm not here to sell you a car tonight,"he went on. "I just dropped in to get acquainted."

Miss Minerva glared at him. It was related in Stonefield howan outsider, a woman, had come to town and taken the pew oppositeMiss Bluebottle in church. Six years passed, and from theBluebottle eyes gleamed no spark of recognition. At the end ofthe sixth year, one morning after service, Miss Bluebottle roseand, stern with a sense of duty, approached her neighbor.

"Are you a stranger here?" she asked.

And Billy Anderson had just dropped in to getacquainted—his second night in Stonefield!

"Young man, please be good enough to let me speak," MissMinerva said. "You are wasting your time. I will never enter anautomobile, much less purchase one."

"May I ask why not?"

"Horses were made before motor-cars."

"Ah, yes—and so were fingers made before forks. Ihaven't had the honor of dining here—yet, but I don'timagine you eat with your fingers—now, do you?"

"That's quite beside the point."

"Not at all. Miss Bluebottle, the world is moving. Move withit. Get up on the band wagon. There are a thousand advantagesattached to the ownership of a car. I'm going to slip them toyou, one by one."

"I'm really sorry for you," said Miss Bluebottle. "HenryFirkins is to blame. He has sent you on a wild-goose chase."

"I'll write to you," continued Billy.

"Save your stamps."

"I'll call again."

"A waste of shoe leather."

"The next time I come I'll tell you all about California."

"I am not to be moved by threats."

"In the meantime bear me in mind," smiled Billy, rising. "I'lltake a look round and see what I've got to sell you—in theway of scenery, I mean. Of course, after California, it looks alittle—er—a little tame here. But I understand thatin the fall your hills are at their best. All red and orange andbrown."

"I forbid you," cut in Miss Minerva sourly, "to drag in mygrandmother's bed."

"Not at this hour," laughed Billy. "She might be in it. Well,good night. See you soon."

Eloise went to the door to see him safely out. They stood fora moment under the gas light in the hall—no electric wiringfor Miss Minerva! Here, as in the drawing-room, hung fadedportraits of dead Bluebottles, grim, haughty, uncompromising.Billy looked with keen interest into the wistful eyes of thegirl.

"How long have you lived with Miss Bluebottle?" heinquired.

"Ten years," she said softly.

"Ye gods!" He came closer. "I hope you won't mind my sayingit, but you strike me as—kind of—er—wonderful.By gad, I'd like to see you with California for abackground!"

"I—I never travel," she gasped.

"That's all right. Once I've sold your aunt a Requa, you'lltravel—travel fast. Don't ask me what I mean—I'm notsure myself. But one thing I do know—we're going to meetagain—mighty soon. Good night."

When Eloise returned to the drawing-room her eyes wereshining.

"Of all the wild young idiots!" said Miss Minervapeevishly.

"Yes," smiled Eloise; "he—he sort of takes one's breathaway."

"My breath is still intact," snapped Miss Minerva.

* * * * *

DURING the next three weeks Miss Minerva'sbreath grew, as the fellow said, even more intacter. She saw thatshe was in for a fight, and she gloried in it. Did this flippantyoung whipper-snapper from the West think that he could invadeher stronghold and sweep her from her feet? Not likely! She'dshow him a thing or two! And in showing him, she would expressher contempt for the entire territory west of the Massachusettsstate line.

As for Billy Anderson, before coming to Stonefield he hadregarded the town as a myth of Mr. Firkins' imagination. Such aplace as the Boston man described could hardly exist at this lateday. Now, however, he had seen Stonefield, and knew that Mr.Firkins had not told him the half of it. He was amazed, appalled.Each day brought him some new story of the intolerance, thestubbornness of the older generation. There was, for example,Miss Minerva's friend, Miss Anna Bell Small. Anna Bell had swornthat if the city council ran the trolleys along the street beforeher house she would never again step out of her front door. Forseventeen years she had been coming and going the back way, andstill she showed no signs of weakening.

Each night Billy sat in his room reading the latest breezybooks on the art of salesmanship. Good enough books in their way,but their authors had not written them with Minerva Bluebottle inmind. Billy would sigh and falter. But in the morning he wouldrise with renewed energy, keen to resume his attack on theimmovable body. He tried letters—one a day—eachsetting forth a separate golden advantage attached to theownership of a car—preferably a Requa. He telephoned. Hewaylaid Miss Bluebottle on the street. Water, it is understood,rolls harmlessly from a duck's back. Miss Minerva gave himfrequent reason to recall the simile.

Now and then he ran across Eloise Bluebottle—on thestreet, once at a dance, once at a church social, whither he hadgone with just such an adventure in mind. Yes, he decided, thegirl was beautiful, in a vague, spiritual sort of way, sodifferent from the hearty maidens of California. She was a newtype; she appealed to him. But the poor thing wasasleep—had never been anything else. What she needed was tobe roused, carried away from this narrow town, given a newsetting wherein she would wake and glow and live. At the end ofthe church social, by sort of obliterating a pale young man witheye-glasses, Billy managed to walk home with her.

"How do you like Stonefield by this time?" she asked.

"Sort of a nearsighted town," he said. "I'm introduced topeople one day, and they seem cordial enough. The next day I meetthem on the street, and when I speak to them they jump and lookat me in terror—the frightened-fawn stuff. I'm not used toit."

"They regard you as a stranger," she told him. "After you'velived here ten years—"

"Ten years!" cried Billy. "No, thanks, not for me—andnot necessary either. Why, Jacob only served seven forRachel."

He heard her laugh softly.

"I was thinking," she explained, "of Aunt Minerva playingRachel to your Jacob. She would be flattered! I'm sorry," shewent on more seriously, "but you'll never win her in seven years.Or seventy times seven."

"Oh, I don't know. All I have to do is get her into a Requacar—just once. Then if she has any sporting blood—andI'll say she has—she's sold."

"But how are you going to get her into a car?" There was acertain eagerness in the girl's voice.

"Watch your Uncle Billy," advised Anderson mysteriously. Buthe said good night with a rather doubtful eye on the curtains ofthe stern brown house.

Billy based his request that Uncle Billy be kept underobservation on the fact that he had yet to play his trump card.He was not relying entirely on the United States mail and thetelephone company. No one does these days.

One evening soon after his arrival in Stonefield he had metCarleton Webster on the street and, steering him into the Requaoffice, had handed him another cigar and asked, "How would youlike to learn to run an automobile?"

"What would Miss Minerva say?" Mr. Webster was doubtful.

"What could she say? Your evenings are your own, aren'tthey?"

"I reckon so."

"To do with as you please?"

"I ain't never heard no different."

"Well, I'll take you out and teach you—free gratis. Whatdo you say?"

"I've sort of had the hankering," admitted Mr. Webster,rolling the cigar between his lips. "Had to turn out for so manydevil wagons in my day I've often wished I was on one myself.Yes, sir, as I drove round behind Romulus and Remus there's beentimes I felt I'd like more power—more power," headded with emphasis.

"Fine!" cried Billy. "Come with me! No time like little oldnow."

When Mr. Webster had mastered the driving of a Requa, Billyarranged for his big experiment. Each afternoon at two-thirty itwas understood that Carleton was to appear before Miss Minerva'sdoor with his horses hitched and ready. Followed the gentle jogthrough the town that was Miss Bluebottle's daily taking of theair—a religious rite observed by the Brahman caste inStonefield since the beginning of time.

On a certain sunny May afternoon Carleton drove up before theBluebottle door. He had on his ancient silk hat, his blue coatwith the brass buttons. But he flourished no whip. He had nothingto flourish it over. He was sitting behind the wheel of a brightand shining Requa.

Billy Anderson leaped from the seat at Carleton's side and ranup the walk. Norah answered his ring.

"Tell Miss Bluebottle her carriage is waiting," saidBilly.

A moment later Miss Minerva stepped grandly from her door. Shelooked toward the curb—and gasped. Billy Anderson had sortof shivered back against the wall, his confidence oozing. MissMinerva turned and her flashing eye met his guilty one.

"What's this?" she snapped.

"A little variation in your daily routine," said Billy. "Iplanned it for you. I want you to step inside and sink back amidthe soft luxury of—"

"Young man, I don't believe you realize how impertinent youare. Out in the wild country where you were unfortunately bornthis sort of thing may be lightly regarded, but not here."

"Miss Bluebottle, you don't understand. I'm trying to brightenyour life."

"You're a young idiot! When I told you I would not ride in oneof those smelly things—"

"Smelly? Of roses, Miss Bluebottle. See? I filled the vase foryou."

"—I was not talking to exercise my tongue. I meantit!"

"But be fair! Give it a trial!"

"No! I regard it as a rattly, death-dealing abomination."

"Rattly! Why listen to that engine! Purrs like a kitten."

"I hate cats."

"But I thought—"

"You thought all old maids liked them. I don't! Carleton, comehere!"

Thoroughly frightened, Carleton extracted his person frombehind the wheel.

"Carleton, what does this mean? Am I to understand that youhave learned to operate that vile contraption?"

"Yes, Miss Minerva." Carleton tried the other foot. "I learnednights, my time off. And—I wish you'd try a ride, MissMinerva. A short one. It's—it's fine. When I step on theexhilarator—"

"On the what?"

"The exhilarator," repeated Carleton, who had so christenedit. "The thing that gives her the gas. When I step on that thegood old Berkshire air jest sweeps over youan'—an'—it's fine."

"You poor old fool!" said Miss Minerva. "Now run to the barnand hitch up Romulus and Remus as fast as the Lord will let you.I shall be late for my drive. I'm not accustomed to beinglate."

"Y—yes, ma'am," said Carleton.

"I rely on you, young man"—Miss Minerva turned to thegloomy Billy—"to remove that—that thing—frombefore my door. And what can I say to convince you? I will notbuy a car. I will not ride in a car. Can you grasp that, or isthe English language unknown in the rough region that sent youforth?"

"I understand, Miss Bluebottle," said Billy. "I had no wish tobe impertinent."

"Then I shudder to think what you would do if you had."

"But I'm a salesman, and I naturally want to sell. My idea wasto show you how nice and comfortable you'd be, riding in a Requa.I thought that perhaps, with your own coachman driving, you mighttake a chance. It was only an experiment. There's nothing more tobe said."

"I fancy not. Good day."

Billy Anderson went down the walk to his car. From a rear viewhe looked so unhappy and squelched that Eloise, at an upstairswindow, pitied him. When he turned to enter the car she caughthis eye and daring greatly, waved. He gravely lifted his hat anddrove off. Miss Minerva's expression, as he had last seen it,reminded him that New England had furnished the inspiration forHawthorne's story, The Great Stone Face.

* * * * *

IN his room that night Billy Anderson admittedhis defeat. Out in the broad free West he had been a riot, buthere in this conservative town he was a frost. His genial,handshaking, back-slapping methods frightened the good people todeath. They resented his easy manner, and in Miss Bluebottle'scase particularly, his campaign had been ill advised, doomed tofailure from the start. But, hang it all, it was the only styleof attack he knew!

Henry G. Firkins had written that he would be along in anotherten days. Billy had been working on Stonefield six weeks, andwhat had he to show for it? A few sales to summer visitors, tofactory managers; sales any one could have made. The East,thought Billy bitterly, was no place for him. He would have toconfess himself beaten and hand Firkins his resignation.

During the next few days he concentrated on the other oldfamilies of the town. He sought to make his attack dignified. Itseemed to him that some of them were interested, but he got nofurther. As for Miss Minerva Bluebottle, he let her severelyalone.

On the twenty-ninth day of May, about three-thirty in theafternoon, Billy's telephone rang. The voice of Carleton Webstercame over the wire.

"Say, listen!" Carleton had picked up that phrase along withthe ability to run a car. "I'm out here at Cal Morton's farm, onthe Eastlake pike. Miss Bluebottle's carriage hasbusted—rear axle just crumpled up. She's settin' in it,waitin'. Ordered me to call up Peter McQuade—he's got theonly horse and carriage for rent in town. I called him, but Ithought I'd tip you off too. You can beat him out here easy ifyou start now. Don't know as there's much use tryin' it,but—"

"Thanks, Carleton," said Billy, and hung up. A little of hisold-time enthusiasm returned. Now or never, he thought.

In twenty minutes he drew up beside Miss Minerva's tipsycarriage. One side was in the ditch, and the seat slanted at anangle of about forty-five degrees. Only Miss Bluebottle couldhave sat with dignity under the circ*mstances. She managedit—with ease.

"Say, this is fortunate!" cried Billy, leaping from hiscar.

"I'm not surprised to see you," snapped the old lady. "Beenfollowing me, no doubt, waiting for that axle to break. Probablygot into my barn last night and tampered with it!"

"Nonsense! You don't think as badly of me as that?"

"Yes, I do!"

"I meant, it was fortunate I happened along. Just step into mycar and I'll whisk you home in no time."

"I have no desire to be whisked, thank you." A loud peal ofthunder grumbled suddenly among the hills.

"It's going to rain," said Billy.

"Let it!" said Miss Minerva. She was in a rather badtemper.

"But I'd be delighted to give you a lift."

"I know you would. But you'll not get the chance. We havetelephoned for Peter McQuade."

"He can't get here for half an hour," said Billy, "and it maybe raining then. Thunder—and lightning—"

"Precisely! No time to be riding in one of those electricalcontrivances."

"But the Requa isn't run by electricity. It's run by gasoline.Isn't it, Carleton?"

"Sure!" said Carleton.

"It's run by the devil, if you ask me," said Miss Minerva. "Idon't know how you got here so promptly, but I have mysuspicions. And it's not going to do you any good. Here I situntil Peter McQuade comes—all night if necessary."

"You stubborn, bitter, intolerant old woman," said BillyAnderson hotly—to himself. "Sit here and drown, for all Icare. You should have died fifty years ago anyhow."

"I dare say," remarked Miss Minerva, "that all you arethinking about me is true. Now get into your car and hurry homebefore the rain comes and washes off all the nice brownpaint."

This was, of course, a deadly insult, and she had hit upon itinstinctively. Carleton Webster made a gesture of mute despairbehind her back. Billy turned and reentered his machine.

"Ah, yes," the old lady called as he turned about, "I noticeyou're going back the same way you came. Carleton!"

"Y-yes, ma'am," stammered Carleton.

"Did you call Peter McQuade, or didn't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I hope for your sake you did," she told him grimly.

When Billy Anderson was about a mile down the road the rainbegan to fall. Somehow it soothed his ruffled feelings. A littlefarther along he turned out for Peter McQuade, hurrying onthrough the storm.

That evening Billy met Eloise Bluebottle on her way home fromthe library. She had a pile of books under her arm.

"Let me carry them," Billy suggested.

"If you don't mind. They're rather heavy. For my aunt, youknow."

"Ah, yes, your aunt. I hope she didn't get very wet thisafternoon."

"Not very. I heard all about it. And I'm sorry—really Iam. Do you mind if I say something?"

"I'd love it."

"You'll never sell my aunt a car. Your methods arewrong—you'll pardon my frankness, won't you?"

"Of course. As a matter of fact, I came to the same decisionsome time ago. But they're the only methods I know. I wasthinking it all out the other night. People here are differentfrom what they are on the Coast. When I was in Honolulu I had achance to go to China and sell cars. If I had gone I'd have hadto learn an entirely new system—and that's what I shouldhave done when I came here. For these people are as unlike thoseI've been dealing with as—as Chinese. Dog-gone it, they areChinese! Living in the past—worshiping their ancestors! Howlong has your aunt worn crape on her rings?"

"Twenty-seven years," said Eloise.

"That's the point. I've tried the wrong tack—and I'vefailed. I'm licked—through. When Mr. Firkins comes nextweek I intend to resign."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" said the girl.

"Are you? Well, it helps a lot—to have you say that. Bythe way, to-morrow's a holiday—Decoration Day. How abouttaking a ride with me? We'll go somewhere for lunch—"

"Oh, I couldn't!" said Eloise timidly, wistfully even. "AuntMinerva wouldn't like it. Besides, I must go with her in themorning—to the cemetery."

"The what?"

"The cemetery. It's a sacred rite with her. She decorates allthe Bluebottle graves."

"She does, eh?" said Billy. He was silent for a moment. "Idon't suppose anything could persuade her from going?"

"I should say not! A few years ago she rose from a sick bed toattend to it—and got pneumonia and nearly died.It's—well, it's one of the things she will look afterherself as long as she has breath in her body. Everybody who isanybody in Stone-field will be out there in the morning.Afterward they have a little social hour amid the tombstones. Youought to see it! I suppose it's quite different from theWest."

"I should say so!" smiled Billy gently. "Out West we're notmuch concerned with the past. It's the present—and thestar-spangled future we think of. By the way, how far is it tothe cemetery?"

"Oh, about four miles."

"How will your aunt get there? Her carriage is out ofcommission."

"She's ordered Peter McQuade to call for her at eight-thirty."

"Oh, she has, has she?" They stopped before the cheerlesshouse. "Say—listen—I mean, can I depend on you toback me up?"

"I—I think so. What are you talking about?"

"Chinese—ancestor worshipers. I've just had a sign fromheaven. I'm to be given one last chance. And—it's great ofyou to say you'll help me." He seized her hand. "I said thatfirst night I saw you that you were—wonderful. After I'vesold Aunt Minerva that Requa I'll have something to sellyou."

"What?" Very softly.

"God's country—California! The roar of the surf belowMonterey! San Juan Capistrano in the moonlight! The silent, snowytops of the Sierras!"

She got her hand free then, and seizing the books ran quicklyfrom him up the walk. Billy Anderson returned to his room, andbefore retiring made certain arrangements with his alarm clock.He set it for the hour of six on Decoration Day.

* * * * *

AT six-thirty the next morning Billy Andersonstood in Peter McQuade's back yard in solemn conference with theowner of the only horse-drawn vehicle for rent in Stonefield. Mr.McQuade was in the throes of his morning grouch; he did not yieldreadily to arguments. A twenty-dollar bill, however, soothed hissoul and brightened his whole day.

Fifteen minutes later Ma McQuade locked the front door andclimbed to the side of her husband in the ancient carriage. Mr.McQuade took up the reins, then leaned forward doubtfully.

"You've give me your word," he said, "that you'll fix thingswith Miss Minerva."

"Don't give her another thought," smiled Billy. "So long!"

"Ge-ap!" said Mr. McQuade.

Mr. Anderson watched them drive off, to perform an entirelyunnecessary errand for him in a town ten miles distant.

"It's to-day or never," he reflected grimly as he went back tohis boarding-house for breakfast.

At twenty-two minutes before nine Billy Anderson drove abright new Requa limousine up to Miss Minerva's front door. Heleft the car sparkling in the first warm sunshine of the springand hurried up the walk. On the veranda he noted a collection oflilacs, snowballs, syringas, a few anemic geraniums in pots,roses and carnations from the local greenhouse. He thought ofCalifornia in May and smiled a pitying smile. Eloise met him atthe door.

"I'm glad you've come," she said. "Aunt Minerva is in a state!Walking the floor! I never saw her so upset before."

"What's the trouble?"

"Peter McQuade! He hasn't shown up, and no one will answer histelephone." She preceded Billy into the dim drawing-room."Auntie, here's Mr. Anderson."

"I've trouble enough without Mr. Anderson," snapped the oldlady.

"Perhaps I can help you in your trouble," said Billygently.

"You could—if you owned a horse."

"I own sixty of them—in the form of a beautiful, smooth-running Requa. I understand you wish to go to the cemetery."

"Aha—another conspiracy!" cried Miss Bluebottlefiercely.

"Now—now!" rebuked Billy in an injured tone. "That'sunworthy of you—on this lovely morning, when your onlythoughts should be of these fine people on the wall." He glancedabout him at the Bluebottles who had been. "I think you've hurttheir feelings," he went on. "They look hurt to me."

"Eloise," said the old lady, "did you call up Mrs.Eldridge?"

"Yes, Auntie, I told you I called them all—theEldridges, the Smalls, the Clarksons—all down the list.Everybody has started—they're somewhere on the way."

Miss Bluebottle groaned. Then silence.

"Miss Bluebottle," said Billy in a moment, "is this the propermorning to parade your foolish prejudice against automobiles?Think! You have not missed a Decoration Day morning up there fortwenty years!"

"Twenty-seven!"

"For twenty-seven years! In a few minutes all yourfriends—all the best people—will be gathered there,doing honor to their ancestors. They will glance toward theBluebottle plot—sad, neglected, untouched. What will peoplesay?"

"You're right!" she cried. "Eloise, call—call me ataxi."

Eloise paused. Billy nodded and winked.

"Call her a taxi," he said. Eloise disappeared. "But I don'tapprove of it. Taxis are rattly, they are smelly—germs,Miss Bluebottle!"

"Germs?" sniffed Miss Bluebottle. "Not up here in our fineclean Berkshires."

"Ah, yes—even up here. For strangers will drift in, andthey bring germs with them. Now my car is new, clean, with lotsof room for those beautiful geraniums and what-you-may-call-'ems."

"The taxi man does not answer," announced Eloise, returning.Again Miss Minerva groaned.

"I'm not going to say a word," remarked Billy. "I'm going tolet them speak for me." He waved his hand toward the Bluebottleson the wall. "A fine, intelligent-looking crowd, and good sportstoo. That old chap there—Uncle Ezra, I presume—"

"My father, Hezekiah Bluebottle," corrected the old lady.

"Ah, yes! Look at the twinkle in his eye! I'll bet he ran overto Albany now and then! He's watching you, Miss Bluebottle. He'swondering what you're going to do. They're all wondering. You'vegot a sort of a date with them this morning. Do you imagineyou're justified in passing them up—disappointingthem—just for the selfish satisfaction of keeping a sillyvow? I don't! They won't! Stop and ask yourself, MissBluebottle—doesn't the end justify the means?"

He stopped. A long pause followed.

"Norah," called Miss Minerva suddenly, "bring my hat andcoat!"

Billy Anderson said nothing. He ran outside and began placingflowers in the limousine. As he helped Miss Bluebottle in shegave him a withering look over her shoulder.

"Remember this!" she said. "I'll never own one of thesethings! Never! Never!"

"In you go," smiled Billy. "I'll have you there in ajiffy."

He started his motor, and Miss Bluebottle went to her trystwith the past—at forty miles an hour. Her arrival at thecemetery was the sensation of the decade in Stonefield. But shecarried it off with her usual grand air.

Eloise helped her as she busied herself above the graves ofBluebottles, long dust. When the social hour began the girl cameover and joined Billy Anderson, who was cheerfully lurking near amarble angel.

"One thing I want to ask you," he said. "How did it happen thetaxi man failed to answer?"

"Perhaps"—she blushed—"perhaps it was because henever got a chance. I didn't call him."

"Hooray!" cried Billy. "You do like me then? You want me towin out?"

"Yes, I—I think I do."

"That's all I wanted to know. Now that I've practically soldyour aunt—"

"But you haven't!"

"All in good time. I want to tell you—I want tosay"—his usually glib tongue found the roof of his mouthand stuck there. He tried again—"It's you that's kept mehere. More than once I was ready to give up—to go away.Then I thought of you—that look in your eyes—"

"Please!"

"Let me finish—if I can. I want—I want " He turnedhelplessly, and his eyes fell on the inscription beneath themarble angel. He pointed. "What I mean is, how would itlook—carved in stone—a great many years from now, ofcourse—Eloise, beloved wife of Billy Anderson?"

He stopped, for she was staring at him.

"Oh, dog-gone it," he cried, "I'm all wrong! I'm talkinglike—like they do out here—this town has got me. Butyou understand—you would be beloved—all through theyears—if you married me. Will you?"

"Aunt Minerva would be furious. She—she couldn't hear ofit!"

"Forget Aunt Minerva," began Billy, but it proved impossible,for the old lady joined them at that moment.

The social hour was over. She had found, somewhat to herconsternation, that all her friends took it for granted she hadpurchased the glittering car. She did not point out their error.It was none of their business anyhow.

Billy Anderson helped her back into the machine. Out on themain highway he called over his shoulder, "I'm going to take youhome by a roundabout route."

Miss Bluebottle uttered some protesting remark, but alreadythey were traveling at such a rate of speed that it did not leapforward to the driver's seat.

Had she realized how roundabout the route was to be herprotest would have been stronger. Billy whisked her along betweennewly green fields, up and down her beloved hills. For a time sheraged and demanded to be allowed to walk. Then she sat back,filling her lungs with the fine, clear air she worshiped as theheathen once worshiped the sun. A faint flush came into hercheeks. Three hours passed, and Billy drew up before a countryinn.

"I'm about to invite you to lunch," he announced.

"Lunch!" cried Miss Minerva. "Why, I must be home—"

"You're a hundred miles from home," he laughed.

"Kidnaper!" she cried.

But there was the ghost of a smile on her face, and as shealighted he saw that her eyes were shining. After lunch he tookthem back to Stonefield—again by a roundabout way. Dusk wasfalling when he drew up before their door.

"Home!" said Miss Minerva. "I never expected to see it again,I'm sure." She got out of the car, her cheeks still flushed, thelight still in her eyes. "Won't you have supper with us?" sheinvited.

Delighted, Billy followed the two women inside. Waiting in thedrawing-room, he bethought himself of sales talk. Miss Minervawas the first to return.

"Well," said Billy, "I guess I've shown you the differencebetween Romulus and Remus, and a Requa. You see now what I meanwhen I say that when I sell you a car I sell you more than apiece of mechanism. I sell you the western half of this greatstate for your playground—the farthest and the highesthills, quaint little public squares where history was made, nobleGrey-lock, Jacob's Ladder, round after round of verdant beauty. Isell you romance and revel."

"I'm pretty old," sighed Miss Minerva, "for romance andrevel."

"Old! You wouldn't say that if you knew how young you lookafter your ride. Why, you look about twenty-five, and you canalways look that way if you'll only jazz things up—get outand enjoy life. Here we are," he went on solemnly, "in thepresence of all these splendid Bluebottles, dead and gone. Beforethem you can't be anything but honest with yourself—withme. You had a mighty good time to-day—now, didn't you?"

The firelight flickered on the portraits. The aged clockticked youthfully.

"What I want," s*aid Miss Minerva in a firm clear voice, "is acar exactly like the one we rode in to-day!"

Billy Anderson's heart stopped beating.

"You can have that one," he said softly, so as not to breakthe spell. "It was never off the floor until this morning." Hetook an order blank from his pocket. "Sign here," he said.

When she had signed and written a check she handed both toBilly. He bowed in a manner that took in most of the people onthe wall.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I thank you." Eloiseentered. "I've sold your aunt that car," he announced. "And oh,by the way, Miss Bluebottle—there's one thing more. Eloiseand I are going to be married."

They waited for the explosion.

"It's a good idea," said the surprising old woman. "I'vethought so for some time. We New Englanders intermarry altogethertoo much. The families peter out. We need new enthusiasm, newlife." She unlocked a drawer of her desk and took out a worn oldbox.

Opening it, she held it before the astonished Billy. "I'vebeen saving them for Eloise's husband. My father'scigars—just as he left them when he passed on at the timeof the Civil War."

Billy took one of the cigars gingerly in his fingers. Itcrumbled immediately into a dry brown dust.

"War quality," he said softly. "They don't hold up."

More than a year later Miss Bluebottle was out riding in herlimousine with her friend, Mrs. Eldridge.

"Yes," she said, "they've gone to California to live. Iadvised it. Billy was doing well in Boston, but he can get alongeven faster among his own people—and as for Eloise, themild climate has made a new woman of her. I had a telegramyesterday. The baby weighed twelve pounds at bir—that is,when it arrived."

"Twelve pounds!" repeated Mrs. Eldridge.

"We don't grow them like that here, do we?" Miss Minerva triedto keep vulgar boasting from her tone. "You know, I've come tobelieve that California is a great state."

"But so different from Massachusetts," said her friendsmugly.

"Well, a change does us all good. I've made up my mind to goout there this winter and visit them."

"Why, Minerva," protested Mrs. Eldridge, "it's a frightfultrip! You'll be days in smelly germy Pullmans."

"Nonsense!" Miss Bluebottle snapped. "I may be an old woman,but I'm down off the shelf, and down to stay. I agree withBilly—it's never too late to jazz things up."

"Jazz things up? Minerva Bluebottle, what in heaven's namedoes that mean?"

"I'll show you," said Miss Bluebottle. She leaned forward."Carleton," she ordered, "give her the gas. Step on theexhilarator."

Carleton stepped on it.

THE HEART OF THE LOAF

Illustrated by Charles D. Mitchell

First published in The Saturday Evening Post, Aug 5,1922

THE night had been warm in Lower Ten, and BobDana's mouth was dry and his head noticeably overweight as hefastened his suitcase preparatory to leaving the train. He sethis bag in the aisle and dropped down again on the green plushseat. Outside the window old familiar scenes were flashing by,fields where he had played, a brook where he had gone swimming,and his heart was suddenly touched, for it often happens that thetraveler is never so homesick as on coming home at last.

The train stopped and Bob followed the porter to the door anddown into the bright June sunshine. Five exciting years had goneby since he last stood on this narrow platform, stared at theunwashed windows and the rotting roof of the ancient C. P. &D. station. Mayfield again, sleepy old Mayfield. The New York-Chicago express paused but briefly; already it was slipping pasthim as he walked along, carrying his heavy bag. When he reachedthe platform's end the train was no more, and he had anunobstructed view up Main Street to the green of the courthousepark beyond.

"Well, stranger, where you want to go?" said a familiar voiceat his elbow.

Bob turned. There stood Clay Harkins, town hackman for thirtyyears and more.

"Stranger, Clay?" the young man smiled. "Where do you get thatstuff?"

Clay stared for a long moment into the lean tanned face thatwas nearly two feet above him. "Well, I be darned," he said atlast. "If it isn't little Bobby Dana."

"Little Bobby, sure enough," answered the young man. "But,Clay—I don't see the band."

"What band?"

"The band to play Hail, the Conquering Hero Comes as I ride upMain Street in an open barouche with the mayor. And say, lookhere—I don't see the mayor either."

"You must be joking, Bobby," responded Clay tolerantly. "Well,boy, you sure have changed. What you doin' back in Mayfield?"

"I came here to do a job of work."

"A job? Why, I heard you was a painter. Messed round withlittle pictures."

"Well, Clay, that's the truth."

The old man pondered. "Somebody in Mayfield want his housepainted?" he asked.

"No, not his house. His father."

"His father! Well, I be darned." Clay stepped closer andseized one of the lapels of the young man's coat. "Where'd ye gitthe suit, Bobby?"

Bob laughed. "It was made for me by Jimmy Breen, an Englishtailor on the Promenade des Anglais, at Nice. Does it intrigueyou, Clay?"

"Pretty good stuff," Clay admitted. "Not so good as this one Igot on, though." He stepped back to permit a more comprehensivesurvey. "Bought her twelve years ago at the Racket Store, an'she's just as good as she ever was."

"Twelve years," repeated Bob solemnly. "Almost time to haveher cleaned and pressed. Don't you think so, Clay?"

"Not much," Clay answered. "You know what they charge for thatnow? Seventy-five cents. Yes, sir! Well, Bobby, is they any placeyou'd like to go?"

The young man leaned against a telegraph post and lighted acigarette. "Dozens of places," he announced. "The Orient, forexample. China. Want to sit on the Great Wall and paint theremnants of an ancient civilization. And after that— "

Clay cut in on this nonsense. "Take you anywhere in Mayfieldfor fifty cents."

"It used to be a quarter."

"Sure it did. But they's been a war. Maybe you heard aboutit?"

"Heard about it? Clay, old scout, I was nearer than that. Iheard it." He blew a cloud of smoke toward the blazing sky. "Butyou don't want the story of my adventures, do you? Nobody everdoes. Coming down to cases, I suppose the Mayfield House is stilldoing business at the old stand?"

A frail white-haired little man with gold-rimmed eyeglassescame hopping along the platform—Will Varney, the MayfieldEnterprise's publisher, editor and star reporter, all in one. Hestopped.

"Why, it's Bobby Dana! Hello, Bob. You back again?"

"Hello, Mr. Varney. I seem to be back, that's a fact.Mayfield's worst penny."

"Wouldn't say that," smiled the editor. "Going up street?"

"Yes, I guess so." The young man turned and saw disappointmentclouding Clay's battered face. "Think I'll walk, Clay. Do megood. But here's the half dollar, just the same." He noddedtoward his bag. "You take that young trunk up to the MayfieldHouse and leave it there. And here's a check for his olderbrother. You might deliver that too."

"Sure, Bobby; sure."

The returning traveler fell into step beside the editor.

"Well, boy, you're quite a stranger," Varney remarked.

"Five years. I believe you were at the station when I wentaway."

Varney nodded. "Yes, I guess so. That's been my role in thedrama, Bob. At the station, watching others go. Watchingthem—with envy."

"Like to travel yourself, eh?" said Bob. "Well, why not? Can'tyou get away?"

"No, I can't," answered Varney. "But it's not because I'm toobusy. It's because I'm too poor. Journalism's a genteelprofession, my boy. That's about all you can say for it." Theywalked on up Main Street in silence for a moment. "EugeneBenedict was telling me yesterday he'd sent for you," the editorcontinued. "Wants you to do a portrait of the old man, Iunderstand?"

"Yes. It's kind of hack work, but I need the money. Paintingis also a genteel profession."

Will Varney's eyes twinkled. "Well, I don't suppose you knowit, but you're going to stir up a hornet's nest with yourpicture. You're certainly going to start something in thistown."

"Great Scott. You don't think it will be as bad as allthat."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"Reckon I'll let 'Gene explain it to you. Where do you aim toput up?"

"Mayfield House, I suppose."

"Heaven help you! You must come up to our place forsupper—often. Mother'll be happy to have you."

"That's kind of you," Bob Dana said. "I take it the MayfieldHouse hasn't changed."

"Nothing has changed," answered Will Varney, with just a traceof bitterness in his gentle voice. "Same old Mayfield. Eightthousand population when you went away, eight thousand or evenless to-day. Sound asleep, this town is. All up and down thevalley—I guess you saw 'em when you came along— steelmills, blast furnaces—"

"Smoke and grime."

"Prosperity, Bob. Life. Every town around here has grown andthrived, touched by the magic fingers of the steel industry. Butslow old Mayfield—"

"You're writing an editorial," Bob laughed.

"I've written it," Varney said. "Time and again. Yes, I'veblown the horn, but not a sleeper waked. A lot of old moss-backs—that's what has ailed poor Mayfield. I tell you, whatthis town's needed has been a few big funerals. And we're getting'em at last. Quite a group of our leading citizens have gone thispast winter—old Henry Benedict, Judge Samuel Ward. They'redropping off. You needn't look at me," he added smilingly. "I'mfeeling fine."

"Hope so, I'm sure," Bob answered. "Don't feel so wellmyself."

"What's the trouble?"

"No breakfast yet. Silly little habit of mine."

They were now in the very heart of the town's oldest businesssection, and on the signs about him Bob Dana read many a namefamiliar to his youth. He glanced across the brick-paved streetto a shabby one-story building built of wood. Gilt lettersagainst a black background announced this as the establishment ofHerman Schall, the Baker, and on the window in white letters werethe words: "Schall's Bread—Fresh Every Hour." In thedoorway stood a portly bespectacled old German with a white aprondraped across his ponderous middle.

"Well, well," Bob cried. "There's old Herman Schall! Used tobuy cookies from him—years and years ago."

"Yes, Herman's still on the job," Varney said. "Tiptoeinground the kitchen turning down the gas, just as he used to countthe lumps of coal in the days before gas ranges. A penny saved isa penny earned. Leave it to Herman!"

Suddenly Bob Dana felt a glow of friendliness for the old manacross the street. "I think I'll go over and ask him for somecoffee and rolls," he announced. "Good place as any forbreakfast, I guess. See you later." He stopped. "Say, what in theworld did you mean—about this portrait I'm going to dostirring up trouble?"

Varney laughed. "Don't you worry, boy. The row won't concernyou. Come in when you get a chance and tell me about yourtravels."

"I sure will."

"That's a promise," the little editor reminded him.

Bob crossed the street and stood before Herman Schall,impassive as a statue in his doorway. "Hello, Herman," hesaid.

The old man peered at him through thick lenses. "Excuse,please. The eyes ain't so good."

"Herman, you old rascal. Don't you know me? Dana. BobDana."

"Little Bobby Dana!" cried the old man. "Sure I know you.Sure!"

"I should hope so. How about a bite of breakfast, Herman? Justcoffee and rolls."

"Coffee and rolls, hey? Come in, Bobby, and take a chair."

Bob followed him inside. The place had a run-down air,prosperity had passed, an old man was left to putter round thescene of his life's activities. Two small tables stood againstthe wall, their covers faded and patched, but clean.

The young man hung his hat on a rack and sat down. He watchedthe baker enter the kitchen at the rear, heard his instant cry:"Louie, Louie—turn down dot gas!" Heavy footstepsresounded—Herman saving the pennies. After a time the oldman reappeared, carrying two rolls on a plate, and a steamingcup, muttering and protesting to himself: "Oh, dot Louie! In thepoorhouse he will have me yet." He set the dishes down before hiscustomer.

"And butter," Bob suggested. "Any butter on the program?"

"Sure. Butter—sure."

The old baker ambled off. Bob broke open one of the rolls. Thecrust was brown and crisp, but the inside was soggy. However, hewas young and reckless—and hungry—and when Hermanreturned with a thin slice of butter he set to.

While he ate, Herman hovered aimlessly near by. "They tell meyou was in the old country," he said presently. "Maybe you was inGermany—maybe."

"Off and on," Bob told him. "Mostly in Paris andRome—Florence too. Studying, you know. Trying to be apainter."

"A painter? Artist, hey? Is dot so?" He pondered this for atime, standing and blinking down on Bob's brown head. "My nephewin Stuttgart—he would be an artist, too, now, maybe. Onlythe war " The old face clouded. He wandered uncertainly away.

His brief meal finished, Bob stood with Herman in the solemnpresence of the cash register. "You had enough, hey?" the old maninquired. "Twenty cents, then."

"How's business?" Bob asked as he paid.

"Business ain't so good," sighed Herman. "Us old merchants, weget crowded out. Strangers they come and take our trade. Too muchcompetition."

"I'm sorry," the young man answered. "But you can't complain.For years you were the only baker in Mayfield. I guess I've seenyour wagon standing in front of every house in town—all thebig bugs on Maple Avenue. You had things all your own waythen."

"Sure, sure; but not no more." Herman shuffled from behind thecounter, gathered the dishes from the table, turned toward thekitchen. "Good-by, Bobby." As Bob reached for his hat he heardthe querulous old voice: "Louie—ach, would you have me inthe poorhouse yet?"

The clock in the courthouse was striking nine; Main Street wasastir with life. Bob Dana cut across under the elms of the park.Suddenly before him loomed the dingy outlines of the MayfieldHouse, a three-story building of brick with a pretentious cupolaon one corner. Back in the 'eighties when it was built WillVarney's father had spoken of it in the Enterprise as "the finesthotel building in any town of comparable size between New Yorkand Chicago. A modern hostelry in every sense of the word."

But in thirty years the most modern of hostelries may altersadly. The marble lobby was soiled and battered, Bob noted, as hecrossed it and engaged a room from the somewhat seedy stranger atthe desk. His bag lay on the floor. A bell-boy seized it and ledthe way through swinging doors at the rear into a dark and smellycave. Bob stumbled after him up the stairs and finally out intothe light of a big room on the second floor front.

"There's a bath here, isn't there?" he inquired.

"Sure, there's a bath," the boy answered proudly. He flungopen a door. "Right in here. Only room in the house that's gotone. Used to belong to Mr. Cornell."

Bob remembered; old man Cornell, who sat for years before thehotel, his hands crossed on his cane, his watery eyes staring offinto space. "Where's Mr. Cornell now?"

"Dead," said the boy. "Last winter."

"Who runs the hotel since he's gone?"

"Oh, I don't know. It just seems to run itself. Your trunk'sdown-stairs; I'll send it up."

Left alone, Bob tossed his clothes on to old man Cornell's bedand filled old man Cornell's tin tub with cold water, half ofwhich he obtained from a faucet plainly marked "Hot." After hisbath he arrayed himself in his best, and lighting a pipe sat downto read a Cleveland paper he had bought on the train. He haddrawn an easy-chair into the big bay window, and after a fewmoments the paper fell from his hand and he sat staring out athis town.

Here he had been born and spent his youth; across the parkthat dozed under the elms he had gone a thousand times to andfrom high school; under that very tree he had stood one afternoonin 1906 and watched the old courthouse burn. Suppose God had notgiven him his inexplicable talent with the brush, the never-satisfied ambition that went with it. He would still be a part ofMayfield, perhaps this young mechanic driving a flivver downMarket Street; or that brisk young business man hurrying to thebank for his day's cash; or even that hopeless figure out of workand lolling on a bench in the park.

But he was none of these, he was Bob Dana who wanted to be anartist and was on his way. That way had led him far fromMayfield, perhaps in the future it would lead him farther still.But this remained his town, these were his people. There wasnothing but kindness in his eyes as he sat staring out throughold man Cornell's window. Let others belittle the environmentthat had molded them. Bob Dana was one of those faithful soulswho, having once given their affection, can not take it back.

A narrow, mean little town? Some people might call it that.Certainly there were narrow, mean folks in it, as in all towns;big cities too. And certainly it was, as Will Varney had said, atown that slept. All the way from Pittsburgh that morning Bob hadridden under the pall of the steel mills' smoke; up and down thevalley Mayfield's neighbors prospered, but here the old orderremained, the conservatives had made good their slogan, "Keep thestrangers out." They had triumphed, the moss-backs. And was itsuch a pity, after all?

The courthouse clock was striking ten when Bob rose from hischair, brushed scattered ashes from his coat, and sought thestreet.

The First National Bank stood, as in former days, on thecorner of Market and Park, its home a worn old business blockwith the figures "1888" cut in the stone at the front. On theopposite corner, Bob Dana noticed, an ambitious project was underway, a six-story office building not quite completed.

He went into the First National and asked for the president.As he entered that official's private office Eugene Benedictjumped up to greet him. A ruddy, prosperous little man, Eugene,with a flower in his buttonhole and the unlined face of a baby.He had never had a worry in his life save the presumption of theworking classes and, these later years, Bolshevism.

"Hello, Bob!" he cried. "Thought it was about time for you tobreeze in. How are you, anyhow?"

"Great," said Bob. He banished his smile temporarily. "Seemsstrange not to see your father here."

Eugene sought to be solemn too. "Yes, poor father. Passed awayin April, as I wrote you. A sick man for months, but insisted oncoming down here up to the day he died. Just wouldn't give up,you know."

"Ah, yes—he had that reputation." Bob Dana was sorelytempted, but he refrained from saying it.

"A great pity," Eugene went on. "If only he could have liveduntil we moved into our new building across the street."

"Oh—is that yours?"

"You bet. Six stories. Finest office building for a town thissize anywhere between New York and Chicago."

"Pretty daring for Mayfield, isn't it?" Bob inquired.

"Oh, I don't think so. Mayfield is going to pick up. Forgeahead. 'Twenty thousand by the next census'—that's ourslogan now. Got a chamber of commerce and a Rotary Club andeverything. Bound to boom."

"Seems about time," said Bob. "But about our little job ofwork. When do I hang up my hat and begin?"

"Sooner the better. You know, it was a great surprise to me tofind you could paint a portrait of father now. Really, the wholeidea came from Delia—"

"Oh, yes—Delia. How is she?"

"Fine. Just came home from college last week. Graduated."

"That so? The last time I saw Dell was at the senior danceafter high-school commencement. I stepped on her skirt and toreit. I believe we parted more in anger than in sorrow."

"No? Well, they're wearing 'em shorter now. But as I wassaying, I was surprised to know you could paint a portrait of aman who had—er—passed on."

"Oh, sure. Of course they're not quite so satisfactory asthose painted from life. But they serve. Resurrection portraits,we call them."

"Resurrection portraits! Well, that's expressive. Now, we'llhelp you all we can."

"You've a lot of old photographs, you wrote me."

"Well, we've several. And one crayon enlargement. And aboutthe color of the eyes and hair and all that—I'll watch youas you go along and keep you straight. We all will."

"That will be lovely," shuddered Bob Dana. "Did Dell recommendme for this job?"

"Come to think of it, I guess she did. Now about the financialend of it. A thousand dollars, I think you said. Need any of itin advance?"

"Well, I'm just back from Europe. To be frank withyou—"

"Sure, Bob—that's all right. I'll write a check. Howabout three hundred? Or"—he was, after all, HenryBenedict's son—"perhaps two hundred would be enough?"

"Oh, plenty," Bob told him. He took Eugene's check. "Mightykind of you."

"Not at all. Now, Bob, I haven't told you anything of what'sbehind all this. In the first place I want a cracking goodportrait of father—a speaking likeness. And I want itfinished inside of four weeks, which is about the stretch beforewe open our new banking quarters across the street. You see, Iintend to hang it in a prominent place in the main banking room,and I want it there the day the doors are thrown open to thepublic."

"That's all right. You'll have it."

"Good! I'm going to hang it there, and underneath I'm going toput an inscription. Just a few innocent words, but they'll stirup something in this town, or I'm a liar."

"Why—what words?" asked Bob Dana, startled.

"Simply this: 'Henry Benedict; born 1858, died 1922. Bankerand leading citizen, who more than any of his contemporariesinfluenced the life of his times and left his impress on thetown.'"

"And then what?" Bob wanted to know.

"Nothing more. Just that."

"But I don't see anything explosive about that."

"No? You haven't kept up with things round here of course.Well, I want you to understand just what we're working toward.Can you spare me a few minutes?"

"Sure. All I've got."

Eugene Benedict rose and put on his hat. "Better if I let yousee for yourself," he announced. He led the way outside to hiscar, which was parked across from the bank.

"Jump in," he ordered. "I'm taking you out to thecemetery."

"That's nice," said Bob Dana. "You've got sort of mysterioussince I saw you last, Mr. Benedict."

"Oh, no," protested Benedict. "It's simple enough—orwill be when I show you."

The car sped along Market Street and in a few moments turnedin at the cemetery gates. "Maybe you heard," said thebanker—"Judge Samuel Ward passed away last winter too."

"Somebody mentioned it. Sort of unhealthy climate you've gotround here, it seems to me."

"Not at all. Three score and ten—man's usual span."Eugene stopped the car before an imposing marble obelisk. "Getout here. This is the judge's grave. I want you to read theinscription on that monument."

Bob Dana alighted and followed the banker. He stood in frontof the monument and read:

SAMUEL CLARK WARD
1851-1922
Jurist—Publicist—Statesman
Who More Than Any ofHis Contemporaries Influenced
the Life of His Times and LeftHis Impress on the Town

"Oh," said Bob Dana. "I get you now."

"I thought you would," Eugene replied. "Jump in. We'll goback." He stepped on the gas. "I want to tell you this thing hasmade me mad—hopping mad. It's a direct slap at father. SamWard was a good man in his way, but an obstructionist—anold grouch. He sat on every progressive movement that's beenattempted round here. His decisions from the bench were sour andprejudiced. Of course father was a conservative too, but hisconservatism was based on a sound business instinct."

"Of course," smiled Bob.

"You've been away from Mayfield a long time, but if you thinkback you'll realize that inscription is a lie. 'More than any ofhis contemporaries.' Ha! Who says so? Clarence Ward; and notanother soul in town. Everybody will tell you that my father wasMayfield's leading citizen, that he financed every project thatcame up, that he led the way for years. Yes, sir, if anybodyinfluenced the life of his times father was the man. And ifClarence Ward thinks he can put an inscription like that on hisfather's tombstone and not hear from me by returnmail—well, he's got another think coming, that's all."

"I guess your come-back will give him pause," said BobDana.

"It ought to. Right in our main banking room. No one evervisits a cemetery if he can help it. But father's memorial willbe where hundreds will see it every day—hundreds, mindyou—everybody in Mayfield who counts."

"Ought to start a nice little row."

"I hope not. Unless it starts a good big row I'll bedisappointed. I want this thing thrashed out now for all time. Iknow who will win." He brought the car to a stop before the bank."You can see now that I've got to have the portrait on time, andthat it must be good enough to be taken seriously. Where were youthinking of doing the work?"

"Why—at the hotel, I suppose."

"Nonsense! We won't hear of it. I've talked it over with Mrs.Benedict; we'll find you a place to work up at the house. Goodthing to paint right there in the atmosphere where father lived.Catch his spirit better."

"All right." Bob accompanied the banker inside.

"Tell you what you do—go up to the house this afternoon.Delia and her mother will help you pick out a room. Want theright light and all that, I suppose. We'll clear it out and youcan start slinging paint in the morning."

"That's a go," Bob Dana agreed. "I'll be up about three."

Eugene disappeared into his office and Bob stopped at thepaying teller's window, where an old acquaintance cashed hischeck.

As he stepped again on to the hot sidewalk he was saying tohimself: "And they're all going to help. Won't that be nice?Happy days ahead." He walked on toward the Mayfield House. "Butat that, these little greenbacks sure do feel grateful to thetouch."

For an hour he sat around the lobby of the hotel, hoping for aglimpse of some familiar face, but none appeared. When thedining-room doors were thrown open for lunch he went over andglanced inside. One look discouraged him—that, and theweird uncomfortable feeling in his chest. For his health didn'tseem just right, his genial spirits of the morning hadevaporated, he felt depressed and gloomy. He went up-stairs andlay down on the bed.

At three that afternoon he crossed the park and set out upMaple Avenue. His mood had not improved. He was conscious of asilly irritation over nothing, a sudden dissatisfaction with theworld which he was accustomed to regard through cheerful,approving eyes. What, he wondered, ailed him anyhow.

Under the tallest elms in town lay Maple Avenue, unchanged.Here were the houses of the town's elite, outmoded piles of brickor stone standing in the midst of beautiful lawns. He cameshortly to the Benedict mansion, the finest of all; in the olddays it had represented for him wealth and the aristocracy. Hesmiled to himself as he entered the big gate and strolled up thefront walk past a well-remembered cast-iron deer.

Delia Benedict was reading a novel on the front porch, and Bobfelt a little better at sight of her. Another link with his past,and assuredly a link that had greatly improved since he last sawher. He had always liked Dell, though he remembered her as anervous, spindling girl who moved in a constant whirlwind ofenergy that was decidedly wearing. He had never thought herpretty, but time and an eastern college had changed her mightily.Her slenderness was now a rather alluring item in her favor, shehad seemingly gained in repose, and you might almost callher—well, if not pretty, at least charming, and alive.

"Hello, Dell," he said.

"Hello, Bob." She gazed at him approvingly.

"Little Bobby's grown up. Not so bad, either—as far asyou've gone."

"I'm not going any farther, Dell. Got to like me as I am." Hedropped into a chair beside her. "You've changed, Dell. Butyou're still wearing it, I see."

"Wearing what?"

"Little old freckle on the end of your nose. I was wonderingif it would still be there."

"What an eye for trifles," she laughed.

"Trifles," he said solemnly, "make perfection, and perfectionis no trifle. Got that straight from Mike Angelo. Studied underhim in Italy."

"Oh, yes—you and Angelo. Famous artist now, aren'tyou?"

"Who says so?"

"I read about you in a newspaper. It said you had a lot oftalent."

"Did it say I had a lot of money too? You can't believe allyou read in the newspapers, my child. By the way, did thatarticle move you to recommend me for this job?"

"Did I do that?"

"Didn't you?"

"I don't know—I forget. Anyhow it isn't much of ajob—not for you."

"My dear girl, it's a life saver, and I'm mighty grateful.Even the most talented of us must eat now and then. I'll givethis assignment my best, to justify your recommendation. And Imay add that I'm going to enjoy the row."

"Oh," she smiled. "Father told you."

"Yes. Gave me a free ride to the cemetery and everything. Theold story of the Montagues and Capulets. By the way, who'splaying Romeo? Clarence Ward had a precious son if I'm notmistaken."

"Herb Ward," she answered. "Just graduated from lawschool—Harvard."

"Oh, yes—little Herb. Pale young shrimp with curls andthe air of a crown prince. Used to ride around town in a ponycart. Nearly ran over a dog of mine once, and I pulled him out ofthe cart and blacked his eye. Them was the happy days."

"You always did have such brutal instincts," she reminded him."Even now you look more like a boiler maker than an artist. It'shard to believe. Are you sure you're the Bob Dana whopaints?"

"Lead me to my new studio and I'll prove it to you. By theway, your father said—"

"Oh, yes. Come inside." She led him into a big cool hall."You're the white-haired boy round here—any room in thehouse you want. That's orders. Anybody who happens to beestablished there must be dropped from the window."

"Look out or I'll take your room." He followed her up thestairs and they made the rounds of the second floor. Hisselection fell on a large guest-room with a good north light nottoo impeded by the trees. "Move everything out—rugs andall," he said. "Just a kitchen chair and maybe a littletable."

"It shall be done, O Rajah," laughed Dell. They returned tothe upper hall. The girl snapped on an electric light,illuminating a dark corner. "By the way, you'd better take a lookat that," she said.

She pointed to a crayon portrait of a tired, dyspeptic-lookingman in middle age. His lips were a thin line on a thin face, hiseyes fishy, his entire aspect chill and bleak and seeminglylacking in all human feeling.

"Oh, yes—your grandfather," said Bob Dana, and his heartsank. For a long moment he and Henry Benedict stared at eachother.

"I know what you're thinking," Dell said. "You're thinking,'There's old Eight-Per-Cent. Benedict. I've got to resurrect him,and gosh, how I dread it!'"

"You wrong me," Bob smiled. "I was just wondering—how dowe get from him to you? No connection that I can see."

"Thanks for the ad. Well, the least said about poorGrandfather the soonest mended. As a tyrant he made the Kaiserlook weak. However, do the best you can."

"Your father says he wants a speaking likeness."

"Heaven forbid!" said Dell. She snapped off the light, andHenry Benedict receded into the shadows. "I moved him up heremyself. Some battle, but I won. We've got a few otherphotographs—an old tintype, and one of him on his weddingday. He looked quite human then."

"Oh, I'll make out," Bob told her. "Your father has promisedto keep a sharp watch on me and tell me when I'm wrong."

"You poor thing—I'm afraid he will. Pretty tough foryou."

"That's all right," he assured her as he followed herdownstairs. "I've got a strong constitution and a cheerfuldisposition. At least I always did have—up to to-day.Somehow I feel terribly depressed and mean this afternoon."

"Why's that?"

"I can't make out." He held the screen door for her and theyreturned to the porch. A shaft of sunlight fell across her hair."Honey!" Bob Dana cried.

"What?" she inquired, surprised.

"Honey," he repeated enthusiastically. "The color of yourhair, I mean. I've been trying ever since I saw you again tothink what that shade reminded me of. I know now. It'shoney—the sort of honey I used to have for breakfast at alittle pension in Rome. Lots of butter, and this honey, anddelicious hot rolls Oh, my lord!"

"What now? Bob, you are absurd."

"No, I'm not. I just remembered what's wrong with me. Thisdepressed, sad feeling. This wave of bitter regret. I ate two ofHerman Schall's rolls for breakfast, and the darned thingsweren't half baked."

"Oh," said Dell, "that's too bad. But you'll get over it. Onlykeep off Herman Schall's bread. Do you really like my hair?"

"Like it? It's lovely! As a matter of fact—I don't wantto spoil you, Dell—but you're quite wonderful. I wish itwas your portrait I was going to paint."

"Well, I'm Father's favorite child. There are no others, ofcourse, but I'm well in the lead. Maybe after you do Grandfatheryou'll get an order to do me."

"No," he said, sternly shaking his head. "I couldn't considerit. Sorry—something else I just remembered. Artist, youknow. Can't support myself, let alone a What I mean is, I've gotto keep my mind off girls. Not so much as look at one. Dangerous.First thing I knew—"

"What are you talking about? You don't for a minute think thatI—"

"No, Dell; no, I mean to say, might get to know you, like you,think better of your whole sex. Go right on from bad to worse,meet some little flapper, fall for the wedding idea—anotherartist gone wrong!"

"You're in no danger here, my lad," said Dell. "Shall I tellFather you'll punch the time clock in the morning?"

"Expect me at nine."

"All right. I'm afraid you'll have to put up with me aroundthe house; I live here, you know. But I want to set your mind atrest, so I'll tell you a little secret. Keep it dark. This thingis more like the Capulets and Montagues than you imagined. I'mengaged to Herbert Ward."

"What! Little Herb Ward?"

"Yes. He's not so bad. The curls are gone and he drives aracing car now."

"Well, I'm glad," said Bob grimly.

"Thanks. I knew you would be."

"You don't understand. I mean I'm glad I blacked his eye thattime. I only wish it had been permanent."

"You—an artist!" she said derisively. "With all thosebrutal instincts struggling inside you."

"Ain't any brutal instincts struggling inside me," he toldher. "Just the little old indigestion I bought from HermanSchall."

And he went from her down the walk, as solemn as the cast-irondeer.

* * * * *

"TO-MORROW morning at ten o'clock," said theEvening Enterprise some weeks later, "the doors of the FirstNational Bank's new home will be thrown open to the public. Thecitizens of Mayfield may be pardoned a keen pride in what theywill behold. It is doubtful if any city of similar size betweenNew York and Chicago can boast finer banking-rooms. Pillars,partitions and walls of marble, mahogany paneled rooms for thedirectors and the president, in the basem*nt safety depositvaults of the newest design and construction—all in all arevelation in modern banking quarters. To the strains of sweetmusic discoursed by the Mayfield Silver Clarinet Band thedirectors and officers will be happy to meet their friends andshow them about. It is understood that the chef d'oeuvreof the main banking-room is to be a portrait of Henry Benedict,the late president of the institution, painted by our talentedand up-and-coming young townsman, Robert Dana, son of the lateMelville Dana, well and favorably known to all our people. 'Comeone, come all' is the invitation extended by the bank."

At about the time Will Varney's words were being read by thecitizens of Mayfield Bob Dana sat before his finished job of workin his studio on the second floor of the Benedict house. Helooked at the moment neither up nor coming, but rather down andout. The feeling of hopelessness, of doubt concerning his ownability, that all true artists experience at the moment of finalachievement was his, and the remarks of the small but selectgroup of spectators gathered at his back did little to dispelit.

"Well, I don't know," Eugene Benedict was saying dubiously."What do you think, Nellie?"

He appealed to his wife, a haughty beauty in her time, butsomewhat faded now. She adjusted her glasses and stared—astare famous in Mayfield, where she had long been the socialarbiter.

"I don't know either," she admitted. "Sometimes I think itlooks like Father—and sometimes I don't."

"My case exactly," said Eugene. "Around thechin—somehow. Did you make the chin fuller, Bob, as Isuggested?"

"I think it's just wonderful," Dell announced.

Bob gave her a grateful look. "I've done my best," he said toEugene. "I've changed it and changed it and changed it, day afterday, as your opinions altered. Sometimes I think—you'llpardon my saying it—that the thing would have been betterif I hadn't listened to you quite so much."

"But we knew Father better than you did," Mrs Benedictreminded him.

"Yes," Bob sighed wearily. "Yet you never did agree on thecolor of his hair. And as for the eyes—one of you saidgray, and another green, and another light blue. It's what alwayshappens on this sort of portrait. I've done my best, as I said,and if you don't like it I'll be happy to draw a knife through itnow, and pay you back that advance when I can."

"No, Bob, no!" cried Benedict, alarmed. "It's not so bad asthat, my boy. Perhaps we've given you a wrong impression. We wereso close to Father, of course we'd be over-critical. It's notbad—not bad at all—I'll be mighty glad to hang it.Besides," he added with the usual tact of the layman discussingan artist's work, "the inscription is to be the important thing,after all."

Bob and Delia exchanged a long, understanding look. "Sure,"Bob said. "That's the way to look at it. The inscription willtakeoff the curse."

"Now let's get down to dinner," Eugene ordered. "I've got abusy night ahead at the bank. Will you stay, Bob?"

"Not to-night, thank you," Bob answered.

"Well, I'll take the picture down in the car to-morrowmorning. Drop in about nine and help me hang it. Now, Nellie,let's get along. Delia!"

The two older people left the room. Bob picked up hiscoat.

"Don't you mind them," smiled Dell. "They don't know anythingabout art—not even what they like."

"It does resemble the old boy, Dell?"

"Bob—it's uncanny. I'm darn glad it's going to hang inthe bank, and not up here. It would make me nervous."

"Then maybe that newspaper was right. I mean—perhaps Ihave a little talent."

"A little? Bob—what ails you?"

"Oh, I always feel like this just after I've finished a thing.Gloomy."

"Then you ought always to have some one around—some onewho thinks you're—wonderful."

He stood staring into her eyes. He had been staring into thema great deal of late—in the intervals of work; at luncheon,which he had been taking daily with the Benedicts; sometimes atdinner, too; and in the evenings. There had been a period whenEugene urged him warmly to look into Dell's eyes, Eugene'sfeeling being that they somewhat resembled Henry Benedict's.After a thorough investigation Bob denied this.

But now the portrait was finished. Bob Dana held open the doorof the guest-room studio.

"You're wanted at dinner," he smiled.

Dell followed him out on to the front porch. "I suppose you'llbe going back East soon?" she inquired.

"Yes; in a few days. Got some unexpected business to lookafter first. Poor Father left me a little plot of land on thenorth side—the only thing he owned after a long hardstruggle. They're thinking of a factory there, and I may sell itfor fabulous wealth. All the money in the world—sixthousand dollars."

"Good luck," she said. "You must come up often until yougo."

"I'll come for my things," he told her. "But"—he shookhis head—"that'll be about all, Dell. That had better beabout all."

"Delia!" her mother called.

"Good-by," said Dell. "And the portrait, Bob—it'swonderful. I'll tell the world."

"Thanks," he smiled. "The same goes for you. You've helped methrough; I'd have quit cold long ago if you hadn't been hangingaround. You see, I'm sort of silly and temperamental in manyways—even if I do look like a boiler maker. Good-by,Dell."

He endured dinner at the Mayfield House, and passed a solemnevening with a magazine in the apartments of the late Mr.Cornell. Promptly at nine in the morning he appeared at the FirstNational Bank. Entering the big front doors he found himself in afragrant bower of roses and other blooms.

"Well, things certainly look festive," he remarked when heencountered the perspiring president. He took hold of the tag ona big basket of roses. "Compliments of the Mayfield LumberCompany," he read.

Eugene smiled. "Yes, everybody whose notes we hold has comeacross," he remarked. "And yet some people say there is nosentiment in business." Bob looked at him in sudden wonder. Hadlittle Eugene a sense of humor, after all? The banker pointed tothe spot where the portrait was to hang.

"Pretty good light, eh? That brass plate shows up fine. I'mglad I had it in big letters. 'More than any of hiscontemporaries influenced the life of his times and left hisimpress on the town.' That ought to hold Clarence Ward for awhile. Now, boys, bring the ladder." He picked up the portraitand turned to Bob. "All the fellows have looked this over.They're delighted with it. Say it's Father to the life.Congratulations."

Bob saw the portrait hung, and collected a check for eighthundred dollars.

"Like to have you stay and meet our leading citizens," Eugenesuggested. "Might interest you to hear their comments on thepicture."

Bob was alarmed. "You don't insist on that?"

"Oh, no, of course not."

"Then I think I'd—I'd rather not."

"Funny fellows, these artists," thought Eugene Benedict.

Bob left the bank just as the Mayfield band began to discoursesweet music and the eager citizens were crowding in. From otherslater he heard of that day's happenings. The opening proved a bigsuccess, and no small part of the interest shown was accordedHenry Benedict's portrait. But the painting itself, Bob judged,figured only incidentally in the excitement. It was the sentimenton the brass plate underneath that won most comment. Every onerecognized it at once for what it was, a direct challenge to theWard family. The non-combatants were amused and warmed at once tothe fray; arguments arose. The spirit seemed to be: "Is this aprivate fight, or can anybody get into it?"

Clarence Ward, slim, dignified, gray-haired, with the mannerof the law courts, came, all unsuspecting, into the bank aboutnoon. He was standing before the portrait of old Henry Benedictwhen Eugene emerged from his office on the way to lunch. There,just as the sweet music came to a sudden stop, the two met. Thespectators held their breath.

"Hello, Clarence," said Eugene breezily. "What do you think ofour new home?"

"Very fine," admitted Mr. Ward coldly. "I have just beenreading the inscription under your father's portrait."

"Ah, yes," said Eugene, smiling sweetly.

"You ought to write fiction, Eugene," Mr. Ward advised."Fiction, I believe, is mostly lies."

Eugene flushed. "I am not aware of any inaccuracy in thatinscription," he said.

"A pinch-penny banker!" sneered Mr. Ward. "Eight-Per-Cent.Benedict, I believe they called him, though I don't recall thathe was ever satisfied with that modest rate."

"That will do!" Eugene cried.

"You have insulted the memory," Mr. Ward went on, flushing,too, "of one of the finest men who ever lived, an incorruptiblejudge, an honored member of Congress—"

"A country lawyer with a mind as broad as a knife blade!"Eugene cut in. "A millstone round the neck of progress!"

"Enough!" shouted Mr. Ward.

"You started it," the banker said. "Boasting on your deadfather's tombstone. Did you think you could get away with thatfairy story? Not likely!"

"I intend," interrupted Mr. Ward, "to withdraw my personalaccount from this bank. I shall also withdraw all funds of whichI am trustee."

"Withdraw, and be damned to you!" roared Eugene.

He turned and walked from the bank. Mr. Ward glared after him.The feud was on.

That evening, the warmest of the summer, to date, Bob Danawalked the streets of his native town. His dominant emotion wasjoy. Henry Benedict was finished; never again need he stare atthat horrible crayon portrait, never again writhe in his chairover the problem of Henry's eyes. He had eight hundred dollars inhis pocket, he was twenty-five, life stretched before him gay andwonderful.

At the corner of Park Avenue and Market Street he narrowlyescaped being hit by an automobile.

He awoke in time, however, and leaped nimbly to safety. Thecar ran up to the curb, stopped, and a familiar voice called"Whoo-oo!"

"What's the idea?" asked Dell as he went up to her. "Trying toend it all? You gave me a turn, I'll say."

"Sorry," he apologized. "Just one of those boneheadedpedestrians. You should have run me down. World's better withoutmy sort. Better for motorists, I mean."

"Hop in," she ordered. "I'll give you a spin. It will coolyour fevered brow."

"Thanks." He climbed into the seat at her side, and seized hishat just in time as she shot the car off into the night. Thecushions were soft, the breeze rushed over him pleasantly. "Thisis elegant," he said. "And it's an old story to you. Curse therich!"

"Cut out the cursing," Dell answered. "We had plenty of thatat dinner. Father held forth on the subject of ClarenceWard."

"That so? I heard there was quite a little grapple at thebank."

"Sure was! Father's inscription did the work. He asked for arow, and now he's got it. I hope he's satisfied."

"Well, the lad's jazzed things up. Give him credit. Say, Irather like the moon. Take a look at it."

"No, thanks. I was doing just that when I nearly ran over you.Better keep my eyes on the job."

"All right. I'll look at it for you and report. It's a grandold moon, Dell. Same moon I've seen shining on the Arno and onthe roses that bloom on the long road up to Fiesole. I've seen itshining on the Colosseum and on the Seine and on lovers in theLuxembourg, and from the Embankment watched it silver the roofsof Parliament and Big Ben in his tower. I've seen it shining onthe Atlantic in the wake of a ship when the band was playing anold-fashioned waltz—and now I've seen it shining on yourhair."

"Still fond of honey?"

"Oh, Dell! If I could only get up in the morning and havethose rolls in Rome—melt in your mouth, they would, and thegolden butter, and that honey! Life, Dell, life haspossibilities."

"You sound rather happy to-night," she said.

"Why not? Eight hundred hard-earned dollars in my pocket.Going to put over a big real-estate deal in a day or two.Then—there are a few places I haven't caught that old moonshining, and thank God the boats still run."

"I wish I were a man!" Dell said suddenly.

"Well, you're mighty nice as you are," he told her. "But ofcourse—there are advantages. Now, take my own case. So manyinteresting things I can do. First of all, I ought to find aplace to do a bit of work before I wander off again. Know whatI'm planning? Little cottage out on the end of Cape Cod, inProvincetown. Exhilarating spot, air like good red licker, seaspray in your face when you go down to watch the fishing boatscome in. I can get it for twenty-eight hundred cash. Going to buyit, fill it with my traps, work there when the spirit moves, pullout when the soles itch again. Good idea, eh, Dell?"

"Splendid!" she answered gayly.

"When I'm hard up," he went on, "I can eat fish. They give 'emaway. Fish aren't so bad, you know."

"I know," she said softly.

"Little half acre I can call my own. Every man ought to have aplace like that. Go there and paint. And when I get blue andlonely, discouraged—"

"Yes?"

"I can hit the old trail again." They drove along in silencefor a time. "Say, Dell," he inquired presently, "have you toldyour father you're engaged to Herb Ward?"

"No, I haven't," said Dell.

Bob suddenly noticed where they were. She had swung into theBenedict drive and now she brought the car to a stop under anold-fashioned porte-cochère. Perhaps she had remembered that thefront porch was in shadow, that the air was filled with the odorof syringa, and the moon so highly spoken of was tracingfantastic patterns on the close-cropped lawn. Perhaps—

The touch of her strong slender hand gave him a thrill as hehelped her to alight, and as he followed her across the lawn hewas saying to himself: "Be careful, you fool. Man in yourposition can't marry. Silly thing to do, spoils everything,travel all over, nose to the grindstone. Watch your step!"

They went side by side up on to the dark porch. A figureemerged promptly from the shadows to greet them, a rather frailfigure in white flannels.

"Why—hello, Herbert," said Delia. "What are you doinghere?"

"Hello, Dell. Oh, that's you, Bob. Say, Dell, if you don'tmind I must see you alone—right away."

"Well, good night," Bob Dana said. "Had a fine ride,Dell."

"Don't go," Dell protested. "Herb just wants to talk about thefamily feud."

"None of my business," Bob answered briskly. "Must run along.See you before I leave town."

He walked rapidly, like a man seeking to get out from undersome overhanging menace. Through the big gate, down Maple Avenueunder the tallest elms in town.

"My boy, my boy," he thought, "that was a narrow one! Anotherminute and I'd have said something rash. She might have taken metoo; women are foolish at times. Me married! Dreadful, dreadful!Herb, old boy, you saved my life. You certainly popped up in thenick of time. Often wondered what the lad was good for—nowI know." He stopped for a moment under the trees. "Dell's darnsweet," he admitted. "Darn sweet. If only I had a prosperoushardware business or something of that sort. No use wishing,though. But I wonder is this Ward boy good enough for her?"

His way led him past the office of the Mayfield Enterprise.Inside, under a green shaded lamp, he saw Will Varney bendingover his desk. He went in.

"I want to thank you for what you wrote about me in the paperto-night," he said. "That about the picture, you know. Did youreally mean it?"

"With all my heart," Will Varney answered. His pale, kindlyface lighted with enthusiasm. "You're a genius, Bob. You'll makelittle old Mayfield mighty proud some day."

"I hope so, I'm sure," Bob told him. "But I guess it was theinscription under my latest effort that made the big hit thismorning. I hear the riot's on."

Will Varney laughed and tapped a little pile of letters at hiselbow. "Here they are," he said. "The first fruits of thecontroversy."

"What do you mean?"

"Who did the most to influence the life of his times and leavehis impress on the town? The letter writers are limbering up.This bunch came in the evening mail. It's just a beginning. Somesay Ward, some Benedict, and some have other candidates. Here's aletter from poor old Mrs. Hughes. She thinks her husband,Reverend Elan Hughes—you remember, he preached at the FirstChurch for years—should be elected. Sour old Elan—agloomy view of the hereafter he expounded. And the Masters familywants to edge in. Their vote goes solid to Fred Masters. Butthese are also-rans. The main race will be between Benedict andWard."

"Funny thing to get excited about," commented Bob.

"Isn't it?" Will Varney agreed. "Look about you. Why shouldany man want to see his father get the credit for sleepy oldMayfield? I can't figure it. And, thinking it over—there'smy own father. You remember him, Bob. Year after year, in thispaper, he chronicled the history of the town and shaped itsopinions. I guess if any man can lay claim But, Great

Scott, I'm afraid I'm as bad as any of them!"

"Looks that way," Bob laughed. He stood up. "I didn't mean tointerrupt. Just came in to say thank you. I'm leaving in a day ortwo."

"No?" Varney's face clouded. "I'll be sorry, Bob. You'll neverknow how I've enjoyed our talks here. All those things you toldme about Europe—it was almost as good as though I'd had thetrip myself. And about as near as I'll ever get, I guess."

He was silent for a moment, thinking of his frustratedambitions. "Well, I've got my job here." He turned to the pile ofcopy paper on his desk. "By the way, how do you spell Stuttgart?You know, that town in Germany. Two 't's' in the middle of it, orone?"

"Two, I believe," Bob told him. "But what are you doing inStuttgart?"

"Why, that was Herman Schall's birthplace," Varney explained."I've just been writing his obituary. You know Herman left usthis afternoon."

* * * * *

"WITH regard to the controversy now disruptingMayfield," Will Varney wrote two days later, "it must beunderstood that the position of this newspaper is strictlyneutral. We have been accused of favoritism by both sides, whichis the best proof of our disinterest. Samuel Ward was a splendidtype of the old-school jurist, and Henry Benedict was well knownup and down the valley as a conservative banker of the highestintegrity. The question as to which exerted the largest influenceon Mayfield seems to us an academic one impossible of solution,but we love excitement and we have furthered the discussion byprinting all letters received, save for a few that were anonymousand abusive. Seventeen epistles written by the Ward faction haveappeared in print, as have fourteen from the Benedict side. Suchis the box score as we go to press. Let the battle rage."

Obligingly the battle did just that. Clarence Ward and EugeneBenedict fought the main engagement in full view of the populace,cutting each other in public, each discovering daily some newmeans by which to embarrass or belittle the other. Here and thereminor skirmishes took place between lesser dependents of therival houses. Nor did the women hesitate to enter the arena. Fewwho were present will forget the afternoon meeting of the Ladies'Guild of the First Church, when Mrs. Clarence and Mrs. Eugeneencountered each other and demonstrated the possibility offighting a war with no weapon save the human eye.

Dell Benedict and Herbert Ward alone of the two rival campsremained on friendly terms. Meeting Bob Dana on the street themorning after his abrupt departure when he found Herb Ward amongthose present on the porch, Dell explained the situation.

"Herb had just dropped over to discuss the great war," shesaid. "We decided not to let it make any difference betweenus."

"That's the sensible view to take," Bob approved heartily.

"I knew you'd think so," said Dell with amazing sweetness.

"Oh, absolutely. Silly row anyhow. How can you decide a thinglike that? Then you and Herb are still engaged?"

"More so than ever. Herb's been awfully sweet." She held upher hand, displaying a diamond-and-platinum ring. "We told ourpeople all about it. Sort of had to, under thecirc*mstances."

"Must have been good news for your father."

"He nearly passed out. But he knows better than to interfere.Well, that's that. I wanted to tell you—just to make youcomfortable in your mind,"

"I'm mighty glad you're happy, Dell. That is, ofcourse—if you are happy?"

"Delirious." She smiled up at him. "Come and see me before youleave."

"I sure will."

In the bright light of the morning, with his thoughtstraveling the highroad of common sense, on which no moon mayshine, this seemed to him excellent news. Good old Herb! The ladwas showing a surprisingly level head. But for Herb he might bynow be painfully entangled, his career endangered, his wanderingsended. Herb was his insurance, his protection.

"Ought to invite Herb to lunch," he thought. "Show myappreciation somehow."

* * * * *

THE following Tuesday night, when he wanderedout to the country club to the regular weekly dance, he felt thesame way. His business had dragged on longer than he hadexpected, but it was practically settled now, and he could leaveMay field very soon. He sat on the club veranda, staring in atthe dancers. The orchestra was playing a popular song thatreferred in sentimental strain to the moment "when it's moonlightin Kalua."

Kalua. Sounded like Hawaii. That was the direction in which hewould travel next. The South Seas, on Gauguin's trail, andStevenson's. He promised himself many a languorous afternoon onsome white bathing beach, many a calm, breathless night with theSouthern Cross flaming overhead.

Through the open window he caught sight of Dell Benedictdancing in Herb Ward's arms. Dependable old Herb! He watched themapprovingly. Dell was lovely, and no mistake. Sometimes, when hewas lonely and discouraged, he would think sadly of what mighthave been. That would, in the last analysis, be much moresatisfactory than if what might have been had been. "He travelsfastest who travels alone." True talk.

He was still musing gently in this strain when, ten minuteslater, Dell appeared, somewhat breathless, before him.

"Bob—I want you to take me home," she said.

He jumped to his feet. "Sure. But I thought—you camewith Herb Ward."

"Herb and I have just had the most frightful row," sheexplained. Bob saw that her eyes were flashing, her cheeksflushed. "He said you'd done a speaking likeness of Grandfather,and that several people had heard it say distinctly: 'Pay up to-morrow or I'll put you on the street.'"

"Pretty snappy for Herb."

"And I told him that his old fossil of a grandfather Oh,

I don't know what I said! I was furious! I may have my ownopinion of my family, but no one else can knock it and live." Shedrew her cloak about her white shoulders. "Come on, Bob."

Bob started nervously. "The ring's gone!" he cried.

"You bet it's gone! For ever!"

"Well, now, Dell—you ought not to get drawn into thisfoolish argument. It's beneath you. If you'll take myadvice—"

"All right. I can go home alone." She walked briskly away.

"Hold on! Wait a minute! Wait till I get my hat." He dashedinto the club. When he reappeared Dell was far down the drive,going strong despite high-heeled dancing pumps. He caught up withher. "I'm mighty sorry, Dell—I have no car. I came bytrolley."

"That's the way I'm going home."

"May I—er—come along?"

Dell hadn't a penny with her, and his company was ratheressential. But all she said was, "If you think you can choke offyour fatherly advice."

Conversation sort of languished in the moonlight. He helpedher on to the trolley and climbed up beside her. "Not so soft asthe seat of Herb's car," he suggested.

"If you can't talk about anything but Herb, don't talk."

He subsided, hurt. Oh, well, women were like this, of course.All sorts of moods and whims and fancies. Sunshine and shadow.Keep a lad stirred up all the time. Better hang on to thatprecious freedom of his. "When it's moonlight inKalua"—couldn't get the insidious thing out of his head."Because you are—not there." Just as well too.

He glanced sidewise at Dell's haughty countenance. In spite ofhimself he could not smother his approval. "Your profile's pureGreek," he said admiringly.

"Grandfather didn't start with a fruit-stand, if that's whatyou mean," said Dell.

Well, if she wanted to be cross, let her be cross. He'd keephis future thoughts to himself.

In silence they alighted from the street car and crossed thepark; still with no word spoken they passed on up the avenue andthrough the big gate. The porch lay calm in shadow, syringabloomed on the lawn. Dell held out her hand.

"Thanks for bringing me home. Good-by—if I don't see youagain."

"But, Dell—look here—of course you'll see me. I'llcome round."

"Oh—don't trouble."

She was gone inside the door—hadn't even asked him tostop a minute. Treated him like a rather tiresome stranger.Women, inexplicable women!

He strolled along down the avenue. Certainly did act haughty,that girl. He pictured her now in her room, head held high, eyesflashing.

Which was all he knew about it. In her room Dell had flungherself across the bed and was weeping bitterly. For Herb, andall the lost glories of romance? Herb, of course.

Will Varney's light was burning. Looking through the window,Bob saw the little editor bending above his pile of exchanges. Hewent inside.

"See here, Mr. Varney—something's got to be done."

"What do you mean, Bob?"

"This silly feud between the Montagues and Capulets. It's gonefar enough. Hearts are being broken, young lovers wrenchedapart."

"I suppose so. Such is life in the feud country."

"You know," Bob told him, "before I leave town I'd like tosettle this foolish argument once for all. Just naturally killit."

"Easier said than done. Unless you have an idea."

"Well—something flashed through my mind the other day. Idon't know—it seems reasonable. I'll sit down if you don'tmind."

"Sure, Bob; sure. Push those papers off the chair—that'sright."

Bob Dana sat and crossed his long legs. "You know, when I'maway from Mayfield and think about the town I always remember theamazing amount of sickness here. My mother was never very well,and I used to go to the doctor for her—in the eveningsmostly. And I can still picture Doc Cunningham's office, everychair taken, people standing along the walls—dreary,discouraged-looking people."

"Yes." Will Varney nodded. "Always been a surprising lot ofdoctoring here. Doctoring for this and that. You've noticedCunningham's big house on Maple Avenue. Doctoring builtthat."

"Precisely. Now, Mr. Varney, tell me—what sort of menwere the leading citizens here—the ones who ran thetown?"

Will Varney smiled.

"You mean Ward and Benedict and that crowd? Take a look atMayfield for your answer. Twenty years behind the times, thistown is; you've heard me say so before. Lying here sound asleepthrough the biggest boom this valley has ever known. Benedict andWard and their gang did that—conservative, suspicious ofeverything new, shouting their selfish slogan 'Keep the strangersout.'"

"I thought so," Bob Dana said. "Sour old parties, as Iremember them. Looked at life through jaundiced eyes. Depressedand irritable and grouchy."

"You've said it," Varney agreed. "And their dispositionsmolded this town. I could give you a thousand examples, andBenedict would figure in a lot of them. We might have been on themain line of the railroad, but Benedict got a stubborn spell oversome land he owned that was necessary to the scheme. Oh, he was alovely old chap. I can still see him sitting in that littleoffice of his, looking at prospective borrowers through thosecold fishy eyes. Heaven help the man who had to go to Benedictfor a loan! It didn't take long for the word to spread that thebanking interests here were unfriendly, so new business gave thistown a wide berth." The little editor leaned back in his chair;it creaked faintly beneath him. "And Ward! The Turner steel millsmight have located here, but Judge Ward blocked the move. Said itwould bring in a lot of dirty foreigners. I think of him as hesat on the bench—never dishonest, I don't meanthat—but severe. Too blamed severe. Mercy wasn't in hisvocabulary. He wrecked a great many lives that a little sympathyand understanding would have carried along to happiness. I tellyou, Bob, this town owes a lot to Ward and Benedict and theirgang," Will Varney finished. "A lot they're not boasting aboutnow, wherever they may be."

"Rather mean old men," Bob Dana said. "That's how I picturethem. Mean and dissatisfied and bitter." He leaned forwardsuddenly. "I'll bet both Ward and Benedict suffered tortures fromdyspepsia," he added.

"Most people do—most middle-aged people," Varneyreplied. "In Mayfield, at any rate. For years we've had a lot oftrouble with hired girls here—eating has been a rathercatch-as-catch-can affair. Now you mention it, Ward and Benedictdid have dyspepsia. Yes, both of 'em had it mighty bad,"

Bob Dana laughed, and stood up. "That's all I want toknow."

Will Varney gave him a long look. "By gad," he cried, "I beginto get you!" He leaped enthusiastically to his feet. "And you'reright, boy, you're dead right!"

"I'm going to hop on a train and run up to Cleveland in themorning," Bob told him. "I can get what I need up there. A modestsupply of modeling clay."

"Modeling clay," Varney chuckled. "Yes, that's what youwant."

"You'll help me with this?" Bob asked.

"Will I?" The little editor's eyes twinkled. "You bet yourlife I will!"

For three days Bob Dana was not much in evidence on thestreets of Mayfield. The hotel help reported that he seemed to beextremely busy in his room.

On Saturday morning Eugene Benedict drove down to the bankabout eight-thirty, as was his custom. The sun lay blazing hot onthe brick pavement of Maple Avenue, and Eugene sped over itsavagely, for he was feeling hot himself.

He had just seen Clarence and Herbert Ward strolling down totheir law office, and the sight of them nowadays tended toinfuriate him.

As Eugene approached the corner of the park at Main and MarketStreets he was surprised to see a crowd gathered on the lawn inopen violation of the notice, posted everywhere: "Keep Off theGrass!" He slowed down his car. An old friend caught sight of himand waved.

"Come here, 'Gene," he shouted. "This will interest you."

His curiosity suddenly aroused, Eugene parked his car at thecurb and pushed his way through the crowd. It parted to give himgangway, a favor he accepted as due to the president of the FirstNational Bank. In another moment he came upon the center ofMayfield's interest.

On a cheap oak pedestal that suggested the Mayfield FurnitureStore he beheld a figure about three feet high. It was modeled inclay and took the form of a short, heavy man in middle age. Theface was flat and on a pudgy little nose spectacles rested. Thegenerous stomach was covered by what appeared to be an apron; acap rested on the head. It was a tribute to Bob Dana's skill thatEugene, like all the other spectators, recognized the figure atfirst glance. As the banker stood there staring he could almosthear the querulous, cracked voice: "Louie—Louie—turndown dot gas!"

Hanging about the feet of the figure was a placard that mighthave been printed in the job department of the Mayfield EveningEnterprise. Eugene read:

While the citizens of Mayfield grinned and nudged one anotherEugene Benedict read the placard a second time.

* * * * *

AT six o'clock that evening Bob Dana sat in oldman Cornell's easy-chair with the last edition of the Enterprisebefore him. In his leading editorial, entitled Herman Schall,Will Varney ably seconded Bob's efforts of the morning. He beganwith the Herman of fifty years before, a young man newly arrivedfrom Germany, who came to Mayfield and started the town's firstbakeshop. He carried him along until the time, years later, whenHerman's delivery wagon stood before the houses of both high andlow, and Herman's bread was the daily diet of all Mayfield.

"Such bread!" Will Varney wrote. "Herman had the habit ofthrift. To the outward view his product was O.K., but the heartof the loaf was only partially baked, still fermenting,indigestible. Those who ate it experienced very shortly a deepand dark depression, their outlook on life turned gloomy.

"Herman never figured as a leading citizen of Mayfield. Othermen were in the limelight, directing the destinies of the town.But back of these men were a number of vital influences, and notthe least of these, moving on tiptoe through his dim kitchen,doling out the coal or turning down the gas, was Herman Schallthe baker. It is not at all improbable that to Herman's bread maybe traced a thousand heartaches and tragedies—divorces,business failures, meannesses and wrongs.

"The editor of this newspaper has thought things over, and hehas no hesitation in announcing that, in so far as his columnsare concerned, the controversy that has been raging hereaboutsfor some days is settled for all time.

"Settled by the election of Herman Schall to the post of honorthat stood as the ultimate prize."

Bob dropped the paper and sat staring out across the park. Histelephone rang.

"Hello," he said. "Hello, Dell. What's the good word?"

"Seems to be Schall," she answered. "Started a lot ofexcitement, didn't you?"

"Think so? How is your father feeling?"

"Oh, he'll recover. As a matter of fact the old dear seems tohave a sense of humor, after all. His dignity was outraged for awhile, but he's come round. He's just talked with Clarence Wardover the telephone."

"No! An armistice?"

"Permanent peace, I fancy. They agreed that maybe you'reright. Father is going to take down that inscription and replaceit with a simple plate—just grandfather's name and thedates. Clarence Ward is wondering how you edit a tombstone. Yousee, that famous sentiment won't sound anything but ridiculousround here for a long time to come."

"Well, Dell, I'm certainly glad to hear all this. It's what Iwas trying to do, you know. Put an end to the feud."

"I gathered that."

Silence over the wire.

"Er—have you called up Herb and waved the whiteflag?"

"Me? Say, Bob, you certainly know all about girls. An openbook to you."

"Well, has he called you up?"

"I don't know. I've been out. Mighty kind of you to take suchan interest."

"Not at all. Want the young people to be happy."

"Old Grandpa Fixit. Leaving soon?"

"Been packing all afternoon. Pull out to-morrow."

"Well, good-by—if I don't see you again."

"Dell—where do you get that stuff? I'll be up thisevening to say good-by."

"Sweet of you to trouble. I'll try to have Herb on hand."

"Oh, never mind Herb."

"I'll have him here. Want you to be happy, too, old lad. Seeyou later."

Bob ate one final dinner at the Mayfield House. His pocketsbulged with money, life was beckoning, rumor had it that theboats still ran. But somehow he wasn't feeling so elated afterall.

At eight o'clock he came abreast of the cast-iron deer on theBenedict lawn, and three seconds later Dell gave him her hand atthe top of the steps. An amazingly lovely Dell, starry-eyed inthe dusk, gentle and calm and restful.

Bob looked anxiously about. "I don't see young Herb." "No,"said Dell. "Herb hasn't called up. Pity, isn't it?" "Oh, don'tworry. He'll come round. Herb's no fool." "I'm not worrying. Haveyou time to sit down?" "Sure." Bob dropped into a chair. Life wascertainly mighty peaceful, there in the shadow on the porch. Heleaned back and heaved a sigh of deep content. The syringa wasstill in blossom, lilies nodded in the distance, roses climbed atrellis. Roses with the moon on them, recalling the fragrantwalls on the long road up to Fiesole.

"Are you really leaving to-morrow?" Dell asked. "I'd begun tothink you were never going."

"That's true hospitality. But don't fret—I'm off thistime." "Provincetown, I believe you said."

"Yes—Provincetown," he answered. "I've wired a friend toget me an option on that cottage. Going to be just the place forme."

"Sounds like it, I'm sure." Her tone was brisk and cheerful."I love the roar of the surf. Some people find it disturbing.Restful, I call it."

"That's good. You'll get a lot of work done, I hope." "I'llcertainly have a try at it. And afterward—well, look to theEast for me. The South Seas. China. Pick up all in a minute somebright morning. Just lock the door and go."

"It must be wonderful," Dell said. "I mean—to have noties. Nothing to hold you. Just yourself." Somewhere in the housea telephone rang.

"Yes—pretty good feeling," Bob assured her. A maidappeared. "It's that Mr. Ward again, miss." "I'll go," said Dell."If you'll excuse me, Bob." She was away some time. When shereappeared, Bob Dana was anxious.

"Young Herb, eh? Fix everything up?"

"Count on me. It's all fixed. Nothing to worry about."

"Sensible thing to do, of course," said Bob.

"Of course," Dell agreed.

He tipped back his chair, leaned his head against the coolbricks of the house. After a long silence he spoke: "That cottageonly has three rooms."

"Three ought to be plenty for you," said Dell.

"For me—yes. But I've been thinking—times whenI've just finished a picture—sort of depressed—needsomebody round who thinks I'm wonderful."

"How about a dog?"

"Dog, nothing."

"Some people prefer cats," Dell said.

Another silence. "Dell," he said, "I don't know what ailsme.

"Something ail you?" she inquired politely.

"Seems to. My head's all wrong. Mind's affected. Keep thinkingto myself how almighty sweet you are."

"Better stop it," Dell advised. "Spoil all your fun, a girlwould."

"Oh, I don't know. Depend a lot on the girl. If she happenedto be a good scout—ready to pick up and go at a minute'snotice—"

"Ain't no such animal," said Dell.

"How'd you like fish, Dell? As a steady diet, I mean?"

"I'd hate 'em."

He pondered. "Sorry to hear that. There's one room in thatcottage—you'd love it. Looks right over at Spain."

"Spain—where the boats run? You'll travel faster alone.For your own sake, Bob—try to be sensible."

Again the telephone rang. The two on the porch waited insilence. In a moment the maid reappeared, and Dell rose. Bobstood beside her.

"It was only Mr. Ward, miss. I hung up the receiver—justthe way you did."

The girl vanished into the dim hall. Bob turned slowly towardDell. He seized her hand.

"Look here, Dell—you never intended to take him!"

"Who says so?"

"I do. Well, this settles it." He held her close. "And maybeit won't be so bad. You didn't really mean that—abouthating fish?"

"I—I guess not, Bob."

"Dell! And that bright morning—just before we lock thedoor. It won't take you long to pack?"

"Five minutes. Only an overnight bag."

"That's the talk!"

He kissed her. He was a little breathless. "Hard luck for you,Dell. I mean—marrying me."

"Oh, I don't know," Dell whispered. "I believe I'm going tolike it."

POSSESSIONS

Illustrated by James H. Crank

First published in The Saturday Evening Post, Feb 3,1923

THERE are many scenes at which the high godsmust laugh; but surely none which elicits from them heartierguffaws than this: A moonlit night, a shadowy veranda. On theveranda a young man; one of those carefree, casual lads who hassworn never to marry. Not for him the ties and cares of weddedlife; his soul, an artistic one, craves constant excitement,perpetual change, freedom to travel unhampered. Roses areblooming on a trellis; roses with the moon on them. The young manis not alone. A girl is close by—in his arms in fact, herhead upon his shoulder. He has just asked her to marry him.

When Bob Dana came back to Mayfleld, his home town, to paint aresurrection portrait of the late Henry Benedict, there wasn't agirl on his horizon. Eugene Benedict, now president of the FirstNational, had written that he desired a portrait of his father tohang in the new quarters of the bank, and Bob had welcomed theopportunity. He was just back from Europe, where he had beenstudying art; and five years of wandering had depleted his purse,but had not satisfied him. His immediate plan was to earn alittle money, after which, he told himself, he would fare forthonce more, and every port where a ship touched was on hisitinerary.

Even after he had seen Delia Benedict again his purpose didnot consciously alter. The grown-up Dell was sweet and clever anddesirable, and if he had been settled in a goodbusiness—but he wasn't; he was an artist, and he knew wellthat artists should not marry. The very idea frightened him. Hiswanderings over, his career endangered, stagnation, worry,responsibilities. Oh, no, he was too agile to be caught likethat! And all the while the high gods were laughing: "We hearddifferent. What do your little pictures matter? The urge, youngman, is as old as the race. Here is the girl, your future wife.Get on with it!"

He was pretty far on with it this July night, standing therein the shadow on Eugene Benedict's porch, dazed, a littlebreathless, with Delia in his arms. Give the girl credit. She hadnot led him on; rather she had discouraged him from the first.And none save the most hardened cynic would intimate that sheknew only too well the provocative nature of discouragement.

"What's it all about, Dell?" the boy said. "Something'shappened—something wonderful. Are you really fond of me?"She nodded, lifted her head.

"I'm fond of you, Bob; fonder than I ever expected to be ofany one. And you—you haven't said it, you know—"

"I can't find words, Dell. I can usually talk, but now

You know, something has been wrong, something lacking, for along time. I didn't understand. I was just—kind oflonesome, lonesome for you—and I didn't suspect. I had tocome back to Mayfield to find it out."

"To find what out, Bob?" she prompted.

"That I loved you. Oh, Dell, the words seem weak. But Ido—I love you, and from now on I'm going to prove it inother ways; not words alone."

Somehow they were sitting together in the hammock.

"Isn't life funny, Bob?" Dell said. "Only a few weeks ago Iwas here on this porch and you came wandering up the front walk.The same old Bob—and different too. And you said—doyou remember what you said?"

"I only remember what I thought—about how almighty sweetyou were."

"But I remember what you said," Dell told him. "You said thatgirls weren't for you; that you had to keep away from them.Otherwise you might marry one, and you intimated that would beterrible."

"I was crazy," he cut in. "Foolish! Why shouldn't an artistget married the same as anybody else?"

"Well, why shouldn't he, Bob? You tell me. You seemed to havea lot of reasons—when you first came here. Money, Ibelieve, was one of them."

"Silly reason, Dell. Why I'll work as I never have before!Marrying you—it will give me new inspiration, a new thrill,new excitement."

"And after the thrill wears off?" she suggested.

"It never will, with you. Why, Dell, you're a thousand girls!And every one a wonder."

She smiled at him.

"I like to hear you say it," she admitted. "And yet, how aboutthat talk—the travel business? Simply had to keep going,you said. 'Dell, there are a few places I haven't caught that oldmoon shining, and thank God the boats still run.' All that abouthaving no one to bother with, no responsibilities, just lockingthe door some bright morning and hitting the old trailagain."

"But you'll go with me. You said so. Not five minutes topack—you promised; an overnight bag."

"Yes, I know." She was silent for a moment. "Oh, Bob, I'mfrightfully fond of you, and yet—I suppose it's theBenedict in me—practical people always. I wonder—"She stood up. "Look," she said, "out there in the moonlight; thefront walk. It isn't just Maple Avenue at the end of it. It's theOrient you've been talking about, the South Seas, China. It'sEurope and the whole glittering world. Just wandering as youplease, no responsibilities, no girl tagging along. Think hard,Bob." He seized her hand, but she drew it away. "It's not toolate. In less than a minute you could be out on that walk, onyour way. I wouldn't blame you, dear boy. I wouldn't even ask youto kiss me before you go. Bob, it's your chance."

The idea appalled him.

"Do you want me to go?"

"That isn't the point."

"Do you want me to? Because if you do you're going to bedisappointed. Not a step! Not a step again, Dell, withoutyou—tagging along!" He seized her in his arms.

"Oh, Bob, that's what I wanted you to say! We'll make a go ofit, won't we? I'll be the kind of wife you need."

"You couldn't be any other kind, dear, have I told you thenews? I love you."

"Go on saying it," Dell urged. "Get the habit, Bob. I've heardit now and then from other men, and it always bored me. But you,Bob—you certainly do make it sound interesting."

He continued his interesting talk for three hours, withsuitable interruptions from Dell. When he walked down MapleAvenue on his way back to the hotel he was a happy man. Only afew weeks before he had traveled this same thoroughfare, sayingto himself, "Me married! Terrible, terrible! Watch your step, oldson!" Yet here he was, abroad in the midnight calm, engaged andexulting. Life was a funny proposition. Big ambitions stirredwithin him.

"Got to get busy now—do something fine, make Dell proudof me; and when the work's done we'll look about a bit. She'll begame. She's that kind. Five minutes to pack? She said so. And whynot?"

He was roused the next morning by the ringing of histelephone. Leaping to his feet, he crossed the room, bright withhot July sunlight. His spirits rose with every step. Pretty goodold world, now that he remembered. Dell's voice came pleasantlyto his ear:

"Bob, what's happened to you?"

"Wha-what's that? Hello, Dell."

"You don't mean to say I woke you! Why, I've been up hours! Icouldn't sleep."

"Well, I—I've been gathering strength, Dell. That's mefrom now on; gathering strength to work for you."

"Bob, I had to know. Do you still feel as you did lastnight?"

"I surely do, honey! Why not?"

"Well, I couldn't be sure. The moon's no longer shining."

"But the sun is. And look here—how about you, mygirl?"

"Me? Well, I called up. Shows I'm still interested."

"Glad to hear that." A bright idea recurred to him. "Say,Dell, on the way home last night I got to thinking—whycan't we be married to-day and go East?"

"To-day! Why, Bob, what a notion!"

"Well, why not? It's very simple. Just call round at the cityhall or something like that."

"Bob! Mother would be horrified! And I—well, every girlexpects a wedding. I know I do."

"A wedding?" His heart sank. "You mean one of those bigaffairs?"

"Oh, no! Just a little wedding here at home. Do you mind? It'sprobably the only chance I'll ever have."

"Why, that's all right, Dell. Anything you say. When? AboutSaturday?"

"You silly old thing! It would take a month at least."

"Dell! I couldn't wait that long. I'll give you twoweeks."

Silence.

"We-ell, perhaps I could make it if I rushed. Of course, thereare a million things—clothes—"

"Yeah, clothes. Well, I'm all ready now. I've got a new suit.Give me a gardenia and I'm practically married."

"Have you evening clothes, Bob?"

"Sorry—no. I had an outfit, but I couldn't get it intomy trunk when I went abroad, so I gave it to the janitor. Yousee, it's always been my rule, Dell—never own more stuffthan you can crowd into a steamer trunk."

"Oh!" She was silent for a moment. "I haven't told a soul,Bob. The trains are running. You can still escape."

"Dell, I won't listen to you. I'm going to be a married man orknow the reason why."

"Then you'll order evening clothes, won't you?"

"And a red vest, if you tell me to. Oh, by the way, I don'tsuppose I could rent a suit."

"Bob!" He heard her laughing.

"Well, I may never need it again."

"Oh, yes, you will!"

"You know best. I'll get measured this morning. It will meananother trunk."

"Get a good big one. I can fill it if you can't."

"All right, Dell."

"And come up to lunch. If I'm to be a bride in two weeks I mayas well get going. I'll break the sad news to the family beforeyou come. Then you'll be in for it."

"I suppose so. However, I'll go through. I'll be up about one.And, Dell— "

"Yes, Bob?"

"What was I going to say? Something of no importance—oh,yes, I love you."

"Stick to it," said Dell. "And heaven help you!"

He had need of heaven's help at lunch. Dell had evidentlyspread the news, and the atmosphere in the big house on MapleAvenue was mostly gloom. Mrs. Benedict, that haughty beauty ofthe 'nineties, was red about the eyes, and she greeted Bob asthough he were a bailiff come to dispossess her. Eugene, havingrushed home from the bank for his usual luncheon and met unusualtidings, was fussy and pompous and disturbed.

They sat in the drawing-room, talking about nothing. All aboutwere the tokens of material prosperity and success—widechairs, soft carpets, expensive hangings; a stronghold ofconvention and respectability; the sort of home that had beenonly a memory to Bob Dana these past five years. Yet here Dellhad been born and grown up; it was all she had ever known; andnow he was planning to link his life with Dell's with this sortof household. For the first time he had misgivings. But theyvanished when he looked at Dell—Dell, who was smiling andcompetent and clever, and who would see him safely through themost difficult luncheon of his life.

They went into the dining-room—gleaming silver, costlylinen and an old colored butler who moved as silently as time.When the man had gone and they were alone Eugene seemed to feelthat it was incumbent on him to begin.

"Er—well, Bob, what's all this?"

"You mean about Dell and me?" Bob tried to smile. "I—¦ Isuppose she told you?"

"She certainly did. It's come as a great deal of a shock."

"Well, I—I suppose I ought to have spoken to youfirst."

"Heavens, Bob!" said Dell. "That went out with Victoria!"

"Oh, did it?" He hoped the perspiration on his forehead wasinvisible. "You see, it—it happened so suddenly. All atonce we discovered we loved each other. A shock to us, too, but apleasant one." He waited hopefully. No one seemed disposed tohelp him along. "Of course, I suppose I'm not just the sort ofson-in-law you would have picked—"

"Hardly," said Mrs. Benedict; but that was no help.

"I—I mean, I'm not in the Rotary Club, and I haven't gota business, and—and—"

Well, this sort of thing wasn't doing any good. Hestopped.

"Of course, all we want," said Eugene, "is Dell'shappiness."

"Then, Father dear," Dell suggested, "there's nothing more tobe said."

"Oh, yes, there is!" Eugene insisted. "Happiness depends onmany things—money, among others. Can you support a wife?That seems to me to be the question."

"Precisely," said Mrs. Benedict. She never appeared to needmore than one word. That was plenty.

"You haven't, I take it, found the art game very profitable,"went on the president of the First National.

"Not as yet. I'm just getting started. For a while Dell and Iwill have to live very simply. She understands that."

"Of course I do!" said Dell.

"However, we'd be sure of a roof anyhow. I've already wiredabout a cottage at Provincetown. I intended to buy it even beforeI—I thought of getting married. You know, I just sold someland that belonged to my father—got six thousand forit—and I've nearly eight hundred left from what you paid mefor the portrait. I can get this place for twenty-eighthundred."

He paused. Was he buying Dell, or what was all this?

"Is it—er—a large cottage?" asked Eugene.

"Cottages aren't, as a rule," Bob reminded him. "This one hasthree rooms."

"Three rooms!" repeated Eugene.

"Three rooms!" said Mrs. Eugene, and wailed it.

"It's really quite a charming place," Bob said. "Stands backof the town and you get a fine view across the roofs to theharbor."

But Eugene was not interested in views. "Were you planning topay for it outright?" he inquired.

"Why not? I've got the money."

"Well, it might be better to leave a thousand onmortgage."

"Oh, no!" Bob shuddered. "I couldn't get mixed up with thatsort of thing; I'm too innocent. All I know about mortgages isthat somebody always forecloses them in the dead of winter. I'dhate to see Dell put out in a Provincetown snowstorm; they'repretty fierce."

Mrs. Benedict glared at him.

"It seems to me," she said, "an odd subject to jokeabout."

"I'm not joking. I mean it. I'd be afraid of a mortgage. Nevercould remember the interest."

"Still, it would be an advantage," Eugene persisted, "when youcame to sell."

"But why should I want to sell?"

"Why—when you need a larger house."

"But I don't—I didn't think—" He looked helplesslyat Dell.

"Father," said Dell, "aren't you ashamed? Talking business topoor old Bob; he doesn't know what it's all about. It's true thathe doesn't make much money, and that we'll have very little; butdon't expect him to enlighten you on his plans. I'm to besecretary-treasurer of the corporation; if you want informationabout the prospects of dividends come to me. I guess you cantrust the granddaughter of Eight-Per-Cent. Benedict to steerclear of the rocks."

"Dell!" cried her mother.

"Well, what I mean is, with one of our family managingfinances, it seems to me the subject is closed," Dell saidgayly.

"It isn't just the money," Mrs. Benedict began. "Going way offto Massachusetts to live! I've always hoped Dell would settledown right here in Mayfield. And what's all this about travel?Travel isn't for married people; at least not when they're young.I didn't even get to New York until Dell was eighteen. It seemsto me—"

It seemed to Dell that the discussion should end.

"Mother dear," she broke in, "you and Father have beenwonderful and I hate to leave you—I honestly do. But Bob'stold you the whole story—we love each other and we're onour way. What happens from now on is our worry, not yours. Youtwo dears deserve a rest. Besides, just now you've got your handspretty full, what with a wedding in your house in two weeks'time—"

"That's another thing," protested Mrs. Benedict.

"I think we'd better go to Cleveland in the morning and beginour shopping. Have you any ideas, Mother—"

Of course, she had behind her long years of experience inmanaging them, but her technique was admirable none the less.When the luncheon ended, Eugene and his wife seemed reconciled ifnot enthusiastic, and preparations for a wedding were well underway.

After lunch Bob found himself alone in the library withEugene. The banker offered him a cigar, lighted one himself.

"Well, Bob, when I got you out here to paint that portrait ofFather I never dreamed of this." He puffed away for a moment. "Ihope I haven't seemed lacking in cordiality. As a matter of fact,I like you—like you enormously. And as far as your gettingengaged to Dell is concerned—well, she's always had her ownway in everything, and if she wanted you I don't suppose, when wecome right down to it, you had an awful lot to say about it."

Somehow this idea didn't appeal to Bob.

"I proposed, if that's what you mean," he said. "You don'tthink for a minute that I went into this against my will."

"No, no; that's not what I meant. You don't quite understand.As I was saying, Dell's always had her own way—the onlychild; a bit spoiled perhaps. I'm mighty fond of her; but you'llhave your hands full—"

"Oh, I'll manage."

"I hope so. I'm looking at it from your angle now. Always tryto see the other fellow's side. You're an artist. I don't knowmuch about artists. I'm a small-town banker myself; but evenI—all men—I guess there are times—well—"He looked anxiously over his shoulder, lowered his voice. "Youknow—times where all this paraphernalia of marriage gets onyour nerves; when you wish you could chuck the whole business andhave your freedom back again. And what I'm getting at is, if I'vehad spells like that it seems to me that a boy like you, with atemperament—it seems to me he'd have 'em pretty often."

Bob stared at him. He was beginning to like Eugene. The littlebanker was human after all.

"Maybe I shall," the boy admitted. "But if I do—Dell'smighty clever and sensible too. She'll see me through. We'll getalong."

"Well, of course, there's a lot in that. Dell's a brightgirl." Eugene stood up. He appeared a bit embarrassed by hisconfession. "Going down street with me?"

"No, thanks. I'll see Dell a minute before I go."

"Of course." They went into the hall. Eugene picked up hisstraw hat. He held out his hand. "I just want to say, Bob, I wishyou all the luck in the world."

His handclasp was friendly, his look sympathetic. Somehow Bobgot the idea Eugene felt he was saying good-by to a man who wasstarting out on a long and hazardous journey.

During the next two weeks Bob called daily at the house onMaple Avenue. Dell had little time for him, however; she was busyshopping, busy with modistes and caterers. Up there roundEugene's back door it appeared that something was going on,something that was news to Bob. Wedding presents were pouringin—crates, barrels, boxes. At first Dell insisted that theymust open these together; he struggled with nail pullers,hammers, wallowed in excelsior. Steadily the loot increased.

Bob found the sight of it a bit disturbing, but Dell wasthrilled.

"Oh, Bob, look! Isn't that sweet of her? Aunt Helen. She'ssent that Italian silver she picked up in Genoa. I never dreamedshe'd part with it. Isn't it wonderful? It's as old asColumbus—all hand-made—oh, you don't care! Mother!Mother, where are you? Look what Aunt Helen—"

As each gift was unwrapped Dell and her mother would croonover it, pat it, behave toward it as though it were a child. Evena bonbon dish seemed of international interest.

"Bob, see what came to-day! I couldn't wait. I had it opened.A Georgian chair! And this mirror—Chippendale. Isn't itlovely?"

"Yeah. Going to be hard to pack."

"Oh, you don't appreciate anything!"

"But it's different with men, Dell. I guessjust—er—things don't mean so much to them. Say, Dell,give a thought to the bridegroom."

"Not now—later."

The big evening came. Bob checked out from the Mayfield Houseand went with his luggage up to Maple Avenue. Eugene met him atthe door.

"Hello, Bob! How are you?"

"I'm—I'm all right."

"I guess you'll be glad when the ceremony's over." Eugenealways referred to it as the ceremony, in a solemn way that sentthe cold chills down Bob's back. "Your best man is upstairs. Myroom, you know. Say, just step in here!"

He led the way into the library at the rear, an enormous room.Bob gasped.

"Presents look pretty well, eh?" said Eugene.

He waved his hand. It was like a combination furniture andjewelry store. Sheffield plate, a great chest of table silver,French, Italian and old English chairs, pottery, tall, fragile-looking vases, mirrors, linen, an antique sideboard, a highboy. Alarge, red-faced person with flat feet plumped anxiouslyabout.

"What's that?" Bob whispered.

"Plain-clothes man," Eugene explained under his breath. "Ithought it best to have him here."

"Great Scott!" Bob cried. "They're not worth all that!"

"My boy, some of this stuff is priceless."

Bob stood there. Into his mind flashed something he had saidto Dell—why, it was only two weeks ago—"I've alwaysmade it a rule not to own any more than I can crowd into asteamer trunk."

He began to laugh. Eugene looked at him anxiously.

"See here, my boy, what's the trouble? You're hysterical."

"Yes, I guess I must be."

"You go right up-stairs. Better lie down on the bed until theceremony. Don't get too excited. People have been marriedbefore."

Bob went up to the room where he was to cower until thesummons came. The succeeding two hours were never very clear ashe looked back on them. Dazed, just dazed, that was all. He foundhimself standing with Dell before a little man in black. "Ido—I will—all my worldly goods." It was over. Delldid look wonderful. He began to be conscious, to breathe again.People were crowding in upon them.

It was, Eugene whispered, time for them to go. The man wasinvaluable. Dell poised on the stair, her bouquet in her hand.Bob would never forget the picture she made—must paint itsome day from memory. Then he was back in his upstairs haven,clad again in his regular suit, beginning to feel his regularself. Eugene bustled in.

"Well, Bob, all over now. Got your tickets—everything?The car's in the drive. You'll have to make a dash for it. Dell'sready—take good care of her—all we'vegot—naturally anxious. By the way, I meant to tellyou—I had the packer up to-day to look over the presents.He figures on twenty barrels and twelve crates."

"Twenty—twelve—"

"I'll get them off to you by express right away. It's quickerthan freight. Have to put a pretty stiff value on them—fivethousand—"

Some one knocked on the door—Dell was waiting. Bobseized her arm at the top of the stairs and they dashed downthrough the crowd and out into the moonlight. He helped her intothe car and sank down beside her.

"Well, we made it!" he cried.

He was mighty happy now. The car sped toward the station.Thank heaven that was over. Married! He was married—thatwas what had happened. Well, why not? Pretty good idea. He feltin his pockets—tickets all right. What was Eugene fussingabout? Oh, yes, the presents. Twenty crates, twelve barrels! Goodlord!

Suddenly there flashed through his mind a picture out of thepast.

He was standing on a curb somewhere, waiting for a trolley. Atruck went by, an enormous truck. On it was painted in great giltletters: The Acme Fireproof Storage Warehouse, Inc.

Ah, yes. So that was all right too.

"Bob dear, what are you thinking about?" asked Dell.

"About life, Dell. Life's looking up. The future never seemedso bright. It's filled with you."

"Happy?"

"Happy!" He held her close. "Words, Dell, words! I'm stumpedagain—clean stumped. But wait till I get back to my easel.I'll say it with paint."

* * * * *

THEY were settled in the cottage atProvincetown. It was bought and paid for, the deed reposing inthe bottom of the grandfather's clock that had been one of thewedding presents. It seemed to Bob Dana that for ages he had beenpulling nails, wallowing in excelsior; but now the twenty barrelsand twelve crates were unpacked. As each precious item emergedagain into the light of day Dell had gone into ecstasies. Itreally was remarkable how she could delight in things.

On their way to Provincetown they had stopped for a week inNew York, and Dell had done a bit of shopping. Eugene had beenrepresented amid the wedding gifts by a generous and easilycarried draft on a New York bank. In the midst of the honeymoonBob had discovered that Dell had lists—long, appallinglists of things that were needed. For it seemed that thisprodigious array of presents would not serve; there were otherthings vital to housekeeping—beds, tables, more chairs,prosaic kitchen ware. As soon as they reached the cottage Dell'spurchases began pouring in.

"Where are we going to put all this stuff, Dell?"

"Oh, we must make room somehow. Not a thing we don't actuallyneed. I'll find a place."

She found it.

"Bob, I don't believe you half appreciate how kind people wereto us. All these lovely things!"

"Oh, Dell, sure I appreciate it. But after all, they're justthings. They don't live and breathe. And what I'm thinkingis—if we should want to travel—"

"Oh, but we don't—not yet. Let's not cross that bridgetill we get to it."

He began to paint, a little disturbed by the things heaped uparound him. Dell was learning to cook, and proving efficient, asalways. Almost daily, it seemed, there was something more shesimply had to have. He took to joking her about it.

"Another package for you, Victoria."

"Oh, it's that copper wash boiler. That's good. But whyVictoria?"

"Seems to me the late queen was your only known rival, Dell.You know, she had so much stuff that in her last years she wasn'table to get round and pat it. So she had it all photographed andput into albums, and she'd sit by the hour turning the pages.

"That'll be you, Dell. I'll have albums made for you, and whenyou're old you can sit and gloat over the things you own. 'Oh,that darling highboy! Ah, what a kettle that was!'"

"Bob, don't be silly! I believe you're beginning to besorry—"

"Nonsense, Dell! I'll never be that."

Late in August she said casually, "Bob, I meant to tellyou—Father is sending on my car."

"Your car! Great Scott, Dell! Where shall we put it?" Helooked anxiously about the studio living-room.

"We'll have to build a garage, of course. I've got figures onone—only five hundred dollars."

"But—but"—his spirits sank; a car—oil, gas,tires, repairs—"but, Dell, we don't really need a car."

"Of course we do! We can take an occasional trip along theCape. It will do you good—the change, the fresh air."

"But the air—the air's pretty fresh right here."

"All right, if you don't want me to have it," a little note ofmartyrdom creeping in. "It's already started, but I can send itback."

"No, Dell, don't do that."

"I'll call the carpenter in the morning. Bob, it will be finefor you. We've been sticking here too closely. Every evening wecan take a spin." She stopped. "Only we must have a stronger lockon the back door, and new locks on the windows. I'll speak to thecarpenter about that too."

For days thereafter he worked with the noisy evidences of afive-hundred-dollar project drifting through his windows. Thenthe hammering came closer, new locks all round—new locks toprotect this vast collection of things that had come along withDell and were so precious—to Dell.

One evening a few weeks later she came home with a dog, aquaint specimen she had bought from a man down-town.

"Oh, Bob, look!"

"What? Say, Dell, who does he belong to?"

"He belongs to us. Company for me when you're working. Isn'the too cute?"

Bob was annoyed.

"But, Dell, look here—just another thing to carefor."

"You don't mean you begrudge me—why, Bob!" He sensedimpending tears. "You'd turn this poor little thing out?"

She held the dog in her lap, fondling it. Further objections,Bob knew, would be futile. He went outside. The car was standingbefore the cottage, its engine running merrily. Dell, excitedover her newest acquisition, had forgotten it. Running along,using up gasoline—gasoline that cost money. But Dell neverthought of such things. He reached in and savagely snapped offthe power.

A dog! He sat down on the running board of the car. A dog, ofall things! What did you do with a dog if you wanted to set outand see the world? Things, things, things! Piling up, barricadingthe road! He wasn't joking about them any more. They seemed inhis thoughts constantly. Each article was a separate millstoneabout his neck, pulling him down, down into domesticity.

The dog came out and sniffed at his feet. A cunning littlechap. Bob smiled, leaned down and patted him.

"Nothing personal in all this," he said. "No offenseintended." He picked him up and carried him inside. "It's allright, Dell," he said. "The dog tells me he's fond of travel.What shall we call him?"

In October Bob finished what he was doing—a portrait ofDell ordered by Eugene. It was shipped to Mayfield, acknowledgedby a letter of kindly praise and a check. He would have preferredthe latter from some one else. Still, he had earned it; it was nogift from the First National.

The days grew increasingly cold; an icy wind began to sweep infrom the sea. They couldn't remain in Provincetown through thewinter. The knowledge cheered him, buoyed up his spirits. Hebecame the gay lad of old, a bit of sunshine round the house. Forhe was studying the newspapers—certain pages of thenewspapers, that is; the pages headed, "Steamships and Tours."What magic words!

"Reduced Fares to Europe."
"It's Summer on theMediterranean."
"Have You Ever Heard the Beat of DesertDrums?"

One Sunday afternoon late in October, as they sat together inthe studio before the fire, he decided it was high time tospeak.

"Look here, Dell, I've been thinking—"

"Yes, Bob?"

"How about winter? We don't want to spend it here."

"No, of course not."

"Have you—er—noticed the newspapers lately?"

"Not particularly. Why?"

"There's a great deal of talk about ships, Dell. Summer seasand strange, interesting ports."

"Is there, Bob?" She smiled a little sadly.

"Look here, I've got nearly three thousand in the bank. Whycan't we just lock up and beat it? I'd like to show you round theMediterranean. It's my old-home ocean; I know it well. Gibraltar,Algiers—a few months in Sicily and Naples. You'd loveit."

"And how about your work, Bob?"

"Oh, I could get a little done. Not much, perhaps; but I'dpick up a lot of color. Then when we came back in thespring—"

"We'd be broke," said Dell. "And we can't be broke nextsummer, Bob, you know that."

His heart sank.

"I suppose you're right," he said, remembering.

"I'm sorry, dear," Dell went on gently. "Some time later, butnot now. Now—if you stop work for an instant we're lost.You've got to go on making money. I'm afraid it's like that, Bob.Being married, I mean." He said nothing. "I've been thinking,too," Dell continued. "My plan is, let's go up to Boston and takea studio apartment. It's cheaper than New York, and I've got alot of college friends there; people who would help us. I'llarrange an exhibit of your work and we'll sell something, I'msure. Then, too, there's Myra Tell. They've loads of money, andthey want a portrait of the grandmother. I've practicallyarranged it. It's a big chance. You don't know; it might lead togreat things for us."

He stared at her in wonder.

"You've arranged it!"

"Yes; and I've got on the trail of an apartment for thewinter. We can get it, furnished, beginning next month. They wantto know right away."

The dog rose from beside the fire, stretched lazily.

"What would you do with him?" Bob asked.

"Mrs. Goodrich, down in the town, will take him; and herhusband will keep an eye on the house for us."

"You—you've arranged that too?"

"I've spoken to her. What do you say, Bob? Don't you thinkit's the thing— "

"What does it matter what I say? It's all arranged, I guess."His tone was bitter.

"Why, Bob, it's a grand scheme! A change for you, and nointerruption in your work. We'd have to take only a fewthings—I think it would be nice to have the car. We couldkeep it in a public garage. And then just silver and china, bedand table linen—"

He got up from his chair. His face was terrible.

"Bob, Bob, where are you going?"

"For a walk. Let me alone. I want to—think."

He strode blindly from the house, took unconsciously the pathtoward the town. What was all this that had happened to him? Hadhe nothing to say about his own life any more? Only a few things!Things, things! Linen and china and silver! The confounded car!So this was to be his winter!

He went out upon the pier, sat down on a pile of rope andstared across the harbor. He used to be so glib; why couldn't hefind words to assert himself? Why couldn't he explain to Dell,win her over? The water was cold and rough, little white-caps onit. In the Mediterranean it was warm, unbelievably brilliant;this same water, washing far shores. Algiers, the desert drums,the Bay of Naples, with the green hill of Posilipo, smokingVesuvius beyond. He wanted them again—wanted them; notlater—now. Later? How many years? Old, maybe, all the joyof life gone. Married, indubitably married.

For a long time he sat there. Well, he had let himself in forthis. Dell had warned him, given him his chance to escape; he hadrefused to go. Poor Dell! If only she had married somebody inMayfield—somebody who would be content to dedicate hiswinters to a furnace. He mustn't be unkind to Dell. He was fondof her. He must try to be like other people for Dell's sake. Dellwas right too. Her plan was sensible. Boston wouldn't be so bad.Painting an old woman's portrait. Not Capri, not Sorrento. But hewas married now.

He went back to the cottage. Dell was sitting as he had lefther, on the sofa before the fire. As he drew nearer he saw shehad been crying. He hated himself.

"It's all right, Dell." He dropped down beside her, put hisarms about her. "It's a good idea. Write and tell 'em we'll takethat apartment."

She looked up at him.

"Poor Bob," she said.

"Oh, no," he objected. "Don't pity me. I won't have that. I'mgoing to try to be a solid citizen. Help me, Dell."

"You were so innocent," she said. "Some other girl would havegot you if I hadn't."

"I'm glad it was you," he smiled. "I love you, Dell; now morethan ever."

"Stick to it," Dell whispered.

He glanced about the room.

"I'll do the packing myself," he told her. "I'm getting good.How long will it take us to get ready?"

"Not more than a week," said Dell.

A busy week; barrels, crates and nails again. Dell flew aboutwildly but efficiently, wrapping, packing, storing. On a dull,foggy morning early in November Bob sat on a packing case, hiswork done. Just inside the door reposed a huge pile of luggageready for the car. He lighted a cigarette.

His mind went back to that night when he had stood with Dellon Eugene's porch—only last July, but it seemed longer agosomehow; that calm night when he had discovered that he was,after all, a marrying man. What was it he had said? "And thatbright morning—just before we lock the door. It won't takeyou long to pack?" And Dell had answered, "Five minutes. Only anovernight bag."

It wasn't that she had meant to deceive. She just didn't knowhow things would be.

He had been at it a full week. Hammering for a week, and theywere going only as far as Boston. And the bright morning was glumwith fog. He smiled, glanced round the dismantled room, at theclutter of barrels and boxes all about him.

"I know what marriage means," he thought. "It meanspossessions."

The expressman was knocking at the door.

* * * * *

IN the Boston apartment was sunny and cheerful,and Bob settled himself for a happy winter. Then along came thequestion of the afternoon clothes. An invitation had arrived,suggesting that they drop in for tea some Sunday at the Tell homein Brookline, and immediately Dell had begun. It seemed he mustarray himself in a cutaway, a silk hat.

"But see here, Dell, I don't want any more clothes. I've gottoo many now. And why pose as a tea hound? I'm only a poor boytrying to get along."

"I won't have you looking like a tramp."

"Like a tramp? When was this?"

"There are certain things required by convention, Bob,especially in Boston. Besides, this is a very important call. Ifyou're to get the commission for that portrait—"

"But surely they won't think I'm a better artist because I'mall dolled up. If I had my way I'd go out there in a soft shirtand my oldest hat."

"I know you would. But you're not going to have your way, Bobdear."

He held out for two days, then went to a tailor. When theyfinally made the call he announced that he felt like a clothing-store dummy. He acted more or less that way, too, but it didn'tmatter. By the time the call was over Dell had landed thejob.

Grandmother Tell was too frail to come to the studio, so Bobbegan making daily visits to the Tell house. Dell's car came inmighty handy. "You see, I knew it would," she said. The old ladywas a famous character in her set, a brilliant talker; the daysslipped pleasantly by. Also, she offered possibilities for astriking portrait, and Bob worked hard.

Life was empty of annoyance, his old enthusiasms returned. Thefurniture in the apartment didn't trouble him; it didn't belongto him; any morning he could walk out and leave it. A comfortablefeeling; he could have stayed on for ever.

By midwinter the portrait was finished and loaned by the Tellsto play a leading part in an exhibit of Bob's work Dell hadarranged with a Boylston Street dealer. The Tell family was wellconnected in Boston; the old lady had many friends and theexhibit attracted attention. Bob sold a number of hispaintings—things he had done abroad. That is, Dell soldthem. Not for nothing was she the granddaughter of Eight-Per-Cent. Benedict. She asked prices that took Bob's breath away, andgot them too.

"Some little business manager," he said admiringly.

"You'd never have done it," she reminded him quite truthfully."You see, Bob, you needed me. Marriage wasn't a mistake, afterall."

"Not with you, it wasn't," he said. He meant it with all hisheart.

And then rumors of spring began to get abroad, and depressionlike a great black cloud settled down on Bob Dana's soul. ForDell was chattering gayly of the cottage at Provincetown, andthrough Bob's mind were floating thoughts of rugs and highboysand taxes and repairs, and the old round of locking up atnight.

Particularly unwelcome thoughts in April, when the solesitched and the far corners called insistently again. About thistime—Italy! He pictured a village on the shores of LakeComo, a village he had been meaning to go back to long beforethis. And Paris—Paris with the moon on it—theboulevards in spring!

On May first, said Dell; on May first—back toProvincetown, back to all those possessions. There was no escape;she had spoken. It seemed to Bob that time had never gone soswiftly. Already he felt the nail puller in his hand.

The morning came when he actually had it there. He sat on acrate in the middle of the dismantled studio. Outside, the sunwas sparkling on the harbor, the town was coming to life.

Dell had gone down to the village for groceries, and he wasleft alone amidst their goods and chattels. He paused in his workof unpacking and stared about him. He hated everything he saw.Things, things! Never had he felt so hopeless in his life, andyet he must clear away a little space and go to work; go towork—full of inspiration and good cheer.

It occurred to him that there was no real reason why they mustunpack—not just yet, at any rate. If he could only put itoff for just a little while. Why not? They had plenty of moneynow. Why not get aboard a ship

"See here, Dell," he began, rehearsing, "let's take a shortrun to Europe. Land at Genoa; little town on the shores of Como Iwant to show you. Buried in roses now—lovely. Then down theRiviera; season's over, we'll have it to ourselves. Then up, justto make sure Paris is still there—and home. We could beback here in plenty of time for work, and—and all that.It's nearly a year, Dell, and that morning hasn't come; thatbright morning when we lock the door and go. And you know yousaid—"

The door opened and Dell came in, radiant, very much alive,enthusiastic. She tossed an armful of groceries on a chair.

"Bob, listen to me! I've just called at the real-estateoffice. What do you think? The Minturn house is for sale!"

The old, familiar sensation—that sinking feeling. Hisheart in his boots.

"The Minturn house!" he repeated faintly.

"Eight rooms, Bob—and only nine thousand dollars! Italked it over with the real-estate man. He said he could sellthis place in a minute for twenty-seven hundred."

"Twenty-seven? Wait a minute. I paid twenty-eight, and webuilt a garage."

"Yes, but you paid too much. I wasn't managing things then.Twenty-seven hundred would do for a first payment on the Minturnhouse, and the balance on mortgage—you know, first andsecond, with the second to be paid off semiannually."

He rose to his feet. The nail puller dropped from his hand,making a great clatter on the floor.

"It's the chance of a lifetime, Bob," Dell went on. "We've gotto have a larger house; you know that. The Minturn place has awonderful furnace, if we have to stay there a winter or two. Andwe won't need many more things—a few rugs, a regulardining-room set—a thousand dollars would cover it."

He stared at her, his face stricken. Things, things! Morethings! Oh, lord, was there to be no end? Mortgages—two ofthem—assorted mortgages. And to-night the little lakesteamer would put into that town he had been dreaming of, and thepeople would clatter down the long flight of stone steps, andthere would be the tinkle of guitars and the sound of happyvoices singing, and the scent of roses in the air. Mortgages!

"I told the real-estate man I'd talk it over with you and lethim know this afternoon," said Dell.

He turned toward her.

"Bob, Bob, what's the matter?"

"The matter!" he repeated. He stood looking down at her. "Do Ihave to tell you, Dell? Are you blind? I'm supposed to go towork—isn't that the idea? Clear a space and go to work.Well, I can't do it. I'm stifling." His voice rose. "I'm stiflingunder the weight of all these damned possessions you're heapingup about me. I hate them. I can't stand it any longer— Ican't stand it. I never dreamed it would be like this. Just youand I and a trunk, I thought, traveling through the world, andthen you began to acquire things. Things! And now a bigger house,more rugs, mortgages!"

"Oh, Bob, I didn't know " It was Dell's turn to look

stricken.

"No, I suppose not. I haven't said anything. But I've beenheartsick, Dell. I wasn't ready for all this—to settledown. If I'd been middle-aged, if I'd seen everything—but Iwas just starting out."

"You should have thought of that before you asked me to marryyou."

"Did I ask you? Oh, forgive me, Dell! But I don't know yetjust what happened last spring—back home. I went toMayfield to paint a picture, and I never intended to get married,and the first thing I knew—"

"Bob! How can you?"

But he couldn't stop. Everything was coming outnow—things he had never intended to say. Mean things, too,and unkind.

"You didn't play fair, Dell. All that talk about five minutesto pack—an overnight bag—was that on the level? Ordid you know what I didn't know—how things would pile up?Possessions! I'm sick of it all, I tell you!"

Dell was standing, too, facing him now; proud, high-spiritedDell, who would endure very little talk like this.

"All right," she said in a low voice. "If that's how you feel,Bob." Her face was very pale.

"That's how I feel," he answered. He had hurt her, he knew,but he mustn't weaken now. "Listen to me, Dell. I'm going to do abit of managing myself. Forget that house! There's nothing doing!I'm going over to Paris for a month or so. I'd like to have youcome along, but that's up to you. Think it over. But whether yougo or stay, I'm taking the evening train."

He walked past her, picked up his hat, went on out into thesunlight, never even looked back. He moved along, his heelssinking deep into the sandy path. At last he had assertedhimself, said all the things he never meant to say. Oh, well, itwas better so; better that she should understand how he felt.Eight rooms—a thousand dollars more for things! She'd thinktwice before she brought that up again.

If only he didn't feel so much like a little boy who had beennaughty! Confound it, was he a grown man, or wasn't he? Was hecaptain of his soul, or was Dell? He walked on and on, laboredthrough the heavy sand to the other side of the Cape.

Late in the afternoon he returned to the cottage. He had madeup his mind he would not surrender. He had been a little harsh;he would admit it; he would assure Dell he was fond of her. Butpleadings would not move him, nor tears. He must get away. Theywere going to Paris, if only to turn about and come home.

The door of the cottage was unfastened, the key still in thelock. As he entered the studio Dell's dog, brought back thatmorning from his winter home, barked joyously, leaped againsthim. He strode to the middle of the room.

"Oh, Dell!" he called.

No answer. A sheet of note-paper was lying on a packing case,held down by the nail puller. He picked it up.

"I'm sorry, Bob. We haven't made a go of it, I guess. Butthere's no sense hanging round to cry over spilled milk, so I'vegone—with my trunks. You know what that means. You're free.Take a good long trip, and when you come back we'll decide what'sbest—divorce, separation, anything you say. But that's forthe future. Just now I want you to do three things—lock thedoor on all these damned possessions, get aboard the first shipyou come to and forget me as completely as though I'd neverhappened. Good-by and good luck!"

He read it over twice. Why, what—what—was the girlcrazy? Just like her though. Precipitate! One word and she wasoff like a whirlwind.

What should he do? He sat down on the packing case andthought, while the dog whimpered at his feet. Go afterher—that was one course. To Mayfield, probably. Humblehimself, beg her to return. Well, hardly. She didn't appear to bebrokenhearted, come to think of it. Pretty cold calm letter inthe circ*mstances. Maybe she was fed up herself. Maybe she hadn'tpossessions enough.

"You know what that means. You're free." Well, that was whathe had been longing for; to get shut of all these things; to beout on the highroad again. He had sworn to go abroad, alone orwith Dell. Alone, said Dell. O. K., my lady.

He rose and switched on the light. His things were not yetunpacked—a suitcase, two trunks. However, he'd need onlythe steamer trunk; the other held nothing ofimportance—evening clothes, that silly cutaway. There was atrain to New York in an hour; he telephoned the expressman. Hismost intimate acquaintance, that expressman.

The groceries were still lying on the chair where Dell hadthrown them. He carried them to the kitchen—Dell's spotlesskitchen, where he had helped with the dishes each evening. Hewent into the bedroom. There in the window they had stood everymorning, scanning the harbor to see if their ship was in.

He wandered about, taking one last look at all these thingsthat Dell had loved. The highboy—how she did fuss over thatstiff old thing! The Georgian chair. The sewing table. Heencountered the packing cases again—look here! Full ofsilver—valuable—how about it? An idea came, evenwithout Dell there to suggest it. He piled them all in the onecloset that had a lock, fastened the door securely. Dell'd beglad of that!

The expressman appeared.

"Third trip here to-day," he announced. "Best customers I got,you people." He took the trunk and suitcase.

Bob called the dog; it frisked about his feet.

"Come on, Pat," he said. "Big moment's here. Just lock thedoor and go. No cares; no responsibilities; nothing to hold usback."

The lock clicked. He stood for a moment. Where was the thrill,the elation? He'd been cheated. A heavy weight still rested onhis heart.

"Get rid of that," he assured the dog. "Only natural. Wear offin time."

He stopped at the Goodrich house, was admitted to the parlor.The odor of steak frying for supper filled the world. Heexplained his errand. The old lady peered at him through herglasses.

"But good land, you just come home," she cried.

"I know; but Mrs. Dana has been called West. We'll try to makesome arrangement soon."

"Well, I'd do anything fer Mis' Dana. But Pat's full ofmischief. An' he wasn't so well last winter. I was real worried.Then there was that burglar scare; we fretted over that. Theymight have broke into your house."

"Don't you fret. Just keep an eye open and report."

He handed her the key. She followed him to the door, stood agaunt shadow against the yellow lamplight.

"Come back soon," she said. "Folks that's got possessionsshould stay round an' look after 'em."

Bob walked slowly to the station, bought a ticket for NewYork, checked his trunk. Not a year ago Dell and he had stoodtogether on this platform, Dell all excitement. "Bob, we'rehome!" He could picture her now in the spring dusk. The trainbacked in laboriously, he climbed aboard, dropped into aseat.

A ten-minute wait, then the bell rang, there was a scamperingalong the platform and the little train pulled out. Free—hewas free! Off again on the big adventure. The key was turned onhis possessions; he must forget them, that was the idea. Forgetevery last one of them. Nothing easier.Only—only—

"She never happened!" he said fiercely under his breath.

The high gods, who hadn't noticed him for a long time, weresmiling at him again.

"She never happened!" repeated the boy on the train.

The high gods looked at one another and laughed outright.

"We heard different," they said.

* * * * *

HE was on a steamer outward bound for Naples;they were passing Sandy Hook. Again the old odor of rubber in thepassageways, the old throb of engines beneath his feet. But wherewas the old joyous thrill of freedom, the sense of dazzlingadventure waiting somewhere ahead? Well, perhaps in time

He went up and stood by the rail. The last dull vestige ofland had melted away, dissolved in a sparkling sea.

"Off again, my lad," he said. Going to be gay or know thereason why. He took hold of the rail, set his teeth anddetermined to be carefree.

A moment later he was thinking about that key—the key tothe closet where the silver was stored. He had a dim memory ofhiding it somewhere, but had he? Perhaps in his excitement he hadleft it lying right beside the nail puller—left it whereany sneak thief could find it. And Dell fairly worshiped thatItalian stuff.

With a start, he came to. Fine way to be setting out, worryingabout a key! Dell hadn't worried; just calmly took her trunks andwent. Wasn't up to him, then. Lots of interesting-looking peopleaboard. Get talking with them—that was theidea—forget.

Naples again. He was back in the narrow streets he loved,under a sun already uncomfortably hot; back at his old pension.Chocolate and rolls and honey for breakfast—honey that wasjust the color of Dell's hair.

He was a grown man. Why did he feel like a schoolboy playinghooky? Was this what marriage did to one?

Yet that was how he felt, all the ten days in Naples; and thenin Rome, in his old haunts in Florence, and even when he sat inthe window of that little hotel on Lake Como, listening tosnatches of grand opera drifting up from the cobbled street.Unhappy, somehow. Like a truant determined to enjoy the fishingbut for ever seeing the teacher's face in the calm surface of thepool.

Restless, unsatisfied, he moved steadily northward. By mid-June he had reached Paris. There, one radiant afternoon, helolled on a window seat in the studio of his old friend HarryOsborne, lazily smoking a cigarette and observing Osborne at hislabors. Fragrant and warm through the open window came the breathof the most beloved of all cities. Under the trees in theLuxembourg Gardens a military band was playing, and now and thenabove the steady beat of the music arose the joyous shrieks ofchildren at play.

"I hope I don't annoy you, loafing round here like this," Bobsaid.

Osborne did not turn. He was middle-aged, bearded, a man whohad picked up many bits of wisdom along the way.

"You annoy me very much," he answered.

"Why, I—I'm sorry."

"Oh, not because you're in my way, Bob. But because youare—loafing. What's the idea, my boy? Work—work's thegreat medicine."

"I know; I ought to get busy; I meant to." Bob's face clouded."But it's like I told you. I don't feel right somehow. I can'texplain, but I keep thinking about Dell all the time—moreeven than when I was with her; wondering what she's doing. Oh,it's silly! But I saw from the first how it would be. I knew iteven before I left New York."

"Then why did you leave?" Osborne asked.

"Well, I—I don't know exactly. I couldn't creep back toMayfield, you know. I had to show my independence."

Osborne smiled, still turned toward his canvas.

"Ah, yes, your independence," he repeated. "Yet you've beenpretty busy, as I see it, carrying out orders. What was it shetold you to do? Lock the door—get on a ship—"

"And forget her just as though she'd never happened," Bobfinished. "That was once I disobeyed anyhow."

The older man put aside his brush, rose, stretchedwearily.

"Yes; but that was once she wanted you to disobey." He cameover and stood looking down at the boy with a kindly glow in hisbrown eyes. "She was sure you could never manage it, Bob, becauseshe understood you so well. She knew you're not all artist. Ifyou were you could be utterly selfish, forget her in twenty-fourhours. There's another strain in you—in all ustemperamental people from the Middle West—the heritage leftus by a long line of solid, respectable citizens to whom marriagewas always marriage. She was depending on that to bring youback—and she's a clever girl."

"You bet she is," said Bob.

Osborne was hunting round on a paint-stained table for acigarette. He found it, applied a match. Over in the Gardens theband launched into an English music-hall song of ancient vintage,Hold Your Hand Out, Naughty Boy!

The older man smiled.

"Poor old Bob," he said. "You had a devil of a year, didn'tyou. You wanted to be married, you wanted to be free—youdidn't know which. You loved your wife, and you hated yoursurroundings. Youth slipping away, responsibilities creepingup—ah, you didn't like that. It was war—war insideyou. But that sort of thing doesn't go on. There comes amoment—resignation. After that, life straightens out. Youdo your job. You're at peace."

Bob stared at him.

"You always were the wise old bird, Harry."

"Do you think so? Then take my advice: I'd go home now, if Iwere you."

Bob Dana stood up. "Why not? I've been on the verge of it forweeks. Why not?"

"Good boy! I may see you in the fall," Osborne said. "I'mcoming over."

"Oh, you are? And how about this apartment?"

"I intend to rent it for the winter."

"Say, that's an idea. We might take it—Dell and I."

Osborne smiled.

"Talk it over with your wife and let me know," he suggested."Drop in again before you sail."

Down the narrow rickety stairs Bob Dana sped, and out into thesunlight of the Boul' Mich'. His plans were made, his course set.He was going back to Dell. He'd tell her how he'd missed her,longed for her—but it was not abject surrender he intended.Oh, no, indeed! "Dell, here's the scheme: Harry Osborne'sapartment—a winter in Paris. That's the schedule." Justlike that. Kindly, loving, but firm.

He hurried on through the Luxembourg Gardens, threading hisway among happy children, past the bent white-haired bird tamer,past the carousel with its chipped, weather-beaten wooden horses,past corpulent old senators at rest on benches after a drowsysession in the Upper Chamber. Then through narrow streets down tothe quays of the Seine, and across the Pont Royal to the rightbank. Along his route lay a number of post offices, from any oneof which he might have sent his message; but somehow he wanted toput it into American hands. In the office of the cable companyitself on the Rue Scribe he wrote at last what was in his mind,three words—"I'm coming home."

He returned to the street. Nearly six o'clock in Paris, buthis message should reach Mayfield in the early afternoon. Hepictured a blue-coated boy going up Maple Avenue on a bicycle,turning in at the Benedict drive; Dell on the steps, waiting,holdout her hand; then standing there reading his message, thesun on her honey-colored hair.

For the first time since that May evening in Provincetown BobDana was really happy. A great burden seemed lifted from hisheart.

The next morning he arranged the earliest possible booking,then went shopping for Dell; bought her things—things shewould love and look at again and again. On board the ship theonly matter that interested him was the noontime posting in thesmoking-room of the day's run. Three hundred and forty miles,three hundred and forty-eight—they couldn't go fast enoughfor him.

He paused for a few hours at his club in New York. There wasno word from Dell; his heart sank. What was happening to her? Hearranged to leave that evening for Mayfield.

There was a letter from Mrs. Goodrich, an incoherent, worriedletter. The dog had not been well, the veterinary had seen him. Astorm had blown the door from the garage, and before they couldget it repaired the car had disappeared. There was a rumor of onefound in Harwich, but it must be identified. Some one had brokena kitchen window. Mrs. Goodrich did wish they'd come homesoon.

There was also a brisk snappy note from the real-estate man.He had a purchaser for the cottage. The Minturn house was stillon the market. Mrs. Dana had spoken of buying it; would suggestimmediate action both cases. Please advise.

Bob put the letters away in his pocket; must talk these thingsover with Dell. If they were going to Paris—still, hisideas on that point were not so clear. Maybe—but just nowthe important thing was to see Dell again, hear her voice, herlaugh, look into her eyes. Strange she had sent no word ofgreeting— she knew his ship. Perhaps—no, hardly. Butwhat had happened?

Night came, and he boarded a train for the West. An hour afterhe left New York a telegram from Mayfield arrived for him at hisclub.

On the following afternoon his train pulled up beside theancient C. B. & D. station in his old home town. Instantly hewas out on the platform, looking eagerly for Dell. No sign ofher. And then Eugene came toward him, a solemn, dignified Eugeneat sight of whom he felt that old sinking of the heart.

"Hello, Bob," said Eugene. "The car's right here. Jumpin."

He climbed meekly to Eugene's side. The train slipped by, MainStreet stretched ahead.

"I figured you'd be on Number Four," Eugene remarked, startinghis engine. "It was the first train you could get after mytelegram."

"What—what telegram?" asked the prodigal.

"You mean to say you didn't get it?" Eugene demanded. The carstarted.

"Not a word! What—what's happened? Is Dell all right?You—you don't mean—"

Eugene, still solemn, nodded. "Yesterday," he said.

"But—but I thought—not for three weeks yet. Iintended to be home, of course."

Bob was solemn too.

"You never can tell about these things," said Eugenewisely.

"But Dell—poor Dell—is she—"

Eugene, ever ready with the ancient, hackneyed phrase,answered promptly.

"Mother and child," he said, "are doing well."

They were on Maple Avenue now, speeding along. A calm, sleepyold street, under its arch of elms, seemingly an uneventfulstreet. Yet on Maple Avenue big things had happened to BobDana—were happening now; complete surrender, the end of awar. For he knew that the debate was over, and he wasn't sorry."You do your job. You're at peace."

He thought of the Minturn house—eight rooms. He'd takeit by wire. He could go on and move the stuff himself—thenail puller, the hammer again. Into his mind flashed a picture ofhimself opening the door of the grandfather's clock, tossing akey inside; the key to the closet that held the silver. Heremembered at last.

Eugene was losing a bit of his solemnity.

"I'm glad to see you, Bob," he said. He brought the car to astop by the side door. "Dell's mother and I don't know what thiswas all about, but we hope it's fixed now."

"It's fixed," Bob said. He ran inside, on into the front hall,up the stairs two at a time.

"Dell!" he cried. He paused for a moment in the doorway, thenwent to the side of the bed, took her hands. She was lookingsurprisingly well, her eyes shone. "Dell, dear"—he kissedher gently—"I'll never forgive myself—not beinghere—"

"Why, that's all right, Bob," she said. "I sent you away."There was something in the clasp of her hand that wasdifferent—not so strong, not so confident as it had been."Did you enjoy your freedom, Bob dear?"

"It didn't seem the same old freedom, Dell."

"Oh, Bob, I'm sorry."

"No, you needn't be. I'm not. And it was a pretty good thingfor me to find it out. I wonder if that's why you sent me off.You're such a clever one."

"I wonder," she smiled.

"I won't leave you again, Dell. I couldn't. It wasn't justwords in the drawing-room; it wasn't the license over at the cityhall; it was getting married—you and I. Together—fromnow on!"

"And you won't mind the things that come along with me,Bob?"

"I'll love 'em."

She waved a white hand toward the other bed. He had almostforgotten, but he turned now with sudden interest. A small, stillbundle lay there, wrapped in a fluffy blanket. Bob stared at itin awe, and as he stared it moved.

"Another thing that's come along with me," Dell said.

The bundle moved again. And Bob Dana knew what he had knownunder the elms on the avenue—his days of revolt were over.Houses might be sold, furniture stored, automobiles stolen, a dogleft with the neighbors; but this—this was different.

"It's his turn next," Dell said. "His turn to be young andfree and see the world—before some girl gets hold ofhim."

"That's true," Bob answered. He rose, walked to the bed. "Iguess we'd better start right in—gathering things—forhim. So he'll have passage money when his time comes tosail."

He tiptoed closer to the bed. Dell's vision of him blurred alittle, for she saw in him the pathos of all the gay, casual ladscaught and domesticated since the world began.

But Bob was not unhappy. He was humble, awed; then amazed, forthe bundle stirred again and a thin voice emerged. He leanedover, lifted a corner of the blanket. A roving gaze was suddenlyfixed on his face. He was looking into the blue eyes of hislatest possession.

THE DOLLAR CHASERS

Illustrated by William Arthur Brown*

[* Illustrations omitted by reason of copyright.]

First published in The Saturday Evening Post, Feb 16& 23, 1924

IT was a lovely, calm evening in San Francisco,and the sun was going down on Simon Porter's wrath. An old habitof the sun's—often it rose to find Simon in an equallyturbulent mood, for twenty years of daily newspaper editing hadjangled Simon's nerves and wrath sprang eternal in his humanbreast.

He crossed the city room in his quest of theyoungest—and, as it happened, the ablest—of hisreporters. The boy he sought was seated before one of the copy-desk telephones, gazing fondly into the transmitter and speakinghoneyed words.

"Say, that's mighty kind of you, Sally.... No, haven't heardabout it yet, but I probably will.... To-morrow night at six.Pier 99. I'll be there. And I may add that in the interval, timewill go by on lagging feet. No, I said lagging. It's poetry. Seeyou to-morrow, Sally. Good-by."

He turned to meet the chill eye of his managing editor.

"Ah," Simon Porter said, "so you call her Sally."

"Yes, sir," Bill Hammond answered respectfully. "It savestime."

"Does old Jim Batchelor know how you address his onlychild?"

"Probably not. He's a busy man."

"He'll be a lot busier when he hears about you. He'll have youboiled in oil. A newspaper reporter at fifty a week!"

"A mere pittance," Bill Hammond agreed, and would have pursuedthat topic further.

"All you're worth," added the editor hastily. "I suppose thegirl told you. I begin to see now. The whole idea came fromher."

"She mentioned a delightful possibility," said the boy."However, I take my orders from you."

Simon Porter relapsed into wrath.

"Gives me about enough reporters to get out a good high-schoolmagazine," he cried. "And then sends one of them off on a picnicto please a girl!"

"Yes, sir," put in Bill Hammond brightly.

"I'm speaking of our respected owner. He's just calledup—you're to go aboard Jim Batchelor's yacht for a week-endcruise to Monterey. Golf at Del Monte and Pebble Beach; and ifthere's anything else you want, ask for it. The launch will be atPier 99 to-morrow evening at six. But you appear to know allthis."

"It sounds more authentic when you say it, sir."

"Bah! It's an assignment. I don't suppose she told youthat."

"No, sir. She didn't mention sordid things."

"There's been an Englishman named Mikklesen afflicting thistown for the past week. He's just back from ten years in theOrient and he isn't fond of the Japs. Neither is Jim Batchelor.Neither is our beloved owner. You're to listen to Mikklesen talkand write up his opinions."

"Sounds easy," commented Bill Hammond.

"It's a cinch. Listening to Mikklesen talk is what those whohang round with him don't do nothing else but. All rot though.With real news breaking every minute—and me short ofmen!"

He started to move away.

"Er—I presume I don't come in to-morrow," suggested thereporter.

His chief glared at him.

"Who says you don't? That line you got off about time going byon lagging feet—you spoke too soon. It won't lag. I'llattend to that—personally. You report to-morrow asusual."

"Yes, sir," answered Bill Hammond meekly. A hard man, hereflected.

"And listen to me." The managing editor retraced his steps."About this Sally Batchelor—I suppose she's easy to lookat?"

"No trouble at all."

"Well, you keep your mind on your work." His expressionsoftened. "Not a chance in the world, my lad. Old Jim Batchelorcouldn't see you with the telescope over at Lick Observatory.It's money, money, money with him."

"So I've heard."

"He's still got the first dollar he ever earned. He'll show itto you. Where is the first dollar you earned?"

"Somebody," said Bill Hammond, "got it away from me."

"Precisely. That's where you and old Jim are different. I'mtelling you. I don't want to see a good reporter go wrong."

"A good reporter, sir?"

"That's what I said."

Bill Hammond smiled. It brightened the corner where hewas.

"To-morrow," he ventured, "is Friday—the day before thepay check."

"I'll give you an order on the cashier," said Simon. He wroteon a slip of paper and handed it over.

"Twenty-five dollars!" Bill Hammond read. "And I was thinkingof a yachting suit!"

Simon Porter smiled grimly.

"You take your other shirt and go aboard. Your role is not todazzle. I've just got through telling you."

And he strode away to the cubby-hole where he did hisediting.

His departure left Bill Hammond alone in the city room, forthis was an evening paper and the last edition was on the street.Jim Batchelor's prospective guest remained seated by the copydesk. He was, to judge from his expression, doing a bit ofthinking. Some of his thoughts appeared to be pleasant ones,while others were not so much so. The grave mingled with the gay,and this had been true of his reveries ever since that excitingday when he first met Sally Batchelor.

Sent by his paper to cover a charity fete for the benefit ofsome orphanage, he had caught his first glimpse of Sally's trimfigure while she was yet afar off. Instantly, something hadhappened to his heart. It had been, up to that moment, a heartthat had lain singularly dormant in the presence of the oppositesex. But now it leaped up, threw off its lethargy and prepared toget into action. It urged him to fight his way at once to thisyoung woman's side.

Arrived in that pleasant neighborhood, he realized that hisinitial impression, startling and vivid as it had been, had notdone the poor girl justice. She smiled upon him, and his heartseemed to say that this was the smile it had been waiting for.She was selling flowers, her prices were exorbitant; but thesoft, lovely voice in which she named them made them soundabsurdly reasonable. The somewhat unsteady Bill Hammond becameher steady customer. Gladly he handed her all the money he had;and in other ways, too, it would have been evident to an onlookerthat he was ready and willing to take her as his life'scompanion. If not, why not?

The answer was not slow in coming. Some busybody insisted onintroducing them, and at mention of her name Bill Hammond knewthat this girl was, alas, not one of the orphans. True, she hadat the moment only one parent—but what a parent!

Jim Batchelor, president of the Batchelor ConstructionCompany, was the sort of man who never let an obstacle stand inhis way; but as an obstacle he himself had, off and on, stoodfirmly in the way of a good many other people. And he wouldcertainly make the stand of his life in the path of anypractically penniless young man who had the audacity to admirehis daughter.

This bitter thought clouded the remaining moments Bill Hammondspent in the girl's company, and presently he left the charityfete, resolved never to speak to her again. But as time went onit began to appear that the afternoon had been more eventful forhim than for any one else, the orphans included. He had fallen inlove.

Love comes to many as a blessed annoyance, and so it came toBill Hammond. Up to that moment he had been happy and carefree;which is to say, he had been young in San Francisco, no moreappropriate city in which to spend one's youth having as yet beenbuilt by man. Now he had a great deal on his mind. Should he giveup all thought of the girl and go his way a broken man? Or shouldhe get busy and acquire such wealth that his own paper wouldspeak of the subsequent marriage as the union of two greatfortunes? Generally, he favored the latter course, though themeans to wealth did not appear to be at hand, as any one who hasworked on a newspaper will appreciate.

Meanwhile he was accepting dinner and dance invitations of thesort he had previously eluded. If his plan was to avoid SallyBatchelor, it did not work. She was frequently among thosepresent, and, seemingly unaware of the vast difference in theirstations, she continued to smile upon him. A sort offriendship—nothing more, of course—grew up betweenthem. She accepted his escort occasionally, had tea with him atthe St. Francis. And now she had arranged for him to go on thisyachting trip and meet her famous father. He was to beard themighty lion in his palatial floating den.

He was, there in the dusk of the city room, a bit appalled atthe idea. Ridiculous, of course. Why should he fear JimBatchelor? As far as family went, he had all the better of it.His ancestors had been professional men and scholars, while JimBatchelor's were neatly placing one brick in close juxtapositionto another. But money—ah, money. Those few bonds his fatherhad left him, the paltry additional bunch that would be his whenAunt Ella died—chicken feed in the eyes of Batchelor, nodoubt. In this cold world only cash counted.

Cynical thoughts, these; he put them from him. The spirit ofadventure began to stir in his broad chest. Sally had been kindenough to arrange this party; she would find he was no quitter.He would go and meet this demon father face to face. He woulddiscover what it was all about—the awe with which men spokeof the money king. Probably a human being, like anybody else.Yes, as Simon had suggested, he would take his other shirtSuddenly his thoughts took a new and more practical turn. Hepictured himself arrayed for dinner on the Batchelor yacht. Inwhat? There was, he recalled, not a single clean dress shirt inhis room, and his laundry would not be returned until Saturday.As for buying new linen, the dent in that twenty-five dollarswould be serious. What to do?

He pondered. Beyond, in the cubby-holeknown—secretly—among the reporters as the kennel, hesaw Simon Porter frowning savagely over a rival paper's lastedition. Should he ask more money from Simon? The profile was notencouraging. Then into his mind flashed the picture of a Chineselaundry on Kearny Street he had passed many times. It was,according to the sign, the establishment of Honolulu Sam, and acrudely lettered placard in the window bore this promise:

LAUNDRY LEFT BEFORE EIGHT A.M. BACK SAME DAY

What could be fairer than that? Honolulu Sam solved theproblem.

Bill Hammond rose, called a good night to the man in thecubby-hole and was on his way. It was his plan to go somewherefor a brief and lonely dinner, then hurry to his apartment,gather up his laundry and place it in the hands of the speedyHonolulu Sam at once. After which he would return home and get agood night's sleep. It had been a long time since he'd had one,and he felt the need of it—

But such resolutions are rarely kept in San Francisco. Menhurry to their work in the morning, promising themselves that itwill be early to bed that night for them. And then, late in theafternoon, the fog comes rolling in, and vim and vigor take theplace of that cold-gray-dawn sensation. As a consequence, anotherpleasant evening is had by all.

Bill Hammond met some friends at dinner, and when he finallyreturned to his apartment it was too late to disturb the Chinesefrom Hawaii. He made a neat bundle of his proposed laundry, sethis alarm clock for six and turned in.

"Get lots of sleep on the yacht," he promised himself.

At seven-thirty next morning he stood at the counter ofHonolulu Sam.

"Back five-thirty this afternoon," he ordered loudly.

"Back same day. Maybe seven, maybe eight."

"Five-thirty," repeated Bill Hammond firmly.

Sam stared at him with a glassy eye and slowly shook hishead.

"Dollar extra for you if you do it," added Bill, and laid thecurrency on the counter.

Sam appropriated it.

"Can do," he admitted.

"All right," said Bill. "I'll depend on you." He had meant thedollar only as an evidence of good faith, to be paid later. Butno matter. A Chinese always kept his word.

He went out into what was practically the dawn, feelingconfident of the future. With five clean shirts and other apparelin proportion, let them bring on their yacht. Easy, nonchalant,debonair, he would make himself the pride of the deep—andof Sally. Ah, Sally! At the corner of Post and Kearny, the flowervenders were setting out their wares. Bill took a deep breath.Life was a garden of blossoms.

When he reached the office, Simon Porter robbed the garden ofits fragrance by sending him on a difficult assignment. All dayhe was kept hustling, with no time for lunch. It was exactlyfive-thirty when he grabbed his suitcase and set out for thebounding wave. Simon met him at the door and bowed low.

"Bon voyage, little brother of the rich," he said. "By theway, I've just heard you're to have a very distinguished fellowpassenger."

"Of course. The Prince of Wales."

"Nobody so jolly—Henry T. Frost."

"What? Old Henry Frost?"

"Our beloved owner, our dear employer, the good master who hasit in his power to sell us all down the river—and would doit without batting an eye. Here's your chance. Make the most ofit, win his love and respect, and when I die of overwork, as Icertainly shall inside a week, maybe he'll give you my job."

"I can't say I'm yearning to meet him," admitted BillHammond.

"You're talking sense. I've met him at least three hundredtimes, and I've always had cause to regret it. You know,something tells me you'd better stay at home. You could developwhooping cough, and I could send one of the other boys."

"Nonsense!"

"To-day is Friday."

"What of it?"

"Friday the thirteenth. Does that mean nothing to you?"

"Not a thing, sir. See you later."

"Well, fools rush in " began Simon, but Bill Hammond haddisappeared.

* * * * *

YOUNG Mr. Hammond felt not at all foolish as hehurried down Market Street, bound first for the establishment ofHonolulu Sam and later for Pier 99. The going was slow, for thestreet was crowded with commuters on their way to the ferries.This little cruise, he thought, might very well prove the turningpoint in his life. The next few days were as bright withglittering possibilities as a Christmas tree decked for the greatoccasion.

He turned down Kearny Street, that thoroughfare of adventures,and at Post an adventure befell him. The traffic was held up, andhe was hurrying to cross in front of a very wealthy-lookingautomobile, when a familiar voice called, "Whoo-hoo, Bill!" Helooked, and from the window of the car he beheld protruding thehead of Sally Batchelor. It was a lovely sight, but one he wouldgladly have dispensed with at the moment. However, he had gazedstraight into her bright eyes, and to pretend not to see her wasnow out of the question. He circled a plebeian taxi and reachedher side. She was holding open the door of the car.

"This is luck," she cried gayly. "We're on our way to thepier. Jump in."

Jump in! Without his laundry! A cold shiver ran down hisspine. Luck, she called this meeting, but he was not so sure. Henoted that there were three other people in the car—anelderly woman and two men. One of the latter was undoubtedly JimBatchelor, and—yes, the other was Henry Frost. Millionssitting there!

"I—I'm sorry," Bill stammered. "I've got a veryimportant errand first. I'll see you later."

"What sort of errand?" inquired Sally.

"It's—it's just round the corner—"

"Get in. We'll take you there."

He shuddered at the thought of this fifteen-thousand-dollarcar, with two Japanese servants on the driver's seat, pulling upbefore the headquarters of Honolulu Sam, laundry left beforeeight a.m. back same day.

"Oh, no, no, really—you go along, Sally. I'll follow ina taxi."

The traffic cop had signaled for an advance and a presumptuousflivver was honking indignantly just behind Jim Batchelor'smagnificence.

"Go along, Sally," urged Bill Hammond nervously. A passing carflipped his coat tail.

"We'll draw up at the curb in the next block and wait foryou," she answered, smiling sweetly. Obedience wasn't in her,evidently. "Here, give me your suitcase. I'll keep it foryou."

"Ah—er—no—no." He hugged it tight. "I'llkeep it. I need it."

Another picture anguished him—the vision of himselfrushing back into Jim Bachelor's presence with a large packageall too obviously laundry. The clamor in the rear increased; thetraffic cop was approaching.

"What's the idea here?" he wanted to know.

"Go along, Sally," Bill pleaded again.

Now that he had the law on his side, she obeyed. Sinking backinto the car, she closed the door in the policeman's face.

"Don't be long, will you?" she smiled.

The car began to move, and Bill dodged between it and theflivver, holding the precious suitcase close. Leaping for hislife, he made the opposite curb, while angry chauffeurs inquiredas to his sanity. He hurried on, groaning. Of all the inopportunemeetings—

A bell clanged loudly behind him as he entered the steamyprecincts of Honolulu Sam. He tossed a red check on the counter,and plumping his suitcase down beside it, began to unfasten theclasps.

"Come on," he called. "Little speed here. Give me thatwash."

The figure that emerged from the rear was not that of HonoluluSam, but of a bent and aged Chinese wearing a pair of badlysteamed spectacles. Sam, having business over on Grant Avenue,had left the place in charge of his uncle, down from Sacramentoon a visit.

"Hurry, man, hurry!" cried Bill Hammond, waiting impatientlyabove his open suitcase.

But speed was not one of uncle's inborn traits. Hedeliberately wiped his spectacles on the tail of a handy shirt,took up the red check, and stood helplessly in front of thefinished work.

"Please, please!" cried Bill. "It's done—I know it'sdone. I paid a dollar extra to make sure. Where's Sam? Say,listen, we're keeping all the money in San Francisco waiting. Letme help you—oh, I can't read that stuff. But please get amove on."

The old man made a gesture as of one requesting peace. Heturned reproving spectacles upon the customer. They were steamingup again. Once more he studied the rack, while Bill Hammondchattered wildly at his elbow. Finally the Chinese reached up andcaptured a fat package. Bill snatched it from him, tossed it intohis suitcase and began to strap the latter up. The Chinese washolding the two pieces of the check close to his eyes.

"One dolla," he announced.

"And very cheap too," said Bill.

He paid with a five-dollar bill, receiving in change four ofthose heavy silver dollars still in circulation on the coast. Ashe dashed out the door the bell rang again like an alarm. The oldChinese was once more applying the tail of the shirt to hisspectacles.

Making admirable speed, Bill Hammond returned to Post Streetand located the splendid equipage that awaited him. One of theJaps stood ready to take his bag and open the door. A bitbreathless, he climbed in and established himself on one of thelittle collapsible chairs in front, the other of which wasoccupied by Sally. He sat sidewise and Sally sat sidewise, andthe introductions began.

"Aunt Dora, this is Mr. Hammond." Bill bowed. The large,commanding woman on the rear seat, who was mainly responsible forthe congestion there, bowed also—sternly. "And do you knowMr. Frost?" Sally continued. "You ought to—you work forhim."

Bill looked into the cold, fishy eyes of his employer. HenryFrost had the appearance of a deacon, though such was not by anymeans his reputation.

"How do you do, sir?" said Bill, uncomfortably. "Mr. Frostcan't possibly know all those who labor in his cause," headded.

"And Father. Father, this is Mr. Hammond."

Father held out a thin small hand. He was, indeed, a thinsmall man, quite unlike the accepted figure of the greatfinancier. His face was ascetic, his eyes rather dreamy; thereseemed, at first glance, nothing about his personality that wouldstrike terror to an opponent. The aunt, towering like Mont Blancat his side, was far more impressive, and knew it.

"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Hammond," said the millionaire."Sally has spoken of you, I believe."

"It's mighty kind of you, sir, to take me along likethis—"

"An office assignment, I understand," put in Henry Frost in ahigh, unlovely voice.

"Oh, that's merely incidental," said Batchelor. "You'll findMikklesen very interesting, Mr. Hammond. Ought to get a goodstory. But you're not to let work interfere with your outing,even if Henry—Mr. Frost—does happen to be withus."

He smiled.

"I'll try not to, sir," Bill answered, smiling too. He feltmuch better. A human being, after all.

"I'm afraid my party's going to be rather a stag affair," JimBatchelor said, as the car swung into the broad expanse of MarketStreet.

"Well, we're used to that," said Sally. "Aren't we, AuntDora?"

"We ought to be by this time," sniffed that lady.

"There'll be Mrs. Keith, however," Batchelor went on.

"Mrs. Keith!" Henry Frost raised his bushy eyebrows.

"A very charming woman, Henry," said Jim Batchelor. "Lived inChina a great deal, I believe. I want to have a talk with herabout conditions over there. You see, this isn't only a pleasurecruise for me. There are two rather important questions I have todecide before I get back. There's that contract with the ChineseGovernment for bridging the Yang-tse-Kiang. I guess I mentionedit to you. I haven't made up my mind whether to make a bid forthe job or not. Talking with Mrs. Keith and Mikklesen may decideme."

"I understand that Blake has already put in his figures," saidFrost. "He'll probably underbid you."

"Very likely. But everybody knows Blake is a crook. I imagineI can get the contract away from him if I go after it. They tellme he's waiting anxiously to know what move I'll make. I'll spoilhis game if I go in." Batchelor smiled, and it was no dreamersmiling then. "However, I've got several days. The bids don'tclose until next Thursday."

"And the other question, Jim?" asked Frost.

"Oh, the senatorship. I'm still thinking of entering theprimaries."

"Nonsense!" growled his friend. "Why get mixed up in that sortof thing?"

"Just what I tell him," said Aunt Dora. "Still, Washingtonwould be interesting."

"Well, I don't know," mused Batchelor. "Every man hasambitions that way, I guess. At any rate, I'm taking O'Meara, thelawyer, along on this cruise to talk over the situation. When itcomes to politics, he's one of the wisest."

"O'Meara!" Mr. Frost spoke rather sourly.

"It's a very mixed crowd, I'm sure," said Aunt Dora, and BillHammond felt that the glance she cast at him was a bitpersonal.

"A lot more interesting than a bunch of society folderols,"Batchelor told her. "And when it comes to elegance, that end'staken care of too. I've invited Julian Hill."

"Good news for Sally, I'm sure," remarked Aunt Dora, and againthe look she gave Bill Hammond had a meaning all its own.

Bill knew that they were speaking of the third vice-presidentof the Batchelor concern, a young man of good family and socialposition whose engagement to Sally Batchelor had more than oncebeen rumored. He glanced at the girl, but she was staringstraight ahead, and her charming profile told him nothing.

The car was gliding along the Embarcadero now, that romanticthreshold to the Orient. Ships that were destined for far portswaited motionless but ready, and on the piers was abundantevidence of the great business done upon the waters. SuddenlyHenry Frost spoke.

"It's a wonder to me you could get any one to go with youtoday," he said.

"Why, what do you mean?" asked Batchelor.

"Friday, the thirteenth," explained the newspaper owner.

"The thirteenth! Say, I didn't realize that!" Batchelor's tonewas serious, and glancing back, Bill Hammond was amazed at thegravity of his face.

"I didn't think you did," smiled Frost, "knowing your weaknessas I do."

"What do you mean—weakness? I'm not superstitious." AndJim Batchelor smiled, as though he had just remembered somethingpleasant. "Besides, no bad luck can happen to us—not whileI've got my little lucky piece in my pocket."

His lucky piece? Bill Hammond looked at Sally.

"For goodness' sake," she laughed, "don't ask him to show itto you! That calamity will befall you soon enough, and at a timewhen I'm elsewhere, I trust."

The car came to a halt before Pier 99, the property of asteamship company in which Jim Batchelor was a heavy stockholder.At the end of the pier, close to where a smart launch waswaiting, they found the remaining four guests who had beeninvited on Jim Batchelor's week-end cruise.

An oddly assorted quartet, Bill Hammond thought, as Sallyhastily introduced him. Mike O'Meara he already knew, having morethan once sought to pry an interview out of him. A huge, bluff,ruddy man, the lawyer was decidedly out of his element and seemedto know it, but he had a gift of gab to see him through. JulianHill proved a suave, polished man in his thirties, garbed in justthe right apparel; he had no interest whatever in meeting BillHammond and didn't pretend any. Mrs. Keith was at that age wherea woman knows that youth is going despite her gallant struggle.She had been, Bill sensed, a clinging vine in her day; but nowshe was a bit too plump and no doubt found the sturdy oakselusive.

As for Mikklesen, he delighted the eye; he made the sensesreel; he was magnificent. Tall, languid, with china-blue eyes andyellow hair, his slim figure clothed in tweeds, the Englishmanadded an artistic touch to any scene he chose to adorn. Save whenhe looked at Sally Batchelor, boredom afflicted him, and theindifference he showed in meeting Mr.—er—Hammond madethe attitude of Julian Hill seem a bit too eager bycomparison.

When the Japanese had got all the luggage aboard the launch,the guests followed. Bill Hammond had intended to sit besideSally, but Mikklesen and Hill beat him to it, and he reflectedthat competition was going to be keen in the near future. He sankdown beside Mrs. Keith. The launch sputtered and was on its wayto where the seagoing yacht Francesca waited haughty andaloof, lording it over the more plebeian craft that lay abouther.

"Isn't this thrilling!" gushed Mrs. Keith. "You know I haven'tbeen on a yacht for ages."

"Same here," said Bill. "Grand to be rich, don't youthink?"

"It must be," sighed the woman. "I never could manage it. Youmust tell me all about it."

"Me?" Bill Hammond laughed. "You've got the wrongnumber—excuse it, please. I happen to be one of the humblepoor—only a newspaper reporter."

"Oh, indeed!" Her smile faded. "How exciting—a reporter!You have the most wonderful experiences of course. You must tellme all about it."

Evidently one of the you-must-tell-me-all-about-it sisterhood,a species that dated back a bit.

"Well," said Bill Hammond cautiously, "if I'm not too busywith my work, I'll be delighted."

"Work—on the yacht?"

"I'm supposed to interview Mr. Mikklesen on conditions in theOrient."

She laughed.

"Oh, really? Mr. Mikklesen is an old acquaintance of mine. Iknew him in China. I'm sure he'll tell you the most interestingthings—only you mustn't believe all you hear.

"He's a dear boy, but—imaginative. Oh, so veryimaginative." She glanced across to where Mikklesen was bendingclose to Sally Batchelor. The look in her eyes was notfriendly.

On the deck of the Francesca her captain waited togreet his owner. Japanese in white coats appeared to receive thebaggage.

"Dinner's at seven-thirty," Jim Batchelor announced. "Afterthe boys have shown you to your quarters, I suggest that yougentlemen join me in the smoking-room."

"'Stag party' is right," smiled his daughter.

"Oh, well, the ladies too, of course," amended the owner ofthe Francesca. "I thought they'd be too busy—"

As a matter of fact, he had forgotten all about the ladies. Itwas his habit; he was a man's man.

One of the Japs, burdened with luggage, politely requestedBill Hammond to follow, and led the way to the deck below.Mikkleson also was in the procession, and Bill wondered if theywere to share a stateroom. It was not a happy prospect, for heknew the Englishman would coolly take seven-eighths of any roomassigned them. They entered a passageway off which the cabinsevidently opened, and at the third door the Jap dropped Bill'smodest suitcase and, staggering under the load of theEnglishman's traps, led Mikklesen inside.

"This is your cabin," Bill heard him say.

"Thank heaven," Bill thought. The Jap emerged, took up thesolitary bag and led the way to the next door.

"So this is mine, eh?" Bill said. "Fine! Got it all to myself,I suppose."

"Yes-s," hissed the Jap. "Francesca sleep fifteenguests."

"Good for the Francesca."

"Bath here," the servant said. He nodded toward an open door,beyond which gleamed spotless plumbing. Even as Bill looked,Mikklesen appeared in the doorway, gave him a haughty glare, shutthe door and locked it.

"Bath for two cabins," the Jap said. "Yours too." He seemeddistressed.

"Well, you'd better explain that to him," suggested Bill."Otherwise I'll never see the inside of that room again," headded.

The servant disappeared. There was the sound of voices in thenext cabin. Then the lock clicked in the bathroom door and theJap was again in Bill's room.

"All right now," he smiled.

"Maybe," said Bill. "What's your name?"

"Tatu."

"Well, Tatu,—"

He handed him a bill. The smile broadened.

"He leave door locked, you go through his room, unlock," saidTatu.

"Some judge of character, Tatu. You got his number, boy. Don'tworry about me, I'll bathe all right."

The Jap disappeared, and Bill stood for a moment staringthrough the port-hole at San Francisco's interesting sky-line.This was the life, he reflected, sailing gayly off into theunknown. His heart sank. Had he remembered to bring his shirtstuds? Feverishly he opened his suitcase—thank heaven,there they were.

He went out in search of the smoking-room. On the upper deckhe encountered Jim Batchelor.

"Ah, my boy, come along," said the millionaire. "Maybe we canscare up a co*cktail."

They found Henry Frost already in the smoking-room.

"When do we get to Monterey?" he wanted to know.

"Early to-morrow," said Batchelor. "There'll be plenty of timefor me to trim you a round of golf before lunch."

"You hate yourself, don't you?" answered Frost. "Ten dollars ahole is my answer to that."

"Piker!" chided Batchelor. "Play golf, Hammond?"

"In a fashion," Bill said. "Not so expensively as that,however."

"Oh, it wouldn't cost you anything to take him on," Batchelorreplied. "He always pays. Henry's golf's a joke to everybody butHenry himself."

O'Meara came in. "Some boat you got here, Mr. Batchelor," hesaid, "I'll tell the world."

"Yes, it's quite a neat little craft."

"Little! It's the Leviathan of the west coast."

"Say, look here, O'Meara," Frost put in, "Jim here's got acrazy idea he's going to enter the senatorial primaries. Now youknow the game—I'm relying on you to tell him he hasn't gota chance."

"I can't do that, and speak true," O'Meara replied. "He's gotas good a chance as any of them. You put up your name, Mr.Batchelor," he added, "and leave the rest to us."

"Well, I haven't decided," the millionaire answered. "We'lltalk it over later. Ah, Mr. Mikklesen, come in. Are youcomfortably settled?"

"Oh, quite," said the Englishman. "It was most frightfullygood of you to invite me."

"Well, my reasons weren't wholly unselfish," Batcheloradmitted. "I've sort of lost track of things in Chinalately—thought you could set me straight."

"Any information I have, my dear sir, is yours. I believeyou're thinking of that bridge contract."

"I am—seriously."

Mikklesen nodded.

"Of course, it's a bit risky," he said. "The government isn'tany too stable, to put it mildly. There are otherdifficulties—I'll speak of them later. Yes, it's decidedlyrisky."

"You bet it is," remarked Julian Hill, who had just comein.

"But I like risks," smiled Batchelor.

"I know, Governor, but this is the limit." Mr. Hill seemedvery much in earnest. "I'm bitterly opposed."

"You were opposed to that lighthouse job in South Americatoo," Batchelor reminded him.

"I happened to be wrong that time. But something tells me I'mnot wrong now. Let's keep out. Don't you say so, Mr.Mikklesen?"

"I will say this"—the Englishman studied the end of hiscigarette—"if you do go in, it will be a matter of what youcall the breaks. They may be for you; they may be against you.You'll need all the luck in the world."

"Ah, luck," smiled Batchelor. "That's where the BatchelorConstruction Company shines. For more than thirty-five years thebreaks have been our way. And I've still got my lucky piece." Hetook from his waistcoat pocket a silver dollar.

Frost and Hill smiled at each other and turned away, but thethree other men regarded the coin with interest.

"Gentlemen," said Jim Batchelor softly, "there it is. Thefirst dollar I ever earned. I was a kid of eleven at the time. Myfather was a mason and he was working on an apartment buildingthey were putting up on Russian Hill. He heard they wanted awater boy and he got me the job. I had to fetch the water from awell that was a block away—a block down the hill. I carriedan empty pail the easy route, but coming back it was filled, andI puffed and sweat and staggered up the grade. It was my firstlesson in how hard money comes. On the first Saturday night I gotmy pay—this dollar—and I walked home with my fatherpast shop windows that were one long temptation. 'What you goingto spend it for, Jim?' my father asked. 'I'm not going to spendit,' I told him. 'I'm going to keep it—always.' And I have.For thirty-seven years it's been my lucky piece and it's madegood on the job. I've felt it in my pocket at the big moments ofmy life, and it's given me confidence and courage. A littlesilver dollar coined in 1884." He appeared to be holding it outto Mikklesen, and the Englishman reached forth his hand to takeit. But Jim Batchelor restored it to his pocket.

"And it's still working for me, gentlemen," he added.

"Poppyco*ck!" said Henry Frost.

"Maybe," smiled Batchelor. "But I hear there is a standingoffer of one thousand dollars in the office of Blake & Co.for that little lucky piece. Poppyco*ck, eh?"

"Oh, well, Blake & Co. know what a fool you are," saidFrost. "They realize the psychological effect on your mind if youlost that thing. They're willing to pay for that."

"They'll never get the chance," answered Batchelor, and hiseyes flashed. "I think I will go into that China thing. In fact Iknow I will. Gentlemen, here are the co*cktails."

They stood about a table, each with a glass in his hand. AsBill Hammond looked around him, he saw that the eyes of each manpresent were on the pocket that held the little silver dollar.Mikklesen lifted his glass.

"Here's to your good luck, sir," he said. "May itcontinue."

"Thank you," answered Jim Batchelor, and they drank.

At seven o'clock Bill Hammond set out for his stateroom todress for dinner. At the top of the main companionway he metSally—Sally in a breath-taking gown and looking herloveliest.

"Hurry up," she said. "I'm eager for some one to help me enjoythe sunset."

"Keep the place open," he begged. "I'm really the best man forthe job. Sally, I know who it is I have to thank for this littleouting. You're always doing something for the orphans, aren'tyou?"

"Were you glad to come?"

"Glad? What weak words you use!"

"I thought you would be. The yacht's a lot of fun,really."

"It's not the yacht I'm thinking of. If you'd invited me outin a rowboat my joy would have been the same. You know—

Henry Frost and Hill came up behind them.

"Dear me," said Sally, "what a long co*cktail hour! I'm afraidDad's been telling you the story of the dollar."

"He did mention it," said Hill.

"And I'm glad he did," Bill Hammond said. "It made him seemmighty human to me. The picture of him struggling up Russian Hillwith that water pail—"

"Dear Dad!" Sally smiled. "There is something rather appealingabout the story. The first time you hear it, I mean. But whenyou've had it pop up constantly for twenty years, as I have,you're bound to get a little fed up on it. I've been very wicked.There've been times when I wished to heaven he'd lose thatdollar."

"Here too," said Julian Hill. "Particularly when it leads Mr.Batchelor into some wild adventure like this China bridgecontract."

"Lose it!" cried Henry Frost. His little eyes glittered. "Why,it would ruin him!"

"Yes, I rather think it would," said Hill; and it wasn't somuch what he said, Bill Hammond reflected as he hurried off tohis cabin. It was the way he said it.

* * * * *

MIKKLESEN had left the smoking-room some timebefore, and as Bill Hammond passed the door of the Englishman'scabin he was glad to hear a voice lifted in song inside. But whenhe reached his own room and tried to enter the bath, he foundhimself locked out. As he savagely rattled the knob he was happyto recall that George Washington won his war. Confound thisMikklesen—had he no consideration for anybody?

The answer was that he hadn't; one look at him told that.

As Bill turned angrily back into his room, Tatu entered fromthe passageway.

"Very late, very busy," said the Jap. "Now I lay you out." Andhe lifted a dinner coat from Bill's suitcase.

"Never mind, I'll attend to that," Bill told him. "You go inand lay that Englishman out. Lay him out cold, and then unlockthis bath for me."

Tatu hastened away, and again there was the sound of voices inthe next cabin. Again the lock in the door leading to the bathclicked, and Tatu emerged. Bill dashed by him and turned the keyin Mikklesen's door. He was sorry that the gentle click resultingdidn't begin to express his feelings.

"You run along, Tatu," he said. "I'm in too much of a hurry tolearn how to be valeted to-night. Some time when we're both freeyou can give me a lesson."

"You want me, ring bell," suggested Tatu, going.

Bill was hastily peeling off his clothes. If he was to have afew moments alone with Sally and the sunset, speed was thewatchword. But he had been known to rise in the morning, bathe,shave, dress and reach the office in less than twenty minutes,and he was out now to smash the record.

As he was putting the finishing touches on an elaborate shave,Mikklesen began to rattle the door-knob. He rattled long andearnestly, and it was music to the reporter's ears.

"Oh, I say, old chap, you're not annoyed, are you?" Billmurmured. "Not really? How beastly!"

"Damn!" said a voice, and the clatter ceased.

Bill hurried from the bathroom, leaving the lock in statuquo. By way of preparation, he laid out his diamond shirtstuds—rich-looking, if old-fashioned—the property ofpoor Uncle George, handed to Bill by Aunt Ella the day after thefuneral.

Humming happily to himself, he lifted the great fat package oflaundry into the open. Good old Honolulu Sam, he had certainlycome across as promised. That back-same-day thing was on thelevel. Must have hurried some. Great little people, the Chinese;you could bank on them. If they said they'd do a thing, they didit. He snapped the string with his fingers and gently laid backthe wrapping-paper. A bright pink shirt stared up at him.

It is astonishing sometimes, in the crises of our lives, howslow we can be in comprehending. Bill's first reaction was towonder how this sartorial atrocity had got in with his things. Hetossed it aside and was confronted by the purplest shirt he hadever met. Next in the line of march came a green shirt that wouldhave made excellent adornment on St. Patrick's Day. Then somerather shabby underwear and eloquent socks. A few collars. But nomore shirts!

Bill Hammond sat down weakly on the berth.

"Good lord," he cried. "It's not my laundry!"

And if comprehension had been slow in coming, it came now witha rush. Alone, alone, all, all alone on a restless ocean, andwithout a dress shirt to his name. Dinner in fifteen minutes. Atleast two rivals for Sally's favor present, and each an elegantdresser on and off.

And this was the cruise on which he had hoped to make adashing impression, to win Sally's family, to say nothing of thegirl herself, by his charm. How did one do that without ashirt?

Anger overcame him. Nor did he have any trouble locating theobject of his wrath. That half-blind old Chinese with thesteaming spectacles—there was the guilty party.

The old idiot! In one careless moment he had destroyed thepriceless reputation of his race for accuracy, built uplaboriously through many years of giving back the right shirt tothe right customer—destroyed it utterly, doomed his race toextinction. For Bill Hammond would attend to that personally, andhe would begin in the establishment of Honolulu Sam.

But time was passing; he mustn't waste any more of it planningthe massacre of an aged Chinese. The problem was here and now.What to do? The weather was calm enough, but the Francescawas tossing about a bit. He might retire to his birth and pleadseasickness. And leave Sally to the company of Mikklesen andJulian Hill? Not likely! No, he must have a shirt—must haveone—robbery—a killing or two, maybe—but he hadto have a shirt.

Was there any one aboard who would help him? O'Meara, perhaps;but no, O'Meara's shirt would go round him at least twice. As forthe other men, there was not one to whom he would considerrevealing his plight. Sally—if he could bring himself totell her—would be sympathetic, but Sally had no dressshirts to distribute. That left—hold on—that leftTatu. Thank heaven he had given Tatu five dollars.

He rang the bell, and while he waited put on his underclothes.Tatu appeared. Frankness, it seemed to Bill, was the onlycourse.

"Terrible thing's happened, Tatu," he said. "See"—heindicated the frightful pink shirt—"Chinese laundryreturned the wrong wash. I haven't any dress shirt."

"Chinese not reliable people," commented Tatu.

"You've said it, my boy. Sometime you and I'll have a longtalk about that. But now, Tatu, now—dinner coming on likethis. What to do?" An idea flashed into his mind. "You haven't anextra shirt, have you?" he inquired hopefully.

Tatu opened his coat and revealed a fine white bosom—butno shirt went with it.

"Have extra bosom," he said. "Maybe you would like—"

Bill recoiled in horror.

"No, no, I couldn't take a chance. Must have an entire shirt.There's five more dollars waiting for you if you can dig oneup."

Tatu considered.

"Maybe," he said. "I find out."

He went on his momentous errand. Bill, left alone, put onstockings and a pair of pumps. Slowly but surely the structurewas approaching completion. But the shirt! Would that necessary,that vital bit of facade come to hand? Or must he sit shirtlessin his cabin while the gay diners made merry round the festalboard?

Something in Tatu's eye had made Bill feel that this was amoment for caution. He turned off his light and opened the doorleading into the dim passageway. No one in sight. Where was thatJap anyhow? The door of the cabin at the end of the corridorbegan to open slowly, and a man emerged. He looked warily abouthim, and then, walking on tiptoe, started down the passageway.Tatu? No, it wasn't Tatu. Bill Hammond, peering from the darknessas the man passed his stateroom, saw clearly who it was. Hewatched him open the door of a stateroom farther down anddisappear.

Nervously Bill sat down on his berth. Would Tatu never come?Why, he'd had time enough to scare up a whole outfit—Tatuappeared in the doorway. Bill leaped up, closed the door behindhim and snapped on the light.

Rapture! There was a gleaming dress shirt in the Jap's hand.Like a drowning man going after the well-known straw, Billpounced upon it.

Tatu hung on to it.

"Maybe too big," he said. "I put in studs."

He took up one of Uncle George's diamonds and began tostruggle with the shirt. "Very stiff bosom," he announced. "Oh,very stiff."

"What size is it?" demanded Bill, feverishly investigating thecollars bequeathed him by the owner of the pink shirt. He had avision of sending the Jap out again for a collar.

"Doesn't tell size," whispered Tatu. "No name of maker, also.That very good."

Bill experienced a momentary qualm.

"Where'd you get this shirt, Tatu?" he demanded sternly.

"I get him," replied Tatu. "Here, try on."

"A little large," said Bill. "But it's a shirt. And say,look—this collar fits. Luck, Tatu, luck. Wow, the bosom isstiff! Got to be proud and unbending to-night." He was silent,working on his tie.

"Everything fine," Tatu hinted.

"Oh, yes, the five dollars. Here you are. Say, listen, Tatu,I'm not sure that we ought to have—er—borrowed this.We'll have to return it."

"I return it," Tatu agreed.

"That's right; of course we'll give it back, along with adollar to cover depreciation and washing. Honesty, Tatu—thebest policy. Ask anybody."

"Yes-s, thank you."

"Always be honest and you'll fear no man." The Jap was at thedoor. "Say, Tatu, I really ought to know where you got it."

"I got him," smiled the Jap, and went out.

Well, a desperate situation required a desperate remedy. Billleaped into his trousers and was slipping on his waistcoat andcoat when the first notes of The Roast Beef of Old England,played falteringly on a bugle by a pantry boy with ambitions,floated down to him. Mikklesen was once more rattling at thebathroom door, and first extinguishing all lights, Billnoiselessly unlocked it, then hurried up-stairs to the after deckto find Sally. Her eyes reproached him.

"The sun went down," she said, "and you never came up."

"I know," he answered; "forgive me." He straightened hiscollar nervously. "I was detained."

"That's not much of an explanation," she told him.

"Thank you," he said absently. He was thinking that the ownerof the pink shirt certainly needed some new collars. This one hada razor edge and seemed to have been recently honed.

"You're perfectly welcome," smiled Sally, "whatever it isyou're thanking me for. Pardon me for mentioning it, but are youin your right mind?"

"Of course not," he said. "I knew you were lovely, but somehowto-night—well, as the fellow said, my senses reel."

Sally rose. "We'd better have the next reel in the diningsaloon," she suggested. "Dad hates people to be late."

Bill found he was to sit on Sally's right, and the discoverycheered him, particularly as Henry Frost was on the other side ofher—an arrangement that couldn't be improved upon. Hisspirits rose rapidly. A moment before plunged in the depths ofdespair, he had emerged triumphant and all was right with theworld. What a lot of difference somebody's shirt had made!

During the first course Jim Batchelor suggested that Mikklesentell something of his experiences in the Orient, and from thatpoint on the dinner was a monologue. But like most Englishmen ofhis class, Mikklesen was a charming talker and well worthattention. He spoke of his adventures as subeditor of an Englishnewspaper in Shanghai, of the time he had typhoid in the GeneralHospital in Yokohama, of the fight he got into one gory night atthe old Danish hotel where the beach-combers hold forth in thatlovely port. He took his hearers into the interior of China on ascientific expedition, thrilled them with a hold-up by bandits,and brought them back in time for an audience with an ambassadoror two in Peking. Life as he had known it had beenglamourous.

It was not until the coffee that he appeared to run down andthe conversation became general. Suddenly there was one of thoseinexplicable lulls in the gentle buzz of talk, and the voice ofJim Batchelor rang out in converse with Mrs. Keith at hisright.

"And I have kept it—all these years. In the big momentsof my life I've felt it in my pocket, and it has given me courageto go on. A little silver dollar coined in the year—"

"Oh, dear," Sally laughed, "he's telling her about his luckypiece."

"Thrilling!" Mrs. Keith said. She smiled encouragingly on themillionaire. "You've got it with you still?"

"I certainly have." He removed something from his pocket. "Mylittle lucky piece." He stared at it, his face paled slightly."This—is not—my dollar," he said slowly.

A tense silence fell. Sally finally spoke:

"Not your dollar, Dad? What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. This is a dollar coined in 1903." He threwit down on the table and began a search of his pockets. Again thesilence. His search was evidently fruitless. "I—I'm very-sorry this has happened," said Batchelor. "It may seem rathertrivial to you, but to me it's almighty important. If—ifit's a joke of some sort, I—I don't appreciate it. However,I'll overlook it if the joker will speak at once. In heaven'sname"—his voice trembled—"is it a joke?"

He looked eagerly into each face about the table. No onespoke. Batchelor's eyes hardened.

"Then there's some more sinister motive back of it," hesaid.

"Nonsense, Jim!" said Aunt Dora. "You're making a mountain outof nothing."

"I'm the judge of that," the millionaire told her, and hisvoice was like chilled steel. "However"—with an effort hemanaged to smile—"you're right, in a way. I mustn't spoilthe party."

The tension lessened somewhat, and Mrs. Keith took that momentto show sympathy.

"What a pity!" she said. "Perhaps one of your crew—"

"No, Mrs. Keith," Jim Batchelor said; "my crew has been withme for years. The servants—I'm not so sure. They will allbe examined before leaving the yacht. And before we drop thesubject, has any one else missed anything?"

Bill Hammond's heart stood still. The shirt! Somebody wouldspeak up regarding the mysterious disappearance of a shirt, andwhere would that lead? Little beads of perspiration stood on hisforehead. But no one said anything. Evidently the owner of theshirt was still ignorant of his loss. Bill breathed again.

"Well, that's that," said Batchelor. "We'll let the matterdrop."

"One minute!" O'Meara was on his feet. "Before we do that I'vegot a suggestion to make. Mr. Batchelor here has lost somethingof value, and until it's found we're all under a cloud. I for onewant to be searched, and I guess every honest man here feels thesame way."

"Nonsense!" Batchelor cried. "I won't hear of it!"

"But Mr. O'Meara is right," said Mikklesen. "I recall a dinnerat the British Embassy in Peking two years ago, when the hostesslost a diamond necklace. It was a most distinguished party, butwe were taken one by one into an anteroom and gone over withamazing thoroughness." He, too, stood up. "I also insist," hesaid.

"Rot! I wouldn't insult my guests," Batchelor was stillprotesting.

"You'll have nothing to do with it, Governor," Julian Hilltold him. "We're going through with this for our ownsatisfaction. If the ladies will wait for us in thesaloon—"

Reluctantly Aunt Dora, Mrs. Keith and Sally left the room.O'Meara promptly removed his coat and waistcoat.

"Now one of you go over me," he said, "and I'll do the job forthe rest of you."

Julian Hill stepped forward to oblige. With a none too easyconscience, Bill Hammond also removed coat and waistcoat. Thatshirt was a none too successful fit—suppose some onerecognized it. O'Meara, having been pronounced innocent, went athis work with enthusiasm. Evidently he had been in similarsituations before. But the search had no results. Through it JimBatchelor sat staring at the table as though the matter held nointerest for him. O'Meara finished, red-faced and empty-handed.

"Well, if you boys have done with your nonsense," remarkedBatchelor, "we'll join the ladies. And as a favor to me, we won'tspeak of this again—to-night."

Aunt Dora was superintending the placing of two tables forbridge in the main saloon. It appeared there was just the rightnumber—with one left over. After she had disposed of theusual impassioned pleas from those desiring to be the one leftout, Julian Hill was elected to that position, and shortlydisappeared from the room. They cut for partners, and to hishorror Bill found himself seated opposite Aunt Dora. She had theair of being the person who invented bridge, and so she had,practically.

Bill dealt. Majestically Aunt Dora took up her hand andglanced through it.

"Count your cards," she ordered. "That's the first rule. Whatrules do you play by, Mr. Hammond?"

"Rules?" repeated Bill wanly. "I don't know. I just play."

"We'll pivot," said Aunt Dora promptly.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," said Bill meekly.

"I mean to say, we'll change partners frequently."

"Oh," said Bill heartily, "I'm for it."

The glare she turned on him moved him to look the other way,and his eyes met those of the man he had seen creeping along thecorridor just before dinner. He became suddenly thoughtful, sothat Aunt Dora's voice suggesting that he bid seemed miles away.However, it came rapidly nearer.

* * * * *

AUNT DORA found, as the play progressed, thatshe alone seemed to be giving the matter her best thought. Shewas a woman of superb endurance, but after a distressing rubberwith O'Meara as partner, she called it an evening and rang thegong. The ship's clock had recently struck six bells, and after acareful calculation and a look at his watch, Bill Hammond knewthat to mean that it was now just after eleven.

Mikklesen and Julian Hill both seemed determined on a bedtimechat with Sally, but after a meaning look at Bill Hammond thegirl dissuaded them.

"Wait till I get a wrap," she whispered to Bill. "I want totell you about that sunset."

He had nothing in particular to do, and maybe he would havewaited anyhow. When she returned she led the way to a couple ofchairs that stood close together in a secluded spot on the afterdeck.

"Wonderful night," Bill murmured. He had sized it up aboutright too. The Pacific was calm—for the Pacific—thewater was liquid silver in the moonlight, the breeze was not toochill. A great night to be young, and they both were.

"Glad you like it," said Sally. "It's just what Iordered."

They sat silent for a moment.

"How was the sunset anyhow?" Bill inquired.

"Not bad at all," said Sally, "for the sun. I think I preferthe moon myself." A long, long silence. "Bill, say something,"the girl protested at length. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm just wishing. I'm wishing your name was Sally Jones andyour father was principal of a high school—and paidaccordingly. It's what I've been wishing ever since that day atthe charity bazaar."

She laughed.

"Dad never wasted any time on high schools," she said. "Still,it does no harm to wish."

A cooler breeze arrived from the Pacific. Bill rose, took up arug from a near-by chair and tucked it about her. His handtouched hers, and contrary to his intention, he seized and heldit.

"Sally!" he said ecstatically.

"Bill!" she answered.

He gave up the idea and sat down. Another silence.

"How—how do you like my father?" she askedpresently.

"Oh, he's all right. But it doesn't matter what I think ofhim. He'd be just as interested to get the opinion of one ofthose goldfish in the main saloon."

"Well, I don't know," said Sally. "Dad's pretty human. Youmust remember, he hasn't always traveled on yachts. At one timehe was a stonemason, earning a hundred a month."

"How long ago was that?"

"About the time he was—married."

The way she said it, somehow; the night, the moon, the bracingeffect of ocean air—whatever the cause

"Sally," Bill heard himself saying, "I'm in love. With you, Imean. But I guess that isn't news, is it?"

"Not precisely," she answered slowly. "However, I'm glad yousaid it. We couldn't have got anywhere if you hadn't."

"Sally!" The moon was under a cloud. It was just as well.

"It's no use, Sally," said Bill, coming to. "Your father wouldnever hear of it."

"He'd be bound to."

"You know what I mean. He'd have me—boiled in oil."

"He'd have to boil me too."

"Sally, you're wonderful! Will you—will you take achance with me?"

"I don't like the way you put it. I'll marry you, if that'swhat you mean."

"On our own—that's what I'm getting at. I've seen somany men marry rich girls and degenerate into lap dogs. Iwouldn't take a cent from your father—nor a jobeither."

"Don't worry, you wouldn't get either."

"Sally, I never intended to tell you this. I was just going toeat my heart out in silence, like the great strong man that Iam."

"Well, that would have been romantic. But I think I like itbetter this way. My role is a bit more active."

"Darling! Wha—what do you think I'd better do? Should Ispeak to your father the next time I see him?"

"Of course. Say good night or good morning, as the case maybe, and that's all."

"Well, I suppose he would hit the ceiling."

"He wouldn't stamp round and forbid it, if that's what youthink. It's not his way—he's too subtle. He'd just quietlyqueer it; nobody would ever be sure how it was done either. He'sfathoms down, Dad is."

"Certainly sounds too deep for a frank, wholesome lad likeme.

"I think we'd better—just drift along," Sally said."Give him a chance to take a fancy to you."

"You believe in long engagements, then?"

"Nonsense! I'm fond of you. And Father and I are much alike."She pondered. "If you could only make a hit with him somehow. I'dnever be quite happy about marrying anybody—not evenyou—if he was opposed. He's really wild about me."

"Naturally."

"Poor Dad. He's broken-hearted. That silly little dollar meantso much to him."

It was Bill's turn to ponder.

"You know, Sally," he said, "I've done considerable policereporting, and on more than one occasion a hard-boiled detectivehas complimented me. I've dug up some rather importantevidence."

"Oh, Bill, that's an idea!"

"If I found that dollar for him, do you think he'd give me youas a reward?"

"He wouldn't stop there. He'd throw in Aunt Dora and theyacht."

"You give me pause. I mean—I couldn't afford theyacht."

"Bill!" Her eyes were shining. "Let's work on the casetogether. What's the first move? We talk over the suspects, don'twe?"

"That might be a good idea. We'll start with you. You saidyourself there were times when you hoped he'd lose it."

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry I said it now. Do be serious, Bill.Aunt Dora—she wouldn't take it."

"But you can't eliminate anybody that way."

"Yes, you can. A woman's intuition. Mr. Mikklesen—nomotive. Mr. O'Meara—how about him?"

"He's a politician. Their ways are deep and dark."

"I feel that; and he was so insistent on being searched.That's always suspicious."

"I thought it was rather fine of your father"—saidBill—"his courtesy to his guests. He was against thesearch."

Sally laughed.

"Don't be fooled by Dad's courtesy," she warned. "He knew darnwell nobody would be fool enough to steal his dollar and thenwalk in to dinner with the thing in his pocket. Dad's the soul ofhospitality and all that, but he wants that dollar back, andbefore he gives up he'll put all his guests through the thirddegree, if necessary. Let's see, there's Julian Hill. He seemsawfully keen to keep Dad out of that China job."

"Yes, Hill's a possibility. And how about Mrs. Keith? Knowanything about her?"

"Not a thing."

"Well, she's poor," said Bill. "She told me so. But then, soam I. By the way, don't let's overlook me."

"Nonsense! You wouldn't take anything that didn't belong toyou."

"You think not?" Certainly a stiff bosom on that shirt.

"Oh, Bill, it's all so hopeless," she sighed. "If we only hada shred of evidence to go on!"

"Maybe we have."

"Bill—not really?"

"You've forgotten one guest. What motive would Henry Frosthave in stealing that dollar?"

"None whatever, so far as I know."

"That's the way I feel," Bill went on. "Yet as I understandit, your father's cabin is the one at the end of the corridor offwhich our rooms open." She nodded. "And just before dinner Icertainly saw Henry Frost come out of that room, acting veryqueerly. He tiptoed along the corridor and slipped into his ownroom very unostentatiously."

"Bill! It seems ridiculous!"

"I know it does. My saintly employer! He'll be awfully pleasedwith me if I can fasten this thing on him."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. It's a delicate situation. If I go to yourfather with my story, Frost will probably have some simpleexplanation that will make me look like a fool. It seems to me itwouldn't be a bad scheme if I put the matter up to Frost and lethim explain to me—if he can."

"Good-by job."

"Probably; but in the interests of justice—and there areother newspapers."

"Well, if you really think it's the best plan—"

"Maybe not, but I'm going to try it. I can't treat old Frostas a criminal, and shadow him. I don't really think he took thedollar anyhow. But I should like to know what he was doing inthat room. I'd better see if I can find him."

They rose.

"How thrilling!" Sally said. "We're in this together,remember. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Do you think I'll dofor Watson?"

"No, you're altogether too intelligent," Bill told her.

"Oh, Bill, do you think I've got brains? I love brains."

"And I love you. You—you really meant allthat—about marrying me? It doesn't seem possible."

"It's more than that; it's probable. Good night—and goodluck."

"This is my lucky night," he told her. And it was, for she wasin his arms.

His luck held even after he left her, for he found Henry Frostsitting alone over a highball in the smoking-room. His employerevinced no joy at seeing him, but Bill casually lighted a cigarand seated himself.

"Unusually smooth passage," he remarked.

"Smooth enough," said Mr. Frost.

"Awfully jolly cruise, it seems to me. Nothing to marit—except, of course, the disappearance of that dollar. Toobad about that."

"A great pity."

The old man drained his glass and seemed about to rise.

"Just a moment, Mr. Frost," Bill said. "You're an older manthan I am, and I'd like to ask your advice."

"Yes?"

"If any one of us has any evidence that might prove useful intracing the—er—thief, it should be passed on to ourhost. Don't you agree?"

"No question about it."

"I'm in a rather difficult position, sir. I happened to bestanding at my door just before dinner—the light was off atmy back—and I saw a man come out of Mr. Batchelor's cabinand go down the corridor to his own. His actions wererather—peculiar."

"Really?"

"Now what would you do in my position, sir?"

"I'd certainly tell Jim Batchelor all about it."

"But, Mr. Frost—you were the man."

Business rivals sometimes referred to Mr. Frost's countenanceas a great stone face. Not without reason, thought Bill as hisemployer sat grimly regarding him.

"How much," said Frost, "do they pay you at the office?"

Bill drew himself up.

"This is not a case of blackmail, sir," he said.

The old man's eyes flashed dangerously.

"Who said anything about blackmail? I was just going to addthat whatever you get you're overpaid, for you're the stupidestwhippersnapper I've ever met. Why should I take Jim Batchelor'sdollar?"

"I don't know, sir."

"No, nor does anybody else. I did go to his room, and Ifilched something from him; but it was nothing of importance.I'll explain it to you, though I don't know that I'm under anynecessity to do so. For years Jim and I have had an argumentabout valets. He claims I need one, and I claim I'm stillcompetent to dress myself. When I opened my bag to-night Idiscovered that I had foolishly come aboard without anycollars."

"No collars?" repeated Bill. Then millionaires had theirtroubles too.

"Precisely. I wasn't going to tell him—I never wouldhave heard the last of it. I knew we wore the same size shirts,so when he was in his bath I slipped in and annexed one of hiscollars. That explains what you saw, and you're at liberty to goto him with your story any time you like."

"You sound fishy, old boy," Bill thought. But then, so wouldhis tale about the shirt. "I'm not going to say anything to Mr.Batchelor," he announced. "Not for the present, at least."

"Just as you please." Frost stood up. "I'll bid you goodnight."

"One moment, sir. Should I go on with that interview withMikklesen? I mean—am I still working for you?"

For a long moment they stared into each other's eyes. It wasthe employer who first looked away.

"Ah, yes, the Mikklesen story. Go on with it by allmeans."

Bill smiled knowingly as he watched Henry Frost leave theroom.

"Who said anything about blackmail?" he murmured tohimself.

The decks of the Francesca were deserted as Billhurried to his stateroom. The little old berth looked good.Hastily he removed his coat, his collar, and then the ill-fittingshirt. Glad to get that off. Still, it had been better than none.He laid it down on the narrow settee that would have beenrequisitioned as a berth had the Francesca been sleepingher maximum fifteen. Uncle George's studs seemed to flash up athim reprovingly. A Hammond in a borrowed shirt!

"Get Tatu to return it in the morning," he thought. "I can buyanother in Monterey."

Once in the berth, he lay for a time reflecting on the greatevent of the evening. Sally loved him. It had seemed a dream tooremote to consider, yet here it was, coming true. Life wascertainly kind to him—all this happiness—obstacles inthe way, of course

Ho-hum. Must find that dollar. Who had it? Funny about oldFrost. Explanation didn't sound right somehow. Yet it might betrue. He himself had, at a vital moment, been minus a shirt. Oldboy might be absolutely on the level. How about theothers—Hill, O'Meara, Mrs. Keith? So many possibilities.Confusing—sure was confusing—possibilities Heslept.

He awoke with a start. It was still dark; he could seenothing; but he knew instinctively there was some one in theroom.

"Whoosh there?" he muttered, still half asleep.

A noise—the opening of a door. Bill leaped from theberth, snapped on the light and looked out into the corridor. Atthe far end of that dim passage he saw a dark figure mounting,two at a time, the stairs to the upper deck. He grabbed hisdressing gown, shuffled into his slippers and followed.

His pause to add a finishing touch to his attire was fatal tothe pursuit, for when he reached the saloon deck he appeared tobe alone in the world. He was fully awake now, but completely ata loss as to his course. He walked along the rail, uncertainly,toward the stern of the boat. Suddenly he stopped.

The sight that arrested him was not on the yacht, but on thecalm surface of the moonlit waters. There, floating rapidly awayfrom the Francesca on the wet Pacific, was a whiteshirt—a dress shirt. The thing was unbelievable, yet thereit was; and—did he imagine it?—were not those UncleGeorge's precious diamond studs sparkling in the bosom that layon the broader bosom of a very large ocean?

Farther and farther away drifted the shirt with Uncle George'slegacy aboard, and, fascinated, Bill moved along the rail, hiseyes glued upon it in fond farewell. A voice spoke suddenly andhis heart stood still.

"Hello! Out for a stroll?"

He turned. A dark figure was sitting in the lee of the diningsaloon, and the red light of a cigar burned steadily.

"That you, O'Meara?" Bill asked.

"Sure is. Lovely night, ain't it?"

"Have you been here long?"

"About an hour and a half. Seemed a pity to turn in a nightlike—"

"Never mind the night. Who was it ran up here just before Idid?"

"Who was what?"

"Somebody was in my cabin—I followed him up here."

"Say, Kid, you'd better take something for your nerves. You'rethe first human being I've seen for an hour and a half."

"Been here all that time, eh?" said Bill. "Yet that cigar'sjust been lighted."

"It happens to be my third," said O'Meara. "And if I was you,I wouldn't try the detective business. It ain't for kids. There'ssomething doing on this boat—we all know that. But I'm notin on it. I'm just on a little cruise for myhealth—see?

Just out to get a little peace and quiet after a busy week inthe city. And that's what I was gettin' until you dashed up likea wild man and made a nasty crack about my cigar."

"Oh, no offense," said Bill. "Only—"

"Only what?"

"I suppose you were so taken with the peace and quiet youmissed that other fellow completely."

"You go back to bed and rest them nerves."

"That's what I'm going to do," Bill answered, and lefthim.

He was, indeed, in a great hurry to return. He dashed into hisstateroom and looked anxiously about. It was as hefeared—the shirt was gone! And Uncle George's studs! Whatwould Aunt Ella say?

He sat down on the edge of his berth, trying to grasp thisweird turn of events. Somebody had taken a violent dislike to hishaving that shirt. Who? The owner probably. That was it, theowner had recognized his property at the time of the search, andnow But who was the owner? Well, he could find that out in themorning from Tatu.

He yawned. It was all very confusing. Why should thismysterious stranger come to claim his property in the silentnight? Why, having regained it, should he toss it on the chillPacific's bosom? Had all this any connection with Jim Batchelor'sdollar? Questions—questions. All very confusing. One thingwas certain—O'Meara had been lying. Bill yawned again; hisberth looked warm and inviting. He rose, turned out the light,left dressing gown and slippers in the middle of the floor, andwas soon deep in slumber.

* * * * *

BILL HAMMOND was awakened next morning by thenoise of Mikklesen singing in his bath. The Englishman had apretty fair voice, through which at the moment rang a note oftriumph natural to one who was securely locked in and had theplumbing all to himself.

The splash of water served as a merry accompaniment.

"The same old story," Bill muttered, "Britannia rules thewaves." He looked at his watch—eight-thirty—high timeto be up and doing.

If he knew Mikklesen, however, it would do him no good tohurry. He lay where he was, watching the fresh salt breezeflutter the curtain at his port-hole. Outside was a clean blueworld, an empty world. Restful, this cruising on one's yacht.

Something pleasant had happened—ah, yes, Sally. Sheloved him. Other things had happened, not so pleasant. That sillylittle dollar he had sworn to find. Might be more of a job thanit had looked last night in the moonlight with Sally by his side.Somebody had it; somebody who knew only too well its value andwas guarding it close against the time when it could be traded infor a goodly supply of its little playmates. Somebody—butwho?

He thought of Henry Frost, with his foolish story of a collarshortage. He thought of O'Meara, falsifying with the ease thatcomes from long practise, on the quiet deck at half-past one inthe morning. He thought of the man who had invaded his stateroom,fleeing with that dress shirt in his arms. But that was tooabsurd—he must have dreamed it.

He rose hastily and searched his cabin. No dress shirtthere—only the violent pink, purple and green. He had notdreamed it then. Uncle George's studs were floating far,journeying to some romantic port. A South Sea Islander, no doubt,would wear them next—in his ears, or maybe through hisnose. What would Aunt Ella say?

Aunt Ella's reactions, however, were unimportant just now. Hehad agreed to assume the role of detective and his course wasclear. He must discover the owner of that disappearing shirt.

He rang for Tatu and, while he waited, rattled at the doorleading to the bath. Not that he expected to gain anything by it,but it relieved his feelings.

Tatu entered, minus his accustomed smile. The boy was worried;there could be no mistake about that.

"Very much trouble to-day," he announced. "Dollar gone. AllJapanese boys catch hell. You want something, please?"

"How about taking back that shirt?" asked Bill, looking at himkeenly.

"Yes-s," said Tatu. All expression left his face.

"Are you ready to take it back?"

"Yes-s," said Tatu.

"Well, you can't. It was stolen from me in the night."

"Yes-s," said Tatu.

No surprise; no interest even. Did Tatu know all about theshirt, or was this just his Oriental stoicism going full tilt?Bill stared at him, and Tatu stared back. And the white man feltsuddenly hopeless, as though he had just sighted a stone walldead ahead.

"Look here, Tatu," he said, "this is very important. I want toknow where you got that shirt."

Tatu looked at the berth, at the bathroom door, through theport-hole, at the ceiling, then back to Bill. "Forget," hesaid.

"What? Say, don't try that on me!" Bill was annoyed. "Nowwe'll start all over again. Where did you get the shirt?"

"Forget," said Tatu.

A wonderful little people, the Japanese. Bill Hammond managedto control himself.

"You told me a minute ago you were ready to return it. Howcould you return it if you don't know where you got it?"

"Forget," said Tatu.

East is East, and West is West. They stood facing each other,the white man glaring, the Jap merely staring. Bill Hammondturned away. Never get anywhere by losing his temper. Patience,amiability might do the trick. Try them in a minute.

"Morning very nice," said Tatu. "Bathroom door lock? Toobad."

"All right, Tatu," said Bill. "You and I won't quarrel. Youhelped me out of a tight place last night and I appreciateit."

"Most welcome," Tatu assured him, busily brushing Bill'sdinner coat.

An idea flashed into Bill's mind.

"I tell you, that fix I was in was no joke. And I understand Iwasn't the only one in trouble. I hear that Mr. Frost came aboardwith no extra collars." He paused. Tatu brushed industriously."Yes, sir, I hear that when he came to dress he didn't have anymore collars than a bathing suit."

Tatu laid down the coat.

"Mr. Frost have plenty collar," he said.

"Oh, he did?" Bill sought to appear casual. "I guess I didn'tget it straight then. Well supplied with collars, was he?"

"Very big box. Maybe ten. Maybe twelve. Plenty."

"You don't tell me!"

"I lay him out. I know."

Bill turned away lest his face betray him. Here was news!Henry Frost's story disproved already. It certainly began to lookas though this Hammond boy was a born detective.

The ownership of the shirt was of no importance now.

"The morning is O.K., Tatu," he remarked, staring out theport-hole. "I'll back up all you said about it. When do we get toMonterey?"

"Maybe not go to Monterey," said Tatu. "Anything else,please?"

"Not go to Monterey? What are you talking about?"

"Things very bad this nice morning," answered Tatu. "Hear bellringing. Yes-s. Thank you." And he bowed out.

Bill turned again to the bathroom, silent now. He rattled theknob, called, but there was no answer. Donning dressing-gown andslippers he stepped out into the corridor, warm with honestanger. He knocked at Mikklesen's door.

The Englishman opened it, smiling sweetly.

"Ah, good morning," he said. "What can I do for you?"

Bill was proud of himself. A grand thing, self-control.

"I believe," he said, "that you and I are supposed to sharethat bathroom fifty-fifty."

"Certainly, old chap," agreed Mikklesen. "Any time you feelinclined."

The struggle this time was a bit more difficult, but againBill won.

"Then will you please unlock the door?" he said through histeeth.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Frightfully careless of me. Just a moment."And Mikklesen closed his door in Bill's face.

The reporter reentered his cabin and managed to spring intothe bath before Mikklesen had regained his own quarters.

"I'd like to see you to-day sometime," he said to theEnglishman.

"Really? I fancy we'll run into each other. Bound to on ayacht. I mean to say, rather close quarters."

"You never spoke a truer word. You know, I'm supposed to getan interview from you—for my paper."

"Fancy! You're a pressman then?"

"I work on a newspaper, if that's what you mean."

"Not really? It wouldn't be done in England, you know."

"What wouldn't be done?"

"I mean to say, inviting a pressman as a guest. Howextraordinarily—confusing!"

"Well, I'll give you time to get a grip on yourself before westart the interview," Bill answered. "And now, if you don't mind,even a pressman prefers to bathe in private."

"Oh, I'm going," said Mikklesen haughtily.

"It's a great idea," said Bill, and turned the lock onhim.

"Lovely lad," he muttered; "so frank and open."

But his resentment was short-lived, and by the time he hadfinished shaving he had decided that maybe he wouldn'texterminate Mikklesen, after all. Perhaps the fellow served someuseful purpose. Who could say? He whistled cheerfully as hedressed, though yesterday's shirt was nothing to whistle about.However, he had it on good authority that clothes don't make theman, and he sincerely trusted that all aboard had heard thatone.

In the dining saloon he found Mrs. Keith and O'Mearabreakfasting together. They appeared to be on excellent terms,and not particularly pleased at sight of Mr. Hammond's shiningmorning face.

"Good morning," said the reporter. "We seem to be ratherlate."

"Frightfully," admitted Mrs. Keith.

"Natural result of staying up half the night," went on Bill."Late hours make late breakfasts, eh, O'Meara?"

"Was Mr. O'Meara up late?" asked the woman.

"I ran into him on deck at one-thirty this morning," smiledBill.

"Yes, and it's lucky you did," growled the lawyer. He turnedto Mrs. Keith. "This kid had a funny dream about seeing somebodyin his stateroom," he explained. "I had a terrible time quietinghim and getting him back to bed."

Mrs. Keith smiled sweetly on Bill.

"So you have queer dreams," she cooed. "How thrilling! Youmust tell me all about them. By the way, I hope you play golf.I'm looking for some one to take me round the Del Monte linksthis morning."

"Look no further," Bill said. He was face to face with theCalifornian's big ordeal—the eating of a Californiagrapefruit.

"Oh, that's awfully good of you," Mrs. Keith smiled.

"I mean," Bill added hastily, "you're not going toMonterey."

"What's that?" O'Meara cried. "Where are we going?"

"Don't ask me," Bill answered. "All I know is, we'd have beenat Monterey long ago if that had been our destination."

"But—I thought it was all settled," O'Mearaobjected.

Julian Hill came in. He was fresh as the morning in linen sospotless Bill Hammond began to wonder where his stateroom was.O'Meara at once applied to him for information.

"It's quite true," said Hill. "We're not bound forMonterey—or any other port. We're just cruising."

"Just cruising?" O'Meara repeated.

"Just wandering about the ocean," Hill went on, "playing fortime."

"I don't get you," the politician said.

Hill smiled.

"You know Jim Batchelor as well as I do. He's lostsomething—something of great importance—to him. Andhe's not the sort of man to land his servants and crew—andhis guests—until he's been over each and every one with avacuum cleaner. Yes," added Mr. Hill, looking hard at O'Meara,"I'd advise the man who has that dollar to hand it over.Otherwise we may not get back to town this year."

O'Meara stood up.

"It's an outrage!" he cried. "Oh, of course I know howBatchelor feels. But this isn't fair to those of us who happennot to be—thieves." And he in turn looked hard at JulianHill. "I've got to be back in town by Monday morning," he added,and turned away.

"It's all very exciting, at any rate," purred Mrs. Keith. She,too, rose, and they went out together.

"It begins to look as though there might be an opening herefor a first-class detective," Bill Hammond ventured.

"Not at all," Hill answered coldly. "Mr. Batchelor is quitecompetent to manage his own affairs." The rest was silence.

His breakfast over, Bill went in search of Sally. He found herin the dazzling sunlight on the after deck, and not minding it,hers being that sort of complexion.

"Hello," he said. "This is a surprise!"

"What are you talking about?" she wanted to know.

"When I'm away from you, I keep thinking how lovely you are.Then I see you, and you're even lovelier than I thought. That'swhy I say—"

"Yes, but Bill, where in the world have you been?"

"Eating breakfast. Did you miss me?"

"I certainly did."

"Fine!"

"Are we in this detective business together, or are we not?I'm dying to know what you've found out."

"Oh! Well, I'm here to save your life."

He told her of his interview with Henry Frost and of his morerecent discovery regarding the collars. A puzzled little frownwrinkled her otherwise perfect brow.

"I can't understand it," she protested. "Henry Frost isfather's dearest friend."

"Always dangerous—dearest friends," Bill told her. "Howis your father, by the way?"

"Worried to death. He claims he didn't sleep a wink, and Ibelieve him. The first night without his lucky piece in thirty-seven years. I told him you were on the job, and all about thewonderful evidence you've run down in the course of newspaperwork. I was quite eloquent, really."

"Good! I hope you'll always be eloquent when discussingme."

"I always shall, I'm sure."

"You darling! Go on, expand that idea, please."

She seemed about to obey, but at that moment Jim Batchelorjoined them. He appeared nervous and upset.

"Good morning, Hammond," he said. "Sally's told me that you'rewilling to help in this unfortunate affair."

"Well, if it's not presumptuous of me—"

"Nonsense! You've had more experience in this sort of thingthan I have, and I'll be glad of your assistance.Besides"—he glanced about him—"it's rather a hardthing to say about one's guests; but—well, I trust you, myboy." The emphasis on the "you" was marked.

"That's very kind of you, sir. May I ask what steps you havetaken in the matter?"

"The servants and the crew have all been questioned. They'vebeen carefully searched, and their quarters too. I may say that Idon't suspect any of them. Some time during the day the guests'cabins and luggage will be—er—examined. I'mhospitality itself, but this is a vital business for me and I'llstop at nothing. I've also given orders to the captain not to putin anywhere. There are supplies and coal enough aboard to carryus for five days, and I'll stay out that long if I have to."

"It's a good idea, sir," Bill agreed.

"I've also just posted a notice on the board offering a rewardof three thousand dollars for the immediate return of my luckypiece, and no questions asked. 'Immediate' is the important wordthere. The money's yours if you run down the thief."

"Oh, but I wouldn't take your—money, sir," Bill said.The emphasis on the "money" was not so marked as he hadintended.

"Rot! Why not? I'd be getting off cheaply at that. Threethousand is a small price to pay for the peace of mind the returnof that dollar would bring me. My boy, I'll never know a happymoment until I get it back."

"Bill, why don't you tell him?" Sally suggested.

"Tell me what?" Jim Batchelor asked quickly.

"Bill's unearthed the most amazing things, Dad. You'll neverbelieve—"

"Good lord, why keep me in the dark?" He was all excitement."What's up?"

"If you don't mind, sir," Bill said, "I'd like just a momentmore before I let you in on it. You see—"

"A moment? Well, well—if you say so. But only a moment.My boy, don't keep me waiting."

"I'll make it snappy, sir," said Bill, and hurried off.

Tatu, making up the berth in Henry Frost's cabin, informed himthat the millionaire had slept late and was now at breakfast.

Bill looked round inquiringly.

"How about the collars, Tatu?" he said.

"Him lock collars in suitcase," Tatu explained. "Put key inpocket."

Smiling to himself, Bill went to the dining saloon, where hisemployer sat alone at his breakfast.

"Good morning, sir," said Bill.

"Good morning. You breakfast late." Frost's tone implied thatit was a bad sign.

"I've had my breakfast, Mr. Frost. I want to speak to you, ifyou don't mind."

"And if I do mind?"

"I'd have to speak anyhow," said Bill firmly. Henry Frostlooked up sourly from his grapefruit.

"I'll say this for you: You're the most offensive man on mypay-roll."

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm only trying to do the right thing."

"People who are only trying to do the right thing generallymake fools of themselves. What is it now?"

"Last night I told you I didn't intend to go to Mr. Batchelorwith certain information I had picked up. I've been forced tochange my mind."

"Really? What forced you?"

"That story of yours about the collars. I've found out itwasn't true."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, sir. You say you went to Jim Batchelor's room for acollar. I say that's a typographical error. You went there for adollar."

Henry Frost rose and tossed down his napkin.

"Will you come with me?" he said.

"Certainly, sir." Bill followed his employer on deck. "This isall very painful for me, Mr. Frost."

"Yes, more so than you think. Do you happen to know where JimBatchelor is?"

"He's on the after deck."

Henry Frost turned in that direction.

"Regarding that interview with Mikklesen, you needn't trouble.You're not on the paper any more."

"Just as you say, sir," Bill replied smilingly.

But his heart sank. In love and out of work—a greatcombination.

Jim Batchelor was waiting with Sally on the spot where Billhad left them. He looked up eagerly as the two menapproached.

"Jim, I've got something to say to you," began Frost.

"All right. What is it?"

"This young idiot thinks I took your dollar."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Batchelor, disappointed in Bill. "I knowyou wouldn't take it."

"Well," continued Mr. Frost, "I—I " His face turnedscarlet. "As a matter of fact, Jim—I did."

Jim Batchelor leaped from his chair.

"What's that? Say that again!"

"Now, Jim, don't get excited. I give you my word, it was all ajoke."

"A joke! You old simpleton! Getting funny at your age! Well,hand it over!"

"I want you to understand how it was," Frost continued.

"I was determined to take you out and trim you at golf today.Last night somebody happened to say something about your losingthat dollar, and it came over me all at once that if you didyou'd be so upset you'd be easy picking on the links. So just forfun, Jim—that was all—I slipped into your room andsubstituted that other dollar."

"You're a criminal at heart, Henry. I always knew it. Butwhere in Sam Hill—"

"Of course I never dreamed you'd take it so seriously. And Iwant to talk to you about that. Really, Jim, that dollar's becomean obsession with you. No man ought to build his whole life on athing like that. It's wrong—all wrong. Let this be a lessonto you."

"Will you cut out the sermon and produce my dollar?"

"I'll get it. It's in my room. There's no hard feelings,Jim—"

"There will be if you don't shut up and get that dollar."

Frost departed. Jim Batchelor stalked the deck. He was mad andhe showed it, for no one had told him repression was thefashion.

"The old idiot!" he stormed. "What's got into him? Secondchildhood, I call it. A joke! You heard him—he said it wasa joke!"

"Never mind, Dad, it's all right now," said Sally soothingly."And you must remember, it was Bill here solved the mystery."

"Mighty clever of him too. I'll write him a check in aminute."

"Oh, I couldn't allow that, sir," Bill protested. "Not underthe circ*mstances."

"Rot! Just as serious as a real theft. And for thatmatter—who knows? The old fox! I never did trust him."

"Dad! Your best friend!" Sally was shocked.

"Well, how do I know what he's up to?"

At that moment Mr. Frost reappeared. For once his famous pokerface failed him. It registered emotion.

"Jim," he said, "I feel like a fool."

"You're certainly acting like one. Where's my dollar?"

Frost slowly extended his bony hand. Eagerly Jim Batchelorreached out a hand to receive. Into it Henry Frost dropped a bitof paper, a greenback, the promise of the United StatesGovernment to pay one dollar on demand.

"What the devil's this?" roared Batchelor.

"I found it in the place where I'd hidden your dollar, Jim,"said Henry Frost humbly.

Jim Batchelor did not speak. He cast the paper dollar to thedeck. His face purpled, so that Bill Hammond wondered what onedid first in case of apoplexy.

"What can I say, Jim?" Frost pleaded. "I wouldn't have hadthis happen for a cool million."

"Apologies!" gurgled Batchelor. "Regrets! What do I care forthem? I want my dollar!"

"It was all a joke," said Frost—an unfortunateremark.

"Yeah, a joke! Ha-ha! Fine joke! Somebody else thought so too.Somebody decided to steal your stuff. And now where are we? Justwhere we started!"

"With this difference," said Frost. "I'm in on this now. Youand I will run the thief down together. I've something at stake,too, and my first move will be to add another couple of thousandto that reward you offered."

"A lot of good that will do," shrugged Batchelor. "If threethousand wouldn't bring it, five won't either. I tell you, we'reup against it." He turned suddenly to Bill. "You—youhaven't any other clue, have you?" he asked. The trustful note inhis voice was pathetic. It made two young people very happy.

"Well, I have one," Bill admitted.

"You have?" Batchelor brightened at once.

"Yes; it may not be very important. But I'll work on it. I'dlike your permission to do whatever I think necessary—toinvade other people's staterooms if I think best."

"You go as far as you like." Batchelor turned to Frost. "Thisboy's promised to help me."

"Oh, he's a wonder!" sneered Frost.

"You bet he is," Batchelor answered. "He ran you down inrecord time, and I'll back him to get the other thief."

"Dad!" Sally reproved.

"All right, Jim," said Frost. "I've got it coming to me."

"I'll say you have!"

Bill bent over and picked up the greenback from the deck.

"I'll take charge of this, if you don't mind. And by the way,Mr. Frost, did anybody else aboard know you took thatdollar?"

"Yes—come to think of it," said Frost. "It seemed best,in case my motives should be misunderstood, to let a second partyin on the—er—the joke. So I told Julian Hill."

"When did you tell him?"

"Last evening—before I took it. And afterward Imentioned to him that I had it in my stateroom."

In the silence that followed, Bill had a vision of the nightbefore—two tables of bridge, with Julian Hill wanderingalone somewhere outside.

"By the way," said Batchelor, "this may not mean anything; butI heard this morning that Mrs. Keith lunched last Wednesday atthe Palace with Norman Blake. The Blakes are old rivals of mine,"he explained to Bill, "and they've never made any secret of theirinterest in that dollar."

"And who told you about Mrs. Keith, sir?"

"Julian Hill."

"Ah, yes," Bill smiled. "Well, I'll do my best."

"I'm sure you will, my boy," said Batchelor. "Don't forget,there's five thousand in it for you now."

"I hope there's more than that," thought Bill. "Yes, sir," waswhat he said. He smiled at Sally and moved away. Frost calledafter him.

"By the way, Hammond," he said, "if you get the time you'dbetter do that Mikklesen story. Simon Porter will be expectingit."

"Thank you, sir," Bill answered. Sally joined him and theywent forward along the rail.

"What did he mean, Bill?" she asked.

"Oh, he was just handing me back my job. You see, he fired mea little while ago. Now he loves me again. And speaking of that,where do you stand this morning?"

"Just where I stood last night," she told him.

"The day of miracles arrived last night," he said. "You cansit down now, my dear—if you'll tell me all about it."

"All about what?" They found a couple of deck chairs.

"All about how you—like me pretty well."

"Never mind that. You tell me. You love me, don't you,Bill?"

"Sally, words can't put it over! I gave 'em a chance lastnight, and they fell down on the job."

"When did you start, Bill—being fond, I mean?"

"That day when you were helping the orphans. The moment I sawyou—honest, Sally, I loved you on the spot. And for tenminutes I madly worshiped you. Then somebody told me your name.So I went away and never loved you again."

"Bill!"

"Well, that was the idea. Only it didn't work out verywell."

"I'm glad it didn't. But business before pleasure, Bill.What's your other clue?"

His bright look faded.

"It isn't any good," he said. "I thought for a minute theremight be something in it. I see now I was wrong."

"But what is it, Bill?"

"It's a shirt."

"A shirt?"

"Yes, we've run the collars to earth, and now we'll get busyon the shirt. I tell you, Sally, this is beginning to look to melike the annual outing of the Laundrymen's BenevolentSociety."

"You interest me strangely. What's it all about?"

He told her. The misadventure in the steamy laundry ofHonolulu Sam, his agony when he found himself shirtless, Tatu'sprompt rescue, the theft in the night, the Jap's reticence on themorning after—all these he detailed at length.

"The trouble with the detective game," said Sally, when he hadfinished, "is that it's so full of mystery. Whose shirt do youimagine that was?"

"Well, there's Julian Hill. He appears to have an extensivewardrobe."

"Bill, you don't think that Julian—"

"I don't know—just a guess. My job now is to get hold ofTatu and pry the information out of him."

"Japs are difficult," said Sally.

"You bet they are, and this boy is Gibraltar's little brother.But I'll make him come across."

"I'm sure you will."

"I'll get the facts out of him if I have to strangle him,"Bill told her, "just to prove to you how tenderly I loveyou."

* * * * *

BUT Bill Hammond's optimistic prediction failedto come true. He did not get the facts from Tatu. After fifteenminutes of the third degree, the little Jap still stood as firmas Gibraltar—or maybe firmer. Bill cajoled, pleaded,threatened. Tatu looked at him with all the calm mystery of theOrient in his eyes, and suavely protested that he had forgottenjust where he acquired that shirt. The luncheon bugle came as amerciful interruption.

"All right, go along," said Bill. His efforts had wilted him."But I'm not through with you, my lad."

"Yes-s, thank you," answered Tatu, and had the audacity tosmile as he went out.

Near the door of the dining saloon Sally was eagerlywaiting.

"Well?" she asked.

"Salute your hero," said Bill. "He's just been licked by aJap."

"Tatu wouldn't tell you?"

"Adamant, that boy. He's never heard the word, but he can actit out."

"Why not set Father on him?"

"No," protested Bill, "let's keep Father out of it. I've gotto pull this off alone. You know why."

"But what are you going to do?"

"Just what a regular detective would do," he told her. "Waitfor a lucky break."

"Is that the way they work?" she asked, unbelieving. She wasall for action—her father's daughter.

"It certainly is," said Bill. "I read an interview once with agreat French detective. I didn't pay much attention to it at thetime, as I didn't know then that I was going into the business.But I remember one thing—he said that the detective's chiefally was luck."

"But suppose you're not lucky?"

"Something that happened last night," smiled Bill, "proved I'mthe luckiest man in the world."

Jim Batchelor came up.

"What's doing?" he whispered hoarsely.

"I'm working." Bill tried to make it sound businesslike.

"Results—that's what we want," Batchelor remindedhim.

"You bet we do," said Bill, and they went in to lunch.

At the table there was little of the cheery animation of thenight before. The guests ate in preoccupied silence, and JimBatchelor's intimation that they might wander about the Pacificfor several days added nothing to the general gayety.

After lunch, Bill Hammond saw Mikklesen enter the smoking-room, and followed. He sat down opposite the Englishman andoffered him a cigar.

Mikklesen took it suspiciously and lighted it in the samespirit. Although it was a perfectly good cigar, his subsequentexpression seemed to indicate that his worst fears wererealized.

"If you've no objection," Bill said, "we might as well getthat interview over with."

"As you wish," Mikklesen agreed. "Where's your notebook?"

"My what? Say, listen, it's only in plays that reporters carrythose things."

"But I shouldn't care to be misquoted," the Englishmanobjected.

"Not a chance. I've got a mind like a phonograph record."

"Ah—er—what shall I talk about?" Mikklesenasked.

"Give me something snappy," Bill suggested. "Something theycan hang a headline on."

"Oh, but that's hardly my style. Very bad taste,sensationalism. We have practically none of it at home. If youdon't mind, I'd like to talk about the Chinese. A reallyadmirable people, old chap."

"You think so?" asked Bill Hammond, without enthusiasm.

"I know it. I had charge of a copper mine in one of thenorthern provinces, and I found the Chinese absolutely reliable.If they promised a thing, they did it."

"I heard different," Bill said. "But go on, this is yourstory."

Mikklesen told his story. Beyond question he had the gift ofspeech, and Bill Hammond reflected as he listened that he wasgetting something. By an adroit question now and then, he led thetalker on. Some ten minutes had passed, when suddenly the secondofficer of the Francesca, who had charge of the yacht'swireless, entered.

"Mr. Hammond," he said, "a message for you."

"Oh, thanks," said Bill. The officer handed it over anddeparted. "Pardon me just a second."

"Certainly," agreed Mikklesen.

Bill opened the folded paper and read what the second officerhad set down. As he read, he smiled happily to himself. Themessage was from Simon Porter.

"Never mind interview," Simon wirelessed. "Have investigatedby cable. A little black sheep who's gone astray. Kicked out ofthe English colony in Yokohama because they didn't like hisshirts."

His shirts! Oh, lady luck!

"Anything important?" inquired Mikklesen.

"Not at all," said Bill. "Go on, please. You weresaying—"

Mikklesen went on, but Bill no longer listened. The interviewwas cold, but the quest of the dollar was warming up. His shirts!They didn't like his shirts. Well, that might mean much orlittle; but Mikklesen's shirts certainly must be looked into.

"I fancy that's about all I can give you," said the Englishmanfinally.

"That's plenty," Bill answered heartily. He stood up. "Youknow, considering how fond you are of the Orient, I'm surprisedyou came away."

Mikklesen regarded him with a sudden interest.

"Pater's getting old," he explained. "Cabled me to come home.Couldn't very well refuse—family ties and all that. Butsooner or later I shall return to the East."

"I'm sure you will," said Bill. "Thanks ever so much."

Eagerly he hurried below. Things were certainly lookingbrighter. Midway down the passageway he encountered Tatu.

"I want you," he cried, and seizing the Jap by the armescorted him energetically into the cabin.

"What now, please?" inquired Tatu.

Bill pointed an accusing finger.

"That was Mikklesen's shirt," he announced.

"Somebody tell," said Tatu, with obvious relief.

"Yes, somebody's told. That lets you out. Now come across withthe whole story."

"Nothing to say," Tatu replied. "I see he have two shirt. Youhave no shirt. I hear him talk unkind remarks about Japanesepeople. I take a shirt. Why not?"

"It was a noble impulse. But why the dickens wouldn't you tellme this before?"

"Last night, maybe twelve o'clock, Mr. Mikklesen ring," Tatuexplained. "Tell me I take shirt, give to you. I say no, indeed.He say very well, but will give me fifty dollar I not tell to youwhose shirt you have. I accept with pleasure." His face clouded."Japanese boy lose fifty dollar," he added.

"Has he given it to you?"

"Give one dollar for a beginning. Very small beginning."

Bill's eyes narrowed.

"Let me see the dollar," he demanded. Tatu handed over a crispnew greenback. "You're sure this is the one?"

"Yes-s. Only dollar in pocket," said the Jap.

Bill took out a silver dollar, glanced at it and handed it toTatu.

"I'll trade with you, if you don't mind. Now listen, my lad!From now on you and I are friends."

"Yes-s. Very nice," agreed Tatu.

"You stick to me. I'm helping Mr. Batchelor—he's askedme to. No more secrets with Mikklesen. Otherwise trouble foryou—much trouble."

"I know."

"The first thing in order is an examination of Mikklesen's oneremaining shirt."

"Can't do," Tatu said. "Shirt locked up."

"I suppose so," Bill replied. "However, I'm going to take alook. Go and see if there's any one in Mikklesen's cabin."

Tatu departed through the bath. In a second he was back.

"Empty," he announced.

"Fine," said Bill. He stationed Tatu in the corridor withorders to signal if the Englishman appeared. Then, with the bathoffering a way of escape, he examined the room with care. ButMikklesen had left no dress shirt where eager hands could findit. Undoubtedly it was in the one piece of luggage that wassecurely locked—a huge, battered bag that had a Londonlock.

"Nothing doing," said Bill finally. He returned to his owncabin, followed by Tatu.

"You want bag open?" inquired Tatu.

"It would be a good idea," Bill admitted.

"Maybe dollar inside," suggested the boy.

"I don't know. It might be."

"Pretty strong lock," mused Tatu.

"Oh, so you noticed that?" Bill stared at the impassive face."Well," he continued, thinking aloud, "my chance will come. It'sbound to. Mikklesen's got to wear that shirt tonight, and perhapsOh, good lord!"

"Yes-s," said Tatu.

"Look here, my boy, what do I wear to-night? I'm worse offthan I was last night. I haven't even got any studs."

"Excuse, please. Hear bell ringing," lied Tatu, and departedin great haste.

Bill Hammond sat down on his berth to consider developments.So it was Mikklesen's shirt he had worn so jauntily the eveningbefore. Then it must have been Mikklesen who came in the night toreclaim his property. Knowing himself closely pursued, he had notdared turn into his own cabin, once he reached the corridor, andfor the same reason he had thrown the shirt overboard. But whyall this fuss about a dress shirt? And how, Bill asked himself,was it connected with Jim Batchelor's dollar, as he was sure nowit must be. Well, detectives certainly earned their pay.

Bill left the cabin and returned to the upper deck. TheFrancesca appeared to be deserted.

He dropped into a chair that stood invitingly in a shady spotand began to consider his problem. Must get into that bag ofMikklesen's. But how?

Heavy footsteps sounded on the deck and O'Meara passed by. Hedid not speak or turn his head. He appeared worried. Bill Hammondbegan to worry too. Was he wasting time on a false trail?O'Meara, Julian Hill, Mrs. Keith—all possibilities. Oughtto be looking them up a bit too.

But no. For the present he would follow that shirt—seewhere it led. He'd get into Mikklesen's bag. How would a regulardetective go about it? Break open the lock perhaps? No, toocrude. Find out where Mikklesen kept his keys? Much better. Findout—how?

It was a rather drowsy afternoon, and a full twenty minutespassed before Bill had an idea. He rose at once to try it out.When he reached the door of the smoking-room Mikklesen was justleaving.

"Hello," Bill said. "I've been thinking about that story ofours. We really need a few photographs to dress it up."

"Oh, no, old chap," said Mikklesen hastily. "I shouldn't carefor that at all."

"I don't mean pictures of you," Bill explained. "Just somesnapshots taken in the Orient. You surely have some ofthose."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I have," admitted Mikklesen. "I'llgive them to you later."

"But if you don't mind"—Bill summoned his most winningsmile—"I'm at work on the story now."

For a moment Mikklesen stood regarding him.

"Oh, very well," he said, "come along."

He led the way below and Bill followed close, determined tomiss nothing now. When they reached the Englishman's cabinMikklesen took a bunch of keys from his pocket. Bill Hammondtried not to look too interested.

"I keep my bag locked," Mikklesen explained. "Thingsdisappearing right and left, you know."

"It's the only safe thing to do," Bill agreed.

The Englishman bent over his bag.

"Look there!" he cried.

Bill looked. The lock on Mikklesen's bag had been smashed tobits.

"How beastly annoying!" The Englishman's face was crimson withanger. "This is too much, really it is. I understood I was to goon a cruise with gentlefolk, not with a band of thieves." He washurriedly investigating the contents of the bag.

"Anything missing?" Bill asked.

"There doesn't appear to be," said Mikklesen, cooling off abit. "But whether there is or not, I shall certainly complain toour host." He took out an envelope and glanced into it. "Thephotos, old chap. Pick out what you want and return me the rest,if you will."

"Surely," Bill agreed. He waited hopefully. "If you'd like meto stay here and keep an eye on things while you look up Mr.Batchelor—"

Mikklesen stared at him. Did he imagine it, or was that theghost of a smile about the Englishman's lips?

"Thank you so much," he said. "But I shall ask Mr. Batchelorto come to me here. I shan't leave my cabin again thisafternoon—if you're interested."

If you're interested! Now what did he mean by that? Did heknow that Bill was on to him, or was it a shot in the dark?

"Oh—er—of course " said Bill lamely, anddeparted.

Back in his own room, Bill tried to think things out. What did"if you're interested" mean? And who had broken the lock on thatbag? Evidently Mikklesen wasn't the only shady characteraboard.

He took out a book and settled down in his berth to read, hisear attuned to eventualities in the next cabin. Would Mikklesenkeep his word and remain on guard by his mysterious shirt? Anhour passed, and it began to appear that such was theEnglishman's intention.

It was, as has been noted, a drowsy afternoon. Bill droppedhis book and lay back on the pillow. Ah, this was the life! Noharsh call from his city editor or from Simon Porter sending himforth for a bit of leg work on the hard pavements. No feverishhurry to make the last edition. Nothing but the soft swish ofwater, the thump of the engines—sounds that suggestedslumber. Bill accepted the suggestion.

He was awakened some time later by a sharp knock on his door.Leaping up, he opened it. A servant stood outside.

"Mr. Hammond, you're wanted above, sir."

Wanted! What now? Some new development in the matter of thedollar, no doubt. He hastily brushed his hair and went to theupper deck. At the top of the companionway he encountered AuntDora, looking extremely competent.

"Ah, Mr. Hammond," she said, "I hope I haven't disturbed you.We've a table for bridge and we lack a fourth."

Trapped! Bill looked wildly to the right and left.

"I—I thought it was something important," hestammered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean—you don't want me. I'm a terrible player. Youhave reason to know."

"Practise makes perfect. I'll give you a few pointers."

"It's awfully good of you, but—I'm very busyand—my eyes aren't in very good shape."

"I noticed your failing eyesight," she answered, "last nightwhen you trumped my ace of spades. However, we'll put the tablein a strong light. Come along."

"I—I'll be very happy to," said Bill, surrendering.

Aunt Dora didn't care whether he was happy or not. She hadhim. He wasn't her ideal bridge player, but he was all she couldget. And as Bill followed her into the main saloon he prayed tosee Sally there.

But he didn't. Julian Hill and Henry Frost sat glumly at atable, their manner that of captive slaves on Caesar's chariotwheels. Aunt Dora sat down and the big game was on. It proved along and painful session. At the close of each hand Aunt Dorahalted the proceedings while she delved into the immediate past,pointing out to one and all the error of their ways. Bill got alot of undesirable publicity out of these little talks.

The dinner hour was not far away when Sally came in andreleased him. When they left the saloon Aunt Dora was goingstrong. Mr. William Hammond, it seemed, had done something forwhich he should have been drawn and quartered.

"She'll never forgive me," said Bill. "I got her signalsmixed."

"I'm afraid she's rather tiresome at times," Sally smiled.

"Well, she will insist on crossing her bridge after she's gotwell over it. There are people like that."

"You were good to play, Bill," Sally said.

"Yes, but I didn't play so good, and I wasted a lot of timewhen I should have been sleuthing."

"Has anything happened?" she inquired.

"I should say it has. It was a big afternoon up to the momentI met your aunt." He told her of Simon's message and the accidentto Mikklesen's bag. "Things are moving," he added.

"They seem to be," she admitted. "What are you going to donow?"

"Ah—er—something very bright, you may be sure. I'mkeen eyed and alert. My brain is hitting on all twelve."

"Yes, but what are you going to do?"

"My dear, don't be so literal. Can it be you don't trustme?"

"Oh, I know you're simply wonderful. Only—"

"Never mind the only. We're on the verge of big things. Watchand wait!"

His manner was confident, but by the time he had reached hiscabin his confidence had begun to wane. He stood for a momentwondering just what his preparations for dinner were to be. Noevening clothes to-night, that was certain. He would have to makesome sort of apology to Jim Batchelor and let it go at that. Atany rate, he had appeared properly clad the night before, and theother guests could draw their own conclusions regarding hisappearance to-night.

He tried the door into the bath—locked of course. Herattled and called—there was no sound within. Have to goand open the door again. As he paused outside Mikklesen's cabinsomething told him not to knock. He entered very quietly.

The cabin was empty and in semi-darkness. He moved fartherinto the room—and his heart stood still. A white blur inthe dusk—Mikklesen's dress shirt! It was lying on thesettee under the port-hole, within easy reach. He put his handdown and touched it, and as he did so a faint sound in the bathstartled him. He drew his hand back from the shirt, but in thatbrief second he had made an interesting discovery. Mikklesenappeared in the bathroom door.

"Good lord!" he cried. "You gave me a shock! What are youdoing here? Confound it all, is there no privacy aboard thisyacht?"

"I'm sorry," said Bill. "I didn't know you were in the bath,and I was coming through to unlock it. I thought you'd gone offand left it that way—it wouldn't be the first time, youknow."

"Well, I happen to be using it," said Mikklesen testily, andthe fact that half his face was lathered and he carried a razorseemed to bear him out. "In the future, I'll thank you to knockbefore entering my cabin."

Bill considered. He had Mikklesen where he wanted him, but hissense of the dramatic told him to bide his time. Better anunmasking in Jim Batchelor's presence than a scene with only twopeople in a half-dark cabin.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "Sorry I disturbed you."

"It's rather upsetting," complained Mikklesen. "First my bagbroken into, and then you popping up like a ghost." He followedBill to the door and shut it after him in a manner suggestingextreme annoyance.

Out in the corridor, Bill gave himself up to a moment ofunalloyed joy. It was almost too good to be true. Too easy. Abright lad, this Mikklesen; but not too bright for young Mr.Hammond, the peerless detective. For Bill knew where the dollarwas now!

He must have a word with Jim Batchelor before he staged hisbig scene. He tiptoed down the passage and knocked at themillionaire's door. Batchelor called an invitation to enter, andwhen he did so he was glad to find that Sally also was in theroom. She was tying Batchelor's dress tie, for she was a faithfuldaughter and didn't like Tatu's work as a valet. Her father brokefrom her ministrations at sight of Bill.

"Something doing?" he inquired, with pathetic eagerness.

"I'll say there is," replied Mr. Hammond cheerily.

"You've got it?"

"I've got it located—same thing."

"Not quite." Batchelor's happy look faded. "However, where isit?"

"That'll be revealed at the proper moment," Bill told him. "Ijust dropped in to lay my wires for a little scene after dinnerto-night. Sally, I'm glad you're here. After the coffee you're totake your aunt and Mrs. Keith from the dining saloon and leave usmen alone."

"What—and miss the excitement? Not much!"

"Sally, you heard what Mr. Hammond said," reproved her father."Obey."

"But, Dad—"

"Sally!"

"Oh, well, if you think Mr. Hammond knows best," smiledSally.

"I'm sure he does."

"I'm sorry, Sally," Bill said. "But the subsequent events willbe such that I don't think it the place for the so-called weakersex. Mr. Batchelor, I want you to back me up from that point on.Anything I say—and anything I propose to do."

"Of course. But you might give me a little hint—"

"I will, sir." He handed over Simon Porter's wireless message."Read that, please."

Batchelor read.

"Who's he talking about? Not—Mikklesen!"

"Yes, sir, Mikklesen."

"Good lord! I never thought of him. What about hisshirts?"

"You wouldn't believe if I told you, sir. I'll show you afterdinner."

"Fine!" Batchelor's spirits rose. "I'll be mighty glad to getthis thing solved to-night. The captain's just told me there'ssomething wrong with the engines, and we're circling back toMonterey." He submitted while Sally put the finishing touch onhis tie. "By the way, Mikklesen called me into his stateroom thisafternoon and put up a terrible howl because his bag had beenbroken into. I was very sympathetic, I didn't tell him thecaptain was the guilty party."

"Oh, the captain broke that lock."

"Yes; pretty crude work. He swore he could pick it open with ajack-knife, but his hand slipped and he ended by smashing it. Ididn't approve of his going quite that far."

"Did he find anything?" asked Bill.

"Nothing. He went over the thing carefully—so heclaims."

"He didn't have the combination," smiled Bill. "By the way,sir, I shan't be able to dress for dinner to-night. I'll come asa plain-clothes man, if you don't mind."

"Come in your pajamas if you want to," said Batchelor. "Onlyget me that dollar."

"I'll get it," Bill assured him. As he left the cabin hesmiled triumphantly at Sally and Sally smiled back.

The conquering hero—that was how he felt.

* * * * *

A TENSE air hung about the dinner table thatevening, as though all present knew that some importantdevelopment in the dollar chase was close at hand. Only one guestwas entirely at ease—Mikklesen. He resumed his tale of farcorners and strange adventures, and once more Bill Hammond had toadmit that the boy was good.

When the women had left the saloon a pointed silence fell. JimBatchelor sat for a moment staring at the end of his cigar.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I know you'll pardon my mentioningagain the matter of the missing dollar, for I'm sure you're allas interested as I am to see the property recovered. Mr. Hammondhas been making an investigation, at my request, and I understandhe has something to report."

They turned with interest to Mr. Hammond. Bill smiled cheerilyabout the circle.

"We've made several discoveries," he began. "For instance, weknow that the dollar was taken from Mr. Batchelor in the firstplace as a rather ill-advised joke." Frost squirmed in his chair,but Bill mentioned no names. He told how the unfortunatejokester, on seeking to return the dollar to its owner, had foundin the hiding place a greenback of equal value. He took the bank-note from his pocket.

"This is a brand-new note," he said, "and its serial number is2B7654328B. Some of you may have noticed that when you are paidmoney by a bank, and receive new bills, the serial numbers followin perfect sequence." He removed another bill from his pocket. "Ihave here," he added, "another new dollar note, and the serialnumber is 2B7654329B. Is it too much to suppose that the twonotes came from the same pocket?"

"Good work!" remarked Batchelor, beaming. "Where'd you getthat other one?"

"The second note," Bill explained, "was given to Tatu, thevalet, in return for some trifling service. It was given to himby one of you gentlemen here present." He paused. No one spoke."It was given him by Mr. Mikklesen," Bill added.

They all turned and looked at the Englishman. His nonchalancewas admirable.

"That may be true," he smiled. "I may have given the Jap thatnote—I don't recall. What of it?"

"Pretty flimsy, if you ask me," said O'Meara. "I'm a lawyerand I want to tell you, young man—"

"Just a moment, Mr. O'Meara," Bill smiled. "We don't need alawyer just yet. I recognize that this evidence is ratherinconclusive. I mentioned it merely because it makes a goodprelude to what will follow. The close relationship of thesenotes points to Mikklesen. Other things point to Mikklesen. Ipoint to Mikklesen. I ask him to stand up and besearched—that is, of course, if Mr. Batchelor has noobjection."

Batchelor nodded. "Go to it," he said heartily.

"Fine!" Bill said. "Now, Mr. Mikklesen, if you'll be sogood—"

Mikklesen flushed.

"This is an insult," he protested. "Mr. Batchelor, I appeal toyou. The simplest laws of hospitality—"

"You've abused my hospitality, sir," said Batchelor. "I knowall about you. Stand up!"

Slowly the Englishman got to his feet.

"The coat and waistcoat, please," Bill Hammond ordered."Thanks. Now the collar and the tie. I'll help you, if you don'tmind." He rapidly unfastened the studs in Mikklesen's gleamingbosom. "Our friend here," he explained, "has made a close studyof his profession. He has perfected the Mikklesen shirt, forwhich he was famous in the Orient. The bosom is unusually stiff;it holds its shape well. And at the bottom, on the left side, anextra strip of linen makes a convenient pocket. You wouldn'tnotice it if the shirt were freshly laundered—Ididn't"—he smiled at Mikklesen—"but after prying itopen you have a handy receptacle for carrying slenderbooty—bank-notes, or even a silver dollar. And the lootdoesn't show, particularly if you are built concavely, as isyoung Raffles here." Bill removed from the bosom of the shirt asilver dollar and tossed it down before Jim Batchelor. His heartwas thumping; this was his big hour. "Your lucky piece, Ibelieve, sir," he said.

Batchelor's eyes shone.

"My boy, how can I ever thank you " he began. With tremblinghand he picked up the dollar. A hoarse cry of rage escaped him.He threw the dollar back on to the table and got to his feet."Damn it," he cried, "how long is this thing going to keepup?"

"Wha-what thing, sir?" asked Bill, his triumph fading.

"That," roared Batchelor, "is not my dollar! It was coined inthe year 1899."

"Good lord!" cried Bill; and glancing at Mikklesen, he saw onthat gentleman's face a look of undisguised surprise.

The saloon was in an uproar, everybody talking at once. Butabove the clamor Batchelor's voice rang out. He was facing Bill,and he was talking to Bill.

"You a detective! You're a defective, that's what ails you!You get my hopes way up, and thenyou—you—you—"

"Well, I'm sorry, sir," said poor Bill. He was a bitdazed.

"Sorry! What kind of talk is that? Sorry! I could—I'dlike to—I tell you this, you unearth any more dollars forme, and I'll skin you alive!" He turned to Mikklesen, who wastying his necktie as best he could without a mirror. "And you,sir! What have you to say? What explanation have you to offer?Honest men don't go about with trick shirts. I know yourreputation in the Orient. How came that dollar where it was?"

"I'm afraid I've been done, sir," said Mikklesen suavely,putting on his coat.

"Done? How so?"

"Under the circ*mstances, I can't do better than tell you thetruth. If you will pause to consider, there has been no realtheft. In each case, nothing but substitution—one dollarfor another. The value of your lucky piece is purely sentimental.Remember that, if you will."

"Go on," said Batchelor.

"I went to your cabin last night to get that dollar. I'm a bitof a jokester myself. I heard Mr. Frost at the door and had justtime to reach the closet. From there I watched him make thesubstitution. I followed him, and when he left his cabin to go todinner, I slipped in. After locating your dollar, I made a littlesubstitution of my own. I had your dollar last night, I had itthis morning—right where our young friend here found thisother one. I put the shirt with the dollar in it in my bag andsecurely fastened the lock. Mr. Hammond here will bear me outwhen I say that some time in the early afternoon the lock of mybag was broken. That must have been when the dollars wereexchanged."

"Nonsense!" answered Batchelor. "You mean to say you haven'tmade sure of that dollar since?"

"I saw that there was still a dollar in the bosom of the shirtand naturally supposed it was the—er—luckypiece."

Jim Batchelor slowly shook his head.

"I don't get you," he said. "You're too deep for me. However,I know one thing—you're not the sort of guest I care tohave around. Something has happened to the engines and we'returning back to Monterey. In the morning you will greatly obligeme by taking your luggage and going ashore."

"Oh, naturally," calmly agreed Mikklesen.

"After you've been searched," Batchelor added. "Shall we jointhe ladies?"

As they left the dining saloon, Bill Hammond saw O'Meara seizeMikklesen's arm and hold him back. The politician's ruddy facewas a study in various emotions, none pleasant.

Entering the main saloon last, Bill encountered Sally justinside the door. Her eyes were shining with excitement as shemaneuvered him outside.

"Oh, Bill, I felt dreadfully," she said. "I mean, to miss yourbig scene of triumph."

"Ha-ha," he remarked mirthlessly.

"Why, what's the matter?"

"Some triumph, Sally! A dud! A raspberry! As a detective I'm agreat reporter." And he told her what had happened.

"What did Father say?" she inquired when he had finished.

"Ah," he answered, "you go right to the heart of the matter.Father said plenty, and if a look ever meant poison in thecoffee, his look meant that to me. I tell you, Sally, it's allover now. As far as Father goes, I'm out."

"Don't give up," she urged. "Haven't you any more clues?"

"Well," he replied slowly, "a little one."

"I knew it!" she cried. "What is it, Bill?"

"Oh, nothing much. But I happened to pick up that dollar wefound on Mikklesen, and—"

Jim Batchelor and Henry Frost emerged from the main saloon andcame up.

"Ah," said Frost sarcastically, "the young detective."

"Don't kid him, Henry," said Batchelor. "The boy's got afuture. He can dig up more dollars than John D. Rockefeller."

"Mr. Batchelor, I certainly regret—" Bill began.

"Never mind that. Where are we now? Things are more confusedthan ever."

"If you'll take a suggestion from me," Frost began, "how aboutyour captain? He opened Mikklesen's bag. Was he alone at thetime?"

"Nonsense!" Batchelor answered. "You're wrong as usual,Henry."

"Well, I don't know. What's all this about the engines, andturning back?"

"Rot, I say! The captain's been with me for more than tenyears." Batchelor shook his head. "I tell you, I'm up a tree. Alot of things I don't understand. Very strange, for example, thatMikklesen should have made that confession. He could have deniedeverything and let it go at that."

"Dad," said Sally, "Bill's got another clue."

"I suppose so," her father replied. "He certainly is a marvelfor clues. I shouldn't be surprised if he conjured a dollar outof somebody's ear next. But it won't be my dollar, I'm sure ofthat."

"If you'll give me a chance, sir," suggested Bill.

"Well, you're a broken reed, but you're all I've got to leanon. What is it now?"

"Mikklesen's luggage was broken into about two-thirty. Hedidn't discover it until after three. The captain couldn't havebeen in there more than ten or fifteen minutes. What happened inthe interval between the time the captain went out and Mikklesencame in?"

"Tell me that and I'll say you're good."

"I can only surmise, sir. But that 1899 dollar we found onMikklesen—I know who had it last."

"What? You do?"

"Yes. That's the dollar I gave Tatu this morning in exchangefor the greenback he got from Mikklesen."

"Tatu! That's an idea! Come into the smoking-room and we'llhave Tatu on the carpet."

The owner of the Francesca led the way, and Frost,Hammond and Sally followed. Tatu, summoned, appeared a bitlacking in his accustomed calm. He feared his employer, andshowed it.

"You've seen this dollar before, Tatu," said Bill, holding itout. "I gave it to you this morning. What did you do with itafter that?"

Tatu stared at the silver dollar.

"Give him back," he said.

"Back to whom?"

"Mr. Mikklesen."

"The truth, Tatu," Batchelor demanded.

"So help," answered the Jap. "Mr. Mikklesen say I do not keeppromise. That not true. Make me give dollar back, anyhow."

That was Tatu's story, and he stuck to it. After a few momentsof further questioning, Batchelor let him go.

"Well, where does that get us?" the millionaire wanted toknow.

"The Jap's lying," declared Frost.

"I don't think so," Bill objected. "No, something tells me hespeaks true. Mr. Batchelor, that big confession scene ofMikklesen's was staged with a purpose."

"What purpose?"

"I can't say. But I've a hunch he's still got yourdollar."

"Where?"

"That's for me to find out, sir." Bill was again the man ofaction. "Sally, I wish you'd go in and lure Mikklesen into abridge game, if you will, please. After that's under way, I'llact."

"You sound good," admitted Batchelor. "But then you always do.I wish I could be sure you'd get the right dollar this time."

"I'll get it," said Bill. His heart sank. He'd said thatbefore—with what result? But this time he must makegood—he must! However, he wasn't so sure.

When he saw the Englishman uncomfortably settled as AuntDora's partner in a game, he hurried below. Without hesitation heturned on the light in Mikklesen's cabin and began to search. Hedid a thorough job—under the carpet, in the closet,everywhere. But he found no dollar. Nothing at all of interest,in fact, save a little coil of flat wire which lay on the flooralmost under the berth. It seemed of no importance, but he put itin his pocketbook. His heart was heavy as he turned out the lightand started to leave via the bath. He had one foot in thebathroom and the other in Mikklesen's cabin when the door intothe corridor opened.

"Hello," said a voice—O'Meara's—very softly.

Bill fled. He silently took the key out of the door leadingfrom the bath into his room, and, safe in his cabin, fastened thelock from that side. He laid his hand gently on the knob of thedoor and waited. Footsteps sounded faintly in the bath, and thenthe knob began to turn slowly in his hand. He let it turn. Agentle shake of the knob, and then the footsteps receded. As soonas he dared, Bill unlocked the door and opened it an inch or two.He made out the occasional glimmer of a flashlight in Mikklesen'scabin.

For a time O'Meara searched industriously. Suddenly the flashwent dark. Some one else had entered Mikklesen's cabin. Who? In amoment the politician enlightened him.

"Mrs. Keith!" he said in a low voice.

"Mr. O'Meara!" came the woman's answer.

"What can I do for you?" O'Meara inquired sarcastically.

"Is this your cabin, Mr. O'Meara?" she asked, equallysarcastic.

"It is not."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Just what you're doing. Looking for that dollar."

"Why, Mr. O'Meara—"

"Come across. I made you early in the game. See here, ourinterests are the same. Let's work together."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, yes, you do. You're here to get that lucky piece for theBlakes; and I—well, I represent other interests; intereststhat want to keep Jim Batchelor out of the primaries. Let me havethat dollar until next Wednesday at six p.m. and you can have itafter that."

"But I haven't got it, Mr. O'Meara."

"I know you haven't. I mean, in case we can get hold ofit."

"You think it's in this room?"

"I think Mikklesen's got it somewhere. You know, I had my dealall fixed with him. I caught him last night throwing a shirtoverboard, and after a little talk he admitted he had the luckypiece and agreed to deliver it to me in Monterey for twelvehundred cash."

"I thought of making him an offer myself," said the woman. "Iknew his talents of old, and I was sure he had it."

"It's just as well you didn't. This morning, when Batcheloroffered that whale of a reward, the dirty crook began to hedge.He'd have double-crossed me then and there, only I threatened tohave him framed before he could get out of the state. He knew Icould do it, so he held off."

"Then that performance to-night was all staged?"

"It sure was," O'Meara said. "I could see it in his eye. Itwas all for my benefit. I wouldn't be surprised if he led thatyoung fool of a Hammond right into it. He wanted me to think he'dlost the dollar. Probably he's figuring on getting ashore withit, and then sending it to Batchelor by a messenger. But onlyover my dead body. Let's get busy."

"Where does this door lead?" asked Mrs. Keith.

"Into a bath. There's a door into another cabin, but it'slocked."

And it was, for Bill Hammond took the hint just in time. Hewent to the upper deck and left them to their search, confidentthat it would have no results.

The bridge game was just breaking up, with the enthusiasticcooperation of every one save Aunt Dora. Bill took Sally aside ina corner of the saloon, but before he could say anything herfather joined them.

"Anything doing?" he inquired.

Bill told them of the conversation in Mikklesen's cabin. JimBatchelor was indignant.

"Fine business!" he said. "O'Meara, and the woman too! I knewblamed well I couldn't trust anybody on this boat. Well, they'llgo ashore, bag and baggage, with Mikklesen in the morning. Butnot until I've been over all three of them personally."

"Father."

"Yes, I mean it. Well, Hammond, where are we now? Mikklesen'sstill got the dollar, you think? But where's he got it?"

"Well " began Bill.

"You've got a clue, of course," said Batchelor. '

"Not one," Bill answered sadly.

"What?" Batchelor stood up. "Well, if you've run out of clues,then the skies are dark indeed. Something tells me I'll never seemy dollar again. You may be a good newspaper man, my boy, but asa detective—well—oh, what's the use? I'm going tobed. Good night."

Sally and Bill followed him outside. In a shadowy spot on thedeck they paused.

"Oh, Bill, what are we going to do now?" the girl sighed.

"Well, I have one—one little clue. But it's so silly Ididn't have the nerve to tell him about it. Just a little coil ofwire I found in Mikklesen's cabin."

"What would that mean, Bill?"

"I don't know. But I'm going to think to-night as I neverthought before. I can't lose you, Sally. I won't—that'sall."

"Not if I have anything to say about it, Bill, you won't," sheanswered, and the wisdom of stopping in a shadow became at onceapparent.

In his berth Bill settled down to do the promised thinking. Hebegan to go over in his mind, carefully, every point in theequipment of a man like Mikklesen. But somewhere in theneighborhood of the military brushes he fell asleep.

* * * * *

THERE is a subconscious self that never sleeps,but applies itself to any problem in hand. Which probablyexplains why Bill awoke the next morning with the hunch of hislife. It was very late; and struck by an unaccustomed quiet, helooked out the port-hole. The little town of Monterey and thegreen forest of Del Monte met his gaze, and he knew theFrancesca had reached port.

The bathroom door was unlocked, and the door leading intoMikklesen's cabin stood open. There was no trace of theEnglishman, nor of his many pieces of luggage. Alarmed, Bill rangfor Tatu; but from the Jap he learned that no one had yet goneashore.

"Hurry," Bill ordered, "and tell Mr. Batchelor not to land anyone until he hears from me." And he prepared himself for a busymorning.

Jim Batchelor arrived just as Bill was tying his necktie.

"Any news?" inquired the young man.

"Not a glimmer," answered Batchelor. He sat down on the berth,his gloomy face in striking contrast to the sunny morning. "Thesecond officer was in Mikklesen's cabin while he dressed, andexamined everything he put on. We've been through his luggageagain too. But there was nothing doing. Either he hasn't got thatdollar or he's too smart for us."

"Where is he now?" Bill asked.

"He's on deck, waiting to go ashore. The launch is ready.O'Meara and Mrs. Keith are there too."

"Did you search them?"

"Well, no. There are limits. Besides, I'm sure they're just asmuch in the dark as I am. Both of them came to me this morningand said both wanted to leave the cruise here, so I simply toldthem to go. There seemed no occasion for a row."

"You were quite right, sir," Bill agreed.

"You—you sent me word not to let anybody land until youcame up," said Batchelor.

"I did," Bill smiled.

"Are you—are you on a new trail?"

"I think so."

"My boy! No, no, I mustn't let you get my hopes up again."

"You're very wise, sir," Bill admitted. "This isn'tmuch—a fighting chance, that's all."

"Well, let's fight it," said Batchelor as they left the cabin."I tell you again, you get that dollar back and there'll benothing too good for you."

"Careful!" said Bill under his breath, and they went ondeck.

Sally joined them, as lovely as the California morning, butwith a worried look in her eyes. Bill smiled his reassurance.They moved along the deck and came upon Mikklesen, O'Meara andMrs. Keith sitting amid their luggage.

"We're losing some of our guests," said Batchelor.

"So I see," Bill answered. "I'd steeled myself to part withMikklesen, but these others—I'm awfully sorry—"

O'Meara glared at him. Henry Frost, alert for news, cameup.

"Mr. Batchelor," Bill went on, "before Mikklesen goes out ofour lives for ever, I'd like to ask him one question."

"Certainly. Go to it."

"Mr. Mikklesen"—the Englishman stood up, and he and Billfaced each other—"Mr. Mikklesen," Bill repeated, "what timeis it?"

The Englishman's eyes narrowed.

"I don't understand."

"The time—by that watch of yours. I've seen you consultit before. Why not now?"

"My dear fellow"—Mikklesen was quite at ease—"it'sa frightfully old thing, really. Belonged to my grandfather.Something has happened to it. It's not running."

"Not running? That's too bad." Bill held out his hand. "Let mehave a look at it. I might be able to fix it."

Mikklesen's eyes turned quickly to right and left. He appearedto be measuring the distance between the Francesca and theshore.

"Come on," said Bill. "There's no way out. Hand it over."

"Why not?" said Mikklesen. He took from his pocket a largeancient timepiece and unfastened it from the chain. He wassmiling. Bill's heart sank—was he wrong, after all?

His strong fingers closed eagerly on Mikklesen's watch.Anxiously he opened the back. The thing was packed with tissue-paper. He lifted out the paper—and smiled, for underneathlay a silver dollar.

"I hope it's the right one this time," he said, and handed itto Batchelor.

"By the Lord Harry!" cried Batchelor. "My lucky piece! Thefirst dollar I ever earned. Little secret mark and all. Myboy—my boy, I take back all I said."

Bill glanced at Sally; her eyes were shining. He handed thewatch case back to Mikklesen.

"When you took out the works," he said, "you shouldn't havelet the mainspring get away from you. Lively little things,mainsprings. Elusive, what?"

"I fancy so." Mikklesen, still smiling, still nonchalant,restored the watch to his pocket. "Mr. Batchelor, I'll toddlealong. There's been no actual theft."

"Who says there hasn't?"

O'Meara, purple with rage, was on his feet. "Batchelor, youturn this crook over to me. I'll put him behind the bars, wherehe belongs."

Jim Batchelor shook his head. "Your passion for justice issplendid, O'Meara," he said, "but I prefer it otherwise.Publicity never did appeal to me. Mr. Mikklesen, I congratulateyou. You must have been a wonder at hide and seek when you were akid. You may as well—go along."

"Thanks, awfully," said Mikklesen. "It's been a frightfullyjolly cruise, and all that." He glanced at O'Meara, and his smilefaded. "I'm going to ask one last favor, if I may."

"Well, you've got your nerve," Batchelor said. "What isit?"

"Will you be so good as to send me ashore alone, and let thelaunch return for—these others?"

The owner of the Francesca was in high good humor. Helaughed.

"Of course I will," he replied. "I can't say I blame youeither. It isn't always safe for birds of a feather to flocktogether. Get into the launch. And you, O'Meara"—he puthimself in the angry politician's path—"you stay where youare."

Mikkleson indicated his luggage to a sailor and hastilydescended the ladder. The launch putt-putted away. O'Meara movedto the rail and shook a heavy fist.

"I'll get you," he cried, "you low-down crook!"

Mikklesen stood in the stern of the launch and waved a jauntyfarewell. He was off in search of new fields and better luck.

"Oh, Mr. Batchelor," purred Mrs. Keith, "it's a woman'sprivilege to change her mind, you know. If you have no objectionI'll stay with the party."

"Oh, no, you won't!" said Batchelor. "I've got my dollar backand I intend to hang on to it."

"Why, what do you mean?" she said, staring at him with wide,innocent eyes.

"I'm on to you—and O'Meara too. I'm sorry you've forcedme to say it. Go back to your friends the Blakes, Mrs. Keith, andtell them they've got me to lick on that China contract—ifthey can. As for you, O'Meara, my name will be entered in theprimaries next week. And I'm glad to know where you stand."

"What's it all about?" O'Meara inquired blandly.

"You know very well what it's about. The second officer hassome errands in the town, but he'll be back with the launch in anhour or so. When he comes I'll ask you both to leave theFrancesca." Batchelor turned and his eyes lighted on BillHammond. Smiling, he put his arm about Bill's shoulder. "Somedetective, if you ask me. Come into the saloon, Son. There's alittle matter of business between us. Henry, you're in on this.Got your check-book?"

"I've got it," said Frost, and he and Sally followed the pairinto the main saloon.

"Two thousand from you, Henry," Batchelor reminded him.

"I know it." Mr. Frost reluctantly sat down at a desk andprepared to write.

"Wait a minute," Bill interposed. "I don't want any money, Mr.Frost."

"What do you want?" asked Frost.

"A better job."

"And he deserves it too," said Batchelor.

"Well," began Frost, whose first instinct was always to hedge."I don't like to interfere at the office—" Still, hisexpression seemed to say two thousand is two thousand.

"The Sunday editor quit last week," Bill went on. "A word fromyou and the job's mine. It pays a hundred, I believe."

Frost stood up.

"All right," he agreed. "We'll consider the matter settled."He patted his check-book lovingly and departed.

"Now that was sensible," beamed Jim Batchelor. "A job—achance to make good. Better than money."

"It looks better to me," smiled Bill. "You see, I'm thinkingof getting married."

Batchelor got up and seized his hand.

"Fine! Fine!" he cried. "My boy, I wish you all the luck inthe world."

"Then you approve of it?"

"The best thing that could happen to any young man. A balancewheel—an incentive."

"That's the way I feel, sir," said Bill heartily.

"And it does you credit." Batchelor sat at the desk. "Mylittle check will come in the way of a wedding present." Hestopped. "I hope you're getting the right sort of girl?"

"I'm sure of that, sir."

"Of course you feel that way. But these modern girls—notthe kind I used to know. Flighty, extravagant—they don'tknow the value of a dollar."

"This one," said Bill, "knows the value of one dollar. Atleast, she ought to."

"What's that?" cried Batchelor.

"Put away your check-book, sir," said Bill. "It isn't yourmoney I want."

Batchelor threw down his pen. "I—I didn'tdream—Sally, what about this?"

She came and sat on his knee.

"Dad, you've never refused me anything yet. You're not goingto haggle over a little thing like Bill."

"But—but I don't—this young man—why, hehasn't anything!"

"What did you have when you were married?" she asked.

"I had my brains and a strong right arm."

"So has Bill," she told him.

He turned slowly and looked at Bill.

"I'm thinking of you too," he said. "I like you, myboy—I won't deny it. But this—this—could youget away with it? A girl like Sally—it isn't so much theinitial expense—it's the upkeep. Could you manage it?"

"With your permission," said Bill, "I'd like to try."

Batchelor kissed his daughter and stood up.

"You'll have to give me time on this," he said. "All sosudden. I'll think it over."

"Yes, sir," Bill answered. "And in the meantime—"

"In the meantime " Batchelor stopped at the door. He looked atBill Hammond long and wistfully. "You know," he said, "I'd give amillion dollars to be where you are now." And he went out.

"Poor Dad," said Sally. "Isn't he a darling?"

"It runs in your family," Bill told her. "I've noticedthat."

"Bill, you'll always love me, won't you?"

"Love you—and keep you close," said Bill. "In the bigmoments of my life you'll give me courage to go on. The firstwife I ever earned."

"Bill, be careful!" she said. "Somebody might come in."

IDLE HANDS

Illustrated by Ernest Fuhr

First published in The Saturday Evening Post, Jun 11,1921

ON the stroke of eight, as was his custom, JimAlden opened his eyes and sat up in bed. With a brisk movement ofhis arm he threw back the covers. His mind was racing smoothly,efficiently, ready to tackle any problem no matter how hard orintricate. As his feet touched the rich rug beside his bed hesuddenly remembered. A sense of bafflement, of despair, sweptover him. His head sank forward on his breast.

Every morning was like this. Every morning he sat up in bed,craving an exciting active day as of old, only to recall a momentlater that he was sixty and out of it, that he had retired, thathe was dying by inches in a beautiful house in SouthernCalifornia.

He walked slowly to his window and looked out. Pasadena is acity of leisure. There was no one in sight. He sighed and turnedto his bath. The empty day that loomed ahead appalled him. Itwould be like all the other days through which he had wanderedlike a lost soul ever since he came out here three months before.Nothing to do, no place to go, no one to talk to. Torture,finished off by a dull dinner and then more torture—a longquiet evening while he waited for bedtime. Bed, sleep, leading toanother day, exactly the same.

"Better dead!" he muttered.

In the bath his despair turned to bitter anger at the doctorswho had condemned him to this. Why had he allowed himself to befrightened by their silly twaddle about high blood-pressure,neuralgic heart, hardening arteries? Why had he listened to hiswife and daughters when they urged him to sell his automobileinterests in the East, to desert the famous Alden engine, theengine he had designed, the engine that was his baby? What wouldhave happened if he had been firm, stuck to business? Death,perhaps—death in the harness. Well, that was where most mendied; that was the place to die, the happy place.

To some men, he reflected as he dressed, this life of idlenessmight appeal. Arthur, Edie's husband, showed no inclination towork. But Arthur was a lazy young pup who had been born into theleisure class. And Carter Andrews, the bright young butterfly whowas hovering about Angie, had apparently no other interests thanpolo and golf. All right, all right, Jim Alden thought, heartilydisliking them both. It was not surprising they were fond of thatsort of thing. They had never known anything else. That was wherethey had started.

But his own start had been so different. He thought back overhis forty years in the harness. Twelve years a mechanic in thePontiac shops, with soiled hands and vast ambitions. Then thebirth of the Alden engine, the modest beginnings of the Aldencar. The gradual increase in business—life working up to abig climax like a well-written play. Finally the office, electricwith the thrills of trading, big decisions to be made amid theclicking of a hundred typewriters, the stream of telegrams andcables, big stacks of mail. And then to be suddenly pushed offinto nothingness, to have all these things disappear as thoughthey had never been. It was, he thought bitterly, too late. Inforty years he had gone too far to stop.

He went gloomily down the stairs, grumbling a good morning tohis Japanese butler in the hall. In the drawing-room beyond heheard Angie singing a foolish little song. His face brightened ashe went in to her. She came toward him, fresh and beautiful asthe California morning, the best beloved of all hispossessions.

"How are you feeling, Dad?" she asked as she kissed him.

"Me? Oh, I'm all right." The question annoyed him even when itwas Angie who asked it. "Do I look like an invalid to you?"

She glanced at him, then quickly turned away. He did look likean invalid, whether he knew it or not. The change that was to doso much for him had proved a ghastly failure. His hands were oldand veined, his face pale, great dark pouches were under hiseyes. Angie sighed unhappily.

"What you got there?" He pointed to a slip of paper in herhand.

"It's a cable from Carter Andrews. He's living up to hispromise—a cable a day."

"Huh! He must be crazy about you."

"He claims to be," she smiled.

"Funny thing to me he'd leave you to go round the world."

"Oh, but he went on business! Business connected with hisestate."

"Every one knows why he went," Alden said. "His private stockgave out and he went abroad for a drink. He's drinking his wayaround the globe."

"Now, Dad, that's not kind."

"It's the truth. I suppose he wants to marry you."

"He does, but don't worry. I'm not getting married just yet.Of course, Carter is amusing."

"So's a monkey, but you wouldn't marry one, would you?"

"Cross old Dad! Come on in to breakfast."

They went into the breakfast-room. Mrs. Alden, Edie and Arthurwere already at the table. Dutifully Jim Alden went round andkissed his wife, a stern unbending woman of fifty. On his way tohis seat he pecked fearfully at Edie's calcimined cheek. Arthurgreeted him warmly, said how well he was looking. All the worldlooked well to Arthur. Jim Alden picked up his newspaper.

"Put that down, Jim," ordered his wife. "You've got all day toread it."

"So I have," he said humbly, obeying. "I forgot."

"What's your program for the day?" she asked.

"Me? Oh, I'll just run into Los Angeles to my office."

"Your office!" she said. "You came out here to get away fromoffices. Yet the first thing you do is go and rent one. What youneed of it I can't see."

"Oh, we old fellows who've retired like to keep an office," hesmiled. "It gives us an objective in the mornings—a placeto answer our mail."

"Your mail!" Her tone was scornful. "All the mail you get youcould answer here in the library in twenty minutes." He winced.This was true. "If you'd only go out and play golf," shecomplained.

"That's the ticket, Dad!" cried Arthur with forced enthusiasm."Edie and I are going to the club. Come along."

"No, no, thanks. Not to-day. Some other time."

"Glad to have you," lied Arthur, concealing his relief. He andEdie were skilful players, and were looking forward to a sportyfoursome at ten dollars a hole.

"You ought to go," Mary Alden said. "Doctor Tillson told

"Yes, yes," agreed Alden. "I'll get worked round to it. I'mnot opposed to golf. It's all right—as a recreation after ahard day's work. But to make it the chief business of life, assome people do—"

"Edie," said Arthur, "he's looking at me!"

"Dad, you let Arthur alone," ordered Edie.

"Jim, you worry me," said his wife sharply. "You're not happyout here."

"Me? Of course I am!"

"You ought to be happy." She glared at him. "Be happy or I'llbrain you," was her tone. "But you're not. The change isn't doingyou a bit of good, and it's all your fault."

"Yes, I suppose it is," he admitted.

"You won't relax—won't let yourself go. I should thinkyou might make the effort, if not for your own sake, why then formine and that of the children."

"Speaking as one of the little darlings," put in Angie, "I saygive the poor soul a chance. You've knocked all the props outfrom under him, and just now he's floating about in space. He'llsettle down in time—become a nice old duffer kicking a ballaround the links all day like the rest."

"Angie's said it!" cried Jim Alden gratefully. "I'll adjustmyself in the end. Just now I don't quite know where I am."

"Well, you'd better find out," his wife told him. "I'm surethat in the past, when I've had to adapt myself to newconditions, I've always—"

She went on to tell what she had always done. Nobodylistened—still, it passed the time.

After breakfast Jim Alden went out on the veranda. Edie andArthur, brilliant figures in golf togs, followed. The latter hadtelephoned the chauffeur's room at the garage. A smart littlerunabout was waiting in the drive. Alden took out a cigar anddefiantly lighted it.

"Better not let Mother see you with that," admonished Edie.The policewoman to whom she referred appeared, evidently readyfor a busy day.

"What's this, Jim?" she cried. "Smoking again!"

"The first to-day, Mary."

"But Doctor Tillson said—"

"He said to go slow on 'em, and I am, my dear—trustme."

"Not out of my sight, where smoking is concerned." She turnedto her elder daughter. "You and Arthur can drop me at the BookClub. There's a big luncheon and I'm on the committee. Now, Jim,do take things easy to-day—relax."

"Me? I'll relax all over the place."

He stood staring after the little car as it glided away downthe sunny street. Angie came down-stairs, a light and pretty wrapabout her shoulders.

"Dad, I'll ride into town with you—if you don't mind.Got some shopping to do—and lunch with a girl fromhome."

"Delighted," he said, and went for his hat and coat. When hereturned his limousine, with a stolid Jap at the wheel, waswaiting. He helped Angie into it. "Let's go, Haku," he said.

They rolled along through the bright morning in the directionof Los Angeles. Angie put her hand on one of his, which lay idlyin his lap.

"Dad, Mother was right—you're not happy."

"Oh, now, Angie, I'm all right. Only something hashappened—something I don't like. I mean—I'm an oldman."

"Nonsense! Sixty isn't old."

"It didn't use to be, but nowadays it seems to be the finish.And it came on me—so sudden. In the past when something Ididn't want was about to happen—I prevented it. But thistime there was nothing I could do." She squeezed his hand. "Isuppose all us old fellows feel like this—rebellious. Wewant to turn back the clock. You know, I'd give every penny Ihave if I could go back—back to the start—with thefun all ahead of me."

"And where would I be?" asked Angie.

"You? You'd be lying in your cradle in the old house down onThird Street—a lovely fluffy baby. That was a mighty happyyear—that year you came—twenty-four years ago. I wasjust getting started. We were poor as the devil. I had a terribletime paying the doctor who brought you into the world, but it wasthe best investment I ever made."

Tears came into Angie's blue eyes. She looked away at a mistystring of billboards, part of the famous scenery.

"Dad, it's just as Mother said. You must brace up. If you'llonly be contented you can live for ever out in this country.Promise to try—for my sake."

"I promise, Angie," he said.

"If you could find something to take up your time," she wenton, thinking aloud. "Something to turn your mind to—"

Angie lapsed into silence. When the car came to a stop beforethe tall building where he maintained his absurd office she bentover and kissed him. He looked so forlorn and lonesome.

"Be here at five, as usual, Haku," said Alden as he left thecar.

"At five!" Angie cried. "What in the world " She stopped. Whatin the world would he do with himself until five? But after allit was his problem. "Good-by, old dear," she called, smilingbrightly.

Three minutes later he pushed open the door of his littleoffice on the tenth floor. The room was hot and stuffy. Hehastened to open a window, letting in the widely advertised freshair. Coming back, he saw a single envelope lying on the carpet.He picked it up, opened it:

JAMES M. ALDEN.

Dear Sir: We beg to acknowledge the receiptof ten cents in stamps, in return for which we are sending youunder separate cover, as per your request, a catalogue of theelectrical appliances manufactured by our firm.

"Under separate cover?"

He looked about. The catalogue had not arrived. He wasdisappointed. It had occurred to him that by studying it he mighthit on some idea that would occupy his time. Rotten mailservice!

He sat down before his flat-topped desk, clear save for anempty mail basket, a blotter and inkwell. With a key from hischain he unlocked the drawers, opening the top pair a few inches.Next he spread out his newspaper and began the morning's carefulperusal. After the news columns, stock market andeditorials—his daily routine—he turned to theobituary column.

"Died at his home here, Edward Mackay, formerpresident of the Mackay Supply Company, retired from activebusiness a year ago.

"Died at his home, Peter Faxton, retired.

"Henry Downs, gave up active business six monthsago—"

First they retired—then the obituary column. What ashort step it was for most of them!

He tried to cheer up on the sporting page. Presently themoment arrived when there was nothing more to be found in thepaper. He put it down regretfully and looked at his watch. Teno'clock. Seven hours before the arrival of Haku and the car.

Seven hours! The movies—yes, but not until afternoon. Hehated the movies, but went regularly. He knew he would go to-day.He took up the paper again, and after a careful study of theadvertisem*nts selected his afternoon's picture. But how aboutthe morning? He might go for a long walk. Tillson had urgedwalking. Or he might sit in the park with other idlers. Or therewas the public library, on the sixth floor of an office building,because Los Angeles, home of million-dollar picture theaters, hadno better place to house it. There he could sit and read amonghis fellow derelicts, some of them smelly and unbathed.

He stood at the window in that quiet little room. Outsidesounded the roar and bustle of the world that had thrust himaside. Far down below, in the crowded street, men hurried abouttheir business—their business!

Jim Alden went back to his desk, sat down limply and stared atthe blotter Angie had helped him select. It was pink—acheerful color, Angie had said. The door opened and a brisk youngman stepped inside. He stood staring about him for a moment asthough trying to decide just where he was.

"Ah—er—good morning," he said. "To whom am Ispeaking?"

"Alden's the name. Jim Alden."

"Ah, yes, Mr. Alden. Your name's not on the door, and I didn'tnotice it on the directory down-stairs."

"No, my business doesn't require it. What can I do foryou?"

"Mr. Alden, I want to ask a favor. I want you to pause in themidst of life's busy whirl—to pause a moment andthink."

"Of what?"

"Of the future."

"Ah, yes," smiled Jim Alden. "As a matter of fact, my boy, Iwas doing just that when you opened the door."

"You were? Fine for me! Then you must realize how uncertainthe future is. In case anything happened to you, what wouldbecome of your family?"

"I've got you, Son. You're selling insurance."

"I am. Life and accident. I don't imagine the company wouldcare to write you a life policy at your age, but what aboutaccident? Los Angeles is a mighty accidental city. Out of everythousand people walking these streets to-day five will be killedby automobiles before the year ends."

"Yes, but I'm careful. I lead a quiet life."

"That's just what Mr. Jamieson used to say. Poor Mr.Jamieson!

"He used to have an office in this very building—on thisfloor, I think it was. He used to sit leaning back in his chair,just as you're sitting now, when I called on him and tell menothing was likely to happen to him. Do you know whathappened?"

"No. What?"

"Well, one day his chair slipped out from under him." JimAlden came forward quickly. "He hit his head on a radiator. Idon't know what his last thoughts were, but at the end I'll bethe was wishing he'd listened to me."

"You're a cheerful visitor, Son," Alden laughed. "I don't wantany insurance to-day, but any time you're passing, drop in."

The young man stood up.

"Mr. Alden, I'm going to ask you a rather peculiar question.Are you inviting me to call again because there's a chance wemight do business, or do you want me around to talk to?"

"Why, I—er—"

"You're retired, aren't you?"

"Yes, three months ago."

"And you feel like a fish out of water? Just plain boredstiff?"

"You've said it!"

"I thought so. You see, I run into a lot of men in yourposition. There are hundreds of them in Los Angeles. They keeplittle offices like this, and sit in 'em day after day doingnothing. When I show up they greet me with open arms. They giveme a cigar—"

"Pardon me. Have a smoke."

"Thanks. And then they talk their heads ofT—politics,stock market, even religion. Now I'm sociable by nature, and I'dlike nothing better than to hang around and chat, but I've got afamily to support. You get me?"

"I do. So there are lots of men like me? I never thought ofthat."

"There's a dozen of them in this very building. I'm sorry forall of them, poor devils. I've offered some of them, free gratis,a little idea of mine, but up to now not one has been sportenough to act on it."

"An idea?" Jim Alden asked.

"This is a mighty good cigar," smiled the young man, resuminghis seat. "I'll give you ten minutes more on the strength of it.You read your newspaper pretty carefully, I guess. But have youever looked in the classified columns under BusinessChances?"

"I can't say I have."

"Pass me the paper, please. Here we are—three columns ofit: 'For Sale—Best Paying Barber Shop in SanDiego—two chairs, three baths, steady trade.' No? Look!'Butcher—Go in Business for Yourself ... Partnership, AutoTop Trimming Shop, $650 ... Half Interest in Busy Beauty Parlor.'No, keep away from the busy beauties. 'Wanted—Party with$1000 and Self, Half Interest Factory Manufacturing PureCalifornia Fruit Juices ... Investigate This! Half Interest OldEstablished Insurance Business.' Keep out of that, it's done todeath. 'Transfer and Express ... Man and Wife Can Purchase GoodRestaurant ... Partner Wanted, Auto Garage and ServiceStation.'"

"Ah, a garage," said Jim Alden thoughtfully.

"I haven't time to read them all," the young man said. "Butyou get my idea: If I was one of you retired millionaires Iwouldn't sit down and wait for the undertaker. If they'd shooedme out of my regular business I'd get me an interest in one ofthese little places and I'd run it—just as a toy, ofcourse. I'd have something to take my time and thought; I'd behappy and contented; I'd fool the doctors and live for ever. Doesit sound reasonable?"

"It certainly does," Jim Alden smiled.

"I'm glad you think so. I must run along now. If you decide totake my advice, and it works out O.K.—well, you'll owe me alittle policy. How about it?"

"If, my boy, if. At any rate, drop in later on."

"Count on me. Kurtz is my name. I'll leave a card. So long,and don't get mixed up with the beauty parlor. Outside of thatanything's worth a chance."

He breezed out, leaving Jim Alden with the paper in his hand.For a long time the designer of the famous Alden engine sat deepin thought. "Why not?" he asked himself. Why not a little garagesomewhere, a place where he could go and meet people, gossip withthem, discuss engines with men like those he had known and beenfond of in the Pontiac shops? A splendid idea!

But what would Mary say—and her stern ally, DoctorTillson? No more business—he had sworn it! No more bigbusiness, that meant. And Mary wanted him to becontented—to stop fussing. Besides, she needn't know!

He sat there chuckling over this last thought. His was farfrom a deceitful nature, but it seemed that he was justified infollowing the trail to happiness wherever it led, withoutinterference. Why not a bit of a double life? Only Angie need betold. Angie would understand, sympathize. Not two hours ago Angiehad been wishing he had something to turn his mind to.

He read those three columns through carefully. There were manyauto repair shops in the market, but one advertisem*nt inparticular appealed to him. He cut it out and read it a number oftimes:

PARTNER WANTED—Auto Repair Shop and GasStation on busy road, outskirts of San Marco—$2500 buyshalf interest, tools, equipment, tow car, building and lease onlot. Books open to prospective buyer. Grab this—bigbargain. Call San Marco 5376, ask for Petersen.

Jim Alden hesitated but a moment, then took up his seldom-usedtelephone and asked for the number. Petersen himselfanswered.

"I saw your ad," said the millionaire, "and I don'tknow—maybe we might do business. What's that—myname?" He paused for a moment. It would never do to mention JimAlden, famous in the automobile trade. His secret would not lastan hour. "Oh, this is John Grant talking," he went on, speakingthe name of an old pal in the Pontiac shops. "I'd like to have alook at your establishment. You needn't do that. Well, if youinsist. What time can you come? All right—at two. You'llfind me in room 1018, the Surrey Building, Los Angeles. Knowwhere it is? Fine! I'll be here."

He hung up the receiver and walked briskly to the window. Hiseyes were sparkling. At two that afternoon! He had anengagement—a business engagement!

"Better than the movies!" he thought exultantly.

* * * * *

MR. PETERSEN appeared promptly at the appointedhour. Jim Alden was ready to like him, but his first glancediscouraged him. Petersen was an undersized man with mean, shiftyeyes; not at all the jolly mechanic. Alden resolved at once to dono business with him. It seemed hardly polite, however, to breakoff relations at mere sight of the man, so he agreed to run outfor a look at the property.

In a battered old flivver the garage man whisked Jim Alden outto San Marco by what seemed a rather round-about route. When thedesigner of the Alden engine alighted before Petersen's garage hebegan to weaken. It stood amid beautiful surroundings at themeeting of two roads, one of which appeared to be much traveled.Across the street was an orange grove, and back of the littleframe building, seeming much closer than they really were, thefriendly snow-capped mountains stood on guard.

Petersen showed him over the place. He saw at once that theequipment was complete and in good condition. When they returnedto the office three cars waited in line for gasoline.

"It's like that all day long," Petersen said, waving a hand."I can prove it to you by the books. I want you to look 'emover."

For an hour Jim Alden studied the records. They extended overa period of three years and showed a steadily mounting trade,especially big during the last six months. Petersen returned.

"How does it look to you?" he inquired.

"Not bad," said Alden. "You own the building, eh? How aboutthe ground?"

"Got it on lease," replied Petersen. "Pay eight hundred ayear—you saw that in the books. Rent's cheap, everythingconsidered."

"Seems so," agreed Alden. He didn't like Petersen, but thething looked good. Probably he could get used to the man. Andthere was a bright cheerful boy named Al working about the place."Make terms?" he asked.

"No," said Petersen sharply, "I got to have cash."

"U'm!" Jim Alden thought of the eleven million dollars forwhich he had sold his eastern holdings, and smiled. "Well, Iguess maybe I could raise the money."

"You'll buy in then?"

"Yes. I'll meet you to-morrow at " He stopped. He was about tosay "at my lawyer's." But that wouldn't do. "Anywhere you say.I'll bring the cash with me."

"Good for you." Petersen managed a faint smile. "Have acigar." He passed over a good ten-center.

"You'll come out by street car, I suppose. Get off at thecorner of First and California, in San Marco—ten o'clocktomorrow morning. I know a lawyer. We'll go to his office andclinch the deal."

Jim Alden returned to his own office by trolley. He had justtime to lock his desk and meet Haku and the limousine at theappointed hour. It hustled him a bit. He loved to be hustled. Hewas a happy man.

The next morning at the lawyer's it was decided that he was toassume his partnership on the first of the month, which happenedto be the following Monday. This was Thursday. After the papershad been signed and the twenty-five hundred in cash reached ahaven in Petersen's grimy hands the latter made a suggestion.

"Look here, Grant," he said. "I've had a lot of answers to myad. I know it says in the agreement neither of us is to sellwithout the other's consent; but I been wondering—if Icould dig you up a willing, good-natured guy, would you mind if Isold my interest to him? I'd like to clear out completely and goback to Dakota. What say?"

Alden smiled. Petersen was the one flaw in his happiness, andhe would be glad to shake him.

"All right with me," he said. "Of course you'd get somebodywho knew the business—a good mechanic." He realized for thefirst time that Petersen had made no such stipulation in his owncase.

"Sure!" said the garage man. He asked for and received amemorandum giving him permission to sell. "Much obliged, Grant.Well, see you at the garage on Monday."

"With bells on," laughed Alden. Mr. Petersen must have caughtthe contagion of that laugh. He seemed in almost a gay mood whenthey parted.

Sunday night Angie and her father happened to be alone in thelibrary. He was puffing contentedly on a forbidden cigar.

"Mighty nice night, ain't it?" he said. "You know, Angie, I'mbeginning to like California."

"I've noticed," she smiled. "You've been a new man the pastfew days. How do you account for it?"

"Oh, I'm just settling down, I guess. Getting used toidleness."

"Nonsense! You're up to some mischief. You can't fool me!"

He laughed, got up with mock caution and tiptoed to the door.Coming back, he solemnly faced her.

"My dear," he said, "this is deep and dark. Never reveal whatI am about to tell you."

"I swear it," she answered. "What's the secret?" "Angie, I'mhalf owner in Petersen's garage, which stands in the shadow ofthe mountains just abaft San Marco. A nifty little business,believe me." She gasped.

"Honey," he went on, "I've turned back the clock. If you comeout there to-morrow you'll find me in overalls right at the startof my career, and I may say the prospects for success look verybright."

"But—but, Dad, what will Mother say?" "Plenty—ifshe knew. But that's the beauty of it. Mother isn't going toknow. Poor old broken-down Dad toddles off to his office early inthe morning, does a quick change, nabs a street car and beats itfor his business. Comes back at night tired but happy. If youbreathe a word of this you're no child of mine."

She leaned back in her chair, laughing.

"A double life at your age," she said. "Dad, it's toofunny!"

"But you approve, don't you? You know you said—"

"Of course I approve. It's just the thing. Why, the very ideahas done wonders for you! But if Mother finds out—"

"I know." His tone was apprehensive. "But San Marco's tenmiles from here—I'm fairly safe. If you need anything in myline look me up. I'm just a poor young man trying to getalong."

"I'll drop in to-morrow. Tell me again where it is." He drew amap for her on the back of an envelope. "Remember," he said, "myname out there is John Grant." "Oh, Dad!" she cried. "An assumedname! How thrilling!" In the morning he hunted round in hiscloset until he found an old blue suit. It was a bit shiny inspots. His wife had informed him he was not to wear it again.Defiantly he put it on and went down-stairs. There ensued a briefargument about it, but his wife did not seem up to her usualform, and he won.

At nine o'clock Haku deposited him before his office building.The building stood on a corner and could be entered from eitherof two streets. Jim Alden passed through the lobby and out theside door. At a clothing store he supplied himself with dark-blueoveralls and jumper, then walked another block, hopped on a carand rode to San Marco. When he reached his new property thereseemed to be an air of aimless leisure about the place. Al wassitting on the running board of a car reading the morning paper.Petersen was nowhere in sight. Jim Alden went into the office. Along lean young man with humorous gray eyes untangled himselffrom a chair and rose to greet him.

"Where's Petersen?" asked Alden.

"Is this Mr. Grant—Mr. John Grant?" inquired thestranger.

"What? Oh—er—yes, I'm Grant."

"Merrick's my name—Bill Merrick. Shake hands with yournew partner, Mr. Grant. I bought Petersen out last Friday."

"What? Well—er—glad to meet you. Petersen didn'tlose any time."

"I hope you don't object. He showed me a memorandum youwrote—"

"Oh, no, that's all right. I was a bit surprised, that's all.I don't mind a change of partners—rather like it in fact. Iguess we've got hold of a live business."

"Seemed so from the books. I must say, though, I've beensitting here an hour and a half, and not a nibble."

"Oh, well, it's early yet. Monday morning, too. I'll just getinto my outfit so as to be ready." The millionaire undid hisbundle and spread out his suit of armor. He removed his coat. "Isuppose you understand all about automobiles?" he inquired.

"Oh, yes, I know it's the gasoline seeping through the what-you-may-call-it that sort of encourages 'em to continue. Furtherthan that, I'm a little in the dark. Petersen said you were anexcellent mechanic and would be glad to teach me."

"He did, eh?"

Jim Alden buckled on the overalls thoughtfully. Mr. Petersengrew even less attractive as his character developed.

"You see," the young man went on, and his manner was winning,"I came darn near being a lawyer. I was studying law in myfather's office in Duluth when the war broke. After I got backfrom France I was like a lot of the boys—the soles of myfeet itched. An aunt died and left me three thousand dollars; andI'd swallowed a bit of gas in the Argonne, which supplied me witha mighty convenient little cough, so it was me for California.I've been here two months looking for work. Have you tried tofind work out here?"

"You bet I have!"

"Supply seems a bit short of the demand, doesn't it? My moneywas sort of dribbling away in the cafeterias, so I plunged withPetersen. Two thousand dollars—the balance of Aunt Elvira'swad."

"Two thousand!" repeated Jim Alden, again thinking hard.

"Yes, sir. All little Rollo's available cash. We've got tomake good."

"Oh, we'll make good all right," said Alden. But he wasn't sosure. Petersen was taking on new aspects every minute.

They spent a couple of hours looking over their stock and oncemore studying the books, which Petersen had accommodatingly left.By noon just two cars had halted at their establishment—oneto buy five gallons of gasoline, the other to inquire the way. Asuspicion was growing in Jim Alden's mind. He went to the door ofthe little office and summoned Al. The boy came in looking rathersheepish.

"See here, Al," said Alden. "This place does a pretty goodbusiness, doesn't it?"

"Well," said Al, "it did—up to last Saturday."

"Eh? What happened on Saturday?"

"Don't you know?" Al seemed genuinely surprised. "LastSaturday they opened up the new state highway two miles east ofhere. The road over there has been torn up for six months."

"I see," Alden said, "You mean we're sort of off the main linefrom now on?"

"You sure are," admitted Al. "This road is about as necessaryas a fifth wheel. You won't see much traffic here except thefolks that live up the line." He stopped. There ensued a poignantsilence. "I thought Petersen let you in on it," the boy went on."He claimed he had. Told me he was sellin' out at asacrifice."

"He didn't tell us, Al," said Alden slowly. "Go back toyour— er—work." The boy went out.

"Well, that's cheery news," cried Bill Merrick bitterly."Swindled! Every cent that Aunt Elvira and I had in the world!"He paused and looked at his partner. On Jim Alden's face was anexpression of deep chagrin, which Bill Merrick conveniently tookto be distress. "How about you?" the young man asked. "All yoursavings gone blooey, eh?" Alden did not reply. "It's a darnshame," the other went on. "It doesn't matter so much about me,but you—you're an old—that is, you're not so young asyou were. Well, leave it to me. I'll find this crook Petersenwherever he is, and when I do—oh, boy!"

"Wait a minute," Alden cut in. "Finding Petersen won't help.Perhaps we can pull through yet."

"How?" asked Bill Merrick. "Come out here." He led the wayoutside. "Nice, quiet, pastoral scene, eh what? Not a car insight—not one!"

"Oh, yes, there's one," said Jim Alden.

He pointed. Coming down the otherwise deserted highway,driving the newest and gayest of the Alden roadsters at sixtymiles an hour, was Angie. She dashed in at the drive that cut thecorner and deftly brought her car to a stop between the gas tankand the garage door. Then for the first time her eyes fell on JimAlden, standing there looking rather foolish in his painfully newmechanic's uniform. A peal of laughter was her instanttribute.

"Dad!" she cried. "You old rascal! I hardly knew you!"

At once an expression of contrition crossed her lovely face.Regret, chagrin, an appeal for forgiveness, all were in her eyes.Coming down the road she had been saying to herself, "John Grant,John Grant," over and over. And now she had blurted out the truthinstantly—ruined everything. How like her!

Jim Alden was watching his partner. That young man at sight ofAngie had stood as one who beholds an angel descend from heaven.As the import of the angel's first words dawned slowly on hisdazed brain he turned to Alden.

"Dad?" he cried. "She called you Dad!"

"So she did," said Alden. He raised his voice so that Angiemight hear: "This young lady and I are old friends. Her fatherand I once worked together in the Pontiac shops—that wasbefore he made his money. When her dad—her real dad, Imean—bought his first car I was the family chauffeur. Iused to drive this little lady about Pontiac, and she'd fallasleep on my lap and her hair'd get all mixed up with the wheel.She started to call me Dad in those days, and I'm proud to sayshe's never stopped." He paused, and saw that Angie's eyes wereon him, fascinated. "Come over here, Bill. Miss Angie, I want youto meet my partner, Bill Merrick. Bill—Miss AngieAlden."

Mr. Bill Merrick seemed devoid of speech as his hand touchedthat of Angie Alden.

"How's your father?" Jim Alden asked.

"Better, much better," replied Angie, still looking heradmiration. "Dad, I think this is a darling place for a garage."She stared about her. "And then—having a partner—sucha nice partner—"

"Yes, it's lucky I've got Bill. We'll be company for eachother. Otherwise it would be mighty lonesome here. You see, we'vejust discovered they've opened a new road east of us, and we'releft high and dry."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that!" cried Angie.

"I knew you would be. I told you the other day—when Ihappened to run across you in Pasadena—that things lookedpretty good for me, but I'm afraid I spoke too soon. However,while there's life there's hope. We'll put it over yet, eh, Bill?Bill ain't more than twenty-five, and I feel younger everyminute. Now what can we do for you, Miss—er—MissAngie?"

"You can sell me ten gallons of gas—if you will,please."

They leaped to do her bidding. Alden assumed charge of thepump and Bill Merrick presided at the car. He leaned close to itsfair driver.

"I must have seemed stupid when we were introduced," he said."You see, I was overcome. It was too good to be true. Imean—meeting you again."

"Again?"

"Yes, we met once before. I guess you don't remember."

"I'm so sorry."

"You wouldn't, of course. There were hundreds of us. We wereon a train—in 1917—on our way to camp. It was at thestation in Detroit. I was leaning out the window, very greedy,and you came along the platform and gave me a sandwich."

"Ah, yes! Ham or cheese?"

"I don't know to this day."

"Was it as bad as that?"

"It was—wonderful. I wanted to put it in my memorybook—only I didn't have a memory book, so I ate it. I washungry. Afterward I wished I hadn't. I wished I'd savedit—always. Wow! Say, hold on a minute! Stop pumping!"

The tank was overflowing.

"I'm so sorry," said Angie. "I remember now—I had itfilled yesterday."

"That's only three gallons," Jim Alden said, disappointed. "Doyou need any oil?"

"Always need oil," answered Angie. "Never can think ofit."

Bill Merrick recalled that he was a partner in the enterprise.He went for the oil, while Alden lifted the hood of the car.Angie watched them. She reflected that Bill Merrick was a veryagreeable young man. Just the pal for her father. How nice!

"Need any tires, chains—anything like that?" askedAlden. "No? Well, you owe us two dollars and twelve cents."

She handed him a five-dollar bill.

"Keep the change, Dad," she said grandly.

"Oh, no, Miss Angie, I couldn't, really!"

"But I insist." She turned to Bill Merrick. "Don't getdiscouraged," she smiled. "You can count on one steadycustomer."

"You'll come again? Say, that's great!"

"For Dad's sake," she said. "He's the best ever. Be good tohim." She stepped on the gas and was gone.

Slowly Bill Merrick walked over and set down his burden ofoil.

"Say, Dad," he began, "I'm going to call you Dad, too, if youdon't mind. I believe you said something about—before herfather made his money. Who is she, anyhow?"

"Why, she's old Jim Alden's daughter."

"Alden! James M. Alden, the automobile man!" An expression ofacute despair spread over Bill Merrick's face. He sank down upona bench. "Of all the rotten luck!" he moaned.

"Oh, I don't know," said his partner. "Alden's not so bad.Pretty good father, I imagine."

"Rotten luck for me, I mean."

"How's that?"

"I guess you heard me tell her how I'd seen herbefore—in Detroit. I've never got over it—never beenable to see any other girl since. She's—she's wonderful.I've thought of her, dreamed of her—"

He sat staring gloomily in front of him. Jim Alden regardedhim with new interest. He liked this boy, liked the look in hiseyes, the smile which was for the moment submerged.

Yes, there was something appealing about Bill Merrick. Theolder man thought of Carter Andrews, who had cabled that morningfrom Yokohama.

"But why all this gloom?" Alden inquired.

"Why? You know who I am. You know what I've got. And now tofind out that she's Alden's daughter—a man worthmillions—"

"Nonsense! Jim Alden's no better than you or me. I knew himwhen he was a mechanic in Pontiac. We worked at the same bench.Why, I can remember—"

"Yes, you can remember. But can he? I'll bet you couldn'tprove to him that he ever worked for his living, not with the aidof a diagram. They get like that. I can see him—pompous,blustering, important. Can you imagine my going to him andsaying, 'Mr. Alden, I have come to ask for your daughter'? 'Andwho are you?' 'Oh, I'm the Napoleon of finance who bought agarage on a road nobody ever travels. And in addition to yourdaughter, Mr. Alden, I'd like to ask you for ten cents car fareback to town.'"

Jim Alden laughed.

"It seems to me you're a bit previous," he said. "As far as Icould see, Miss Angie is still heart-whole and fancy-free. And Itell you right now, Son, we're up against it here.

"We've got a problem on our hands. Are you going to face itwith me or must I get a new partner?"

Bill Merrick got to his feet.

"You're right, Dad," he answered. "It sort of upset me, seeingher again. But the moment of weakness has passed. Let Alden takehis daughter and his millions and go his way. I'm poor but proud.I'm darn poor, come to think of it. What do you suggest?"

"One thing's clear," his partner told him: "We've got to getover on that main road. This shack isn't worth moving. We'll haveto rent ground over there, put up a new building andvamoose."

"But the lease here has two years to go."

"Yes. Too bad. That's eight hundred a year we must set down onthe wrong side of the ledger—no help for it. We can thankPetersen for that. But he hasn't put me down and out. I wasstunned for a minute, but now I've just begun to fight. We'll bemighty careful picking our new location."

"But see here, Dad, that's all a rosy dream. How about funds?I'm nearly broke."

"Don't worry about funds. I told you Jim Alden was an oldfriend of mine. I'm sure he'll stake us to the limit. I'll go outto his Pasadena house to-night and have a long talk—"

"Jim Alden!" Bill repeated. "Somehow I don't like the idea ofborrowing money from him—her father."

"Rot! It will interest him in you. If you make good he'llrespect you."

"Think so? Maybe I'd better go with you to-night."

"No, no, that's all right. I can handle him better alone. Nowlet's leave Al in charge here while we run over to that newhighway and take a squint around. Then when we get thismoney—"

"You seem mighty sure we're going to get it."

"Of course I'm sure. Jim Alden would do anything on earth forme."

"Gosh," said Bill Merrick as they climbed into the car, "Iwish I could say the same!"

* * * * *

THAT evening Angie left the family group in thedrawing-room, where Arthur was seated at the piano singing aballad—he had an excellent tenor voice; he wouldhave—and hunted up her father in the library. She found himat his desk thinking hard.

"Hello," she said, "it's the old Alden retainer. Our firstchauffeur. We treat him just like one of the family."

"Hush, Angie, hush!"

"So I used to fall asleep in your lap, did I? Really, Dad, Ididn't care for that. It made me seem such a dopy child."

"Every word I said was the plain truth. I think I did mightywell under the circ*mstances. A fine fix you put me in."

"Oh, Dad, I was frightfully sorry—"

"After I'd prepared you—to rush up and bawl out 'Dad'the first crack out of the box."

"It was stupid of me. But you looked so funny. Ha, ha!"

"Hush, I tell you! See here, Angie, what did you think ofhim?"

"Of whom?"

"You know who I mean. My partner, Bill Merrick."

"Why, he seemed a worthy young mechanic. Of course I scarcelylooked at him."

"Oh, no, of course not! Well, give him a glance next time. Hethinks very highly of you—for some unknown reason. Thatsandwich you gave him must have been poisoned. He's neverrecovered."

"You don't say! Well, that's nice. We aim to please. But howdo you know?"

"Oh, he told me all about it afterward."

"Now, Dad, that isn't fair—to let him run on to you, notknowing who you are."

"Nonsense! It's a great chance for me. I guess a father neverhad a better opportunity to study a possible son-in-law."

"Dad! What rot!" Angie stared at him, amazed. "I'm willing tolet you run off and play with these rough boys, but you mustn'tdrag your grimy little pals into your private life. It won'tdo."

"Oh, you'll wake up later," her father said. "This boy has abetter education than I have—he's a gentleman. More thanthat, he's got a way with him."

"A dog-gone dangerous man, eh? Thanks for the warning. Butdear old Dad, the family friend, will always be on hand as achaperon."

"I will—and I want you to drop in often. A girl like youcan buck a young man up—keep him on the job. Our friendneeds cheering. Every cent he had went into that garage—andit looks as though we'd been stung." He told her of Petersen'sduplicity. "I acted too hastily," he admitted. "It's one on me.But of course it doesn't matter in my case. It's the boy I'mworried about."

"What are you going to do?" Angie asked.

"Well, we've got to raise some money and move. As I explainedto Bill, I know Jim Alden pretty well. Just as you came in I putit up to the old man. I asked him to lend us ten thousanddollars, and I think he's going to do it. We were arguing aboutthe rate of interest when you interrupted."

"But Alden's fond of you. He won't charge you anyinterest."

"Alden's a business man. Besides, the deal has got to looklike the real thing. I've got it—four per cent! I beat Jimdown from six for old sake's sake. Should auld acquaintance beforgot?"

"Fine! Now that's settled come out and join the family. I hearechoes of a bridge game, which means that Arthur's song isstilled."

"All right, but remember what I said. Drop in frequently. I'vetaken a shine to Bill."

"I suspect," said Angie, "it's not that you love Merrick more,but Carter Andrews less. However, I don't mind acting clubby. Inoticed myself that Bill has—rather nice eyes."

The next morning at eight, as was his custom, Jim Alden sat upin bed. His mind was racing as smoothly, as efficiently as thefamous Alden engine. He was ready for whatever business problemsthe day might bring. As his feet touched the floor he rememberedthat those problems were likely to be many and serious. His heartleaped for joy.

"'Maxwelton braes are bonnie, where early fa's the dew,'" hebellowed.

His wife, in the room adjoining, couldn't decide whether to beglad or suspicious.

When Jim Alden reached the garage his partner was waitingeagerly in the doorway.

"I'm a little late," puffed the millionaire. "Have to get upearlier, I guess."

"Never mind that," said Merrick. "Nothing stirring here. Didyou go out to Pasadena last night?"

"You bet I did!"

"And did you—did you see—her?"

"Her? Now look here, my boy, this is business! I didn't go outthere to call on Miss Angie. I went to see her father—and Idid. It's all fixed. Ten thousand dollars at four per cent. If weneed any more we're to let him know."

"Say, he must be a good old scout!"

"I think so, but maybe I'm prejudiced."

"Well," said Bill, "it's up to us now. We've got to hustle ourheads off. I'm not going to lose her father's money—you canunderstand why. I wish I knew more about automobiles."

"That's all right. I know a lot, and I'm going to teachyou."

"You're mighty kind," Bill Merrick replied. "I was busy, too,last night. After I left here I had dinner at a little place inSan Marco. Then I hunted up the best boarding-house in the town,got a room there and moved in. I figure it's like this: We oughtto get a location somewhere close to town, and then mull roundand mix with people. Get acquainted, I mean, with the leadingcitizens. It wouldn't be a bad idea for you to move out here. Ihaven't asked—are you a married man?"

"Er—yes, I'm married," smiled Alden.

"Well, why not bring the family out to San Marco?"

"I'm sorry; I can't very well at present. You see, I've got alease where I am."

"Too bad. Well, I'll start the ball rolling. This morning atbreakfast I met the leading real-estate man of the town. I made adate with him for ten-thirty. He's going to show us round."

"Fine! Now you're moving!"

"I lay awake half the night thinking," Bill went on. Hispartner stared at him. He wished he could lie awake half thenight and look so fresh and fit in the morning. "There are amillion garages here in Southern California. We've got to dosomething distinctive, something that will make us stand out fromthe crowd. The human touch—I'm strong for it."

"Me too," said the millionaire heartily.

"Let's just talk to folks—in the San Marcopaper—on signs along the highway. 'A service station withthe accent on the service.' How's that for a catchline?"

"I like it."

"You know what motorists usually get when they're in troubleand stop at a garage. Some grouchy incompetent picks their pocketand gives 'em a swift kick on their way. No sympathy, nofriendliness. Let's you and me get clubby with our customers.Let's chat things over and make friends, so they'll comeback.

Let's live in a house by the side of the road"—BillMerrick lapsed into poetry—"and be a friend to man. Letthat be the motto of the Mission Garage."

"The Mission Garage?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you! Most of these garages are just uglyshacks. They all look alike. So why not a distinctive building?With Jim Alden back of us we can swing it. Let's put up a neatlittle stucco affair, a reproduction of one of the old missions.That will be our trade-mark. The mission latchstrings were alwaysout—hospitality was the word—our motto too. What doyou say?"

"My boy, you're putting new heart in me. Some partner!"

"I knew you'd approve. Why, man, they can't stop us! In timewe'll have a string of Mission Garages all up and downCalifornia. We'll patent the idea. We'll get the agency for somegood car—by gad—"

"What is it?"

"There's an idea! Your friend, Jim Alden! We'll go after theagency for his car!"

"But he's retired."

"Sure, but he's still got influence! Of course I'm getting alittle ahead of myself, as usual. We've got to put the first oneover—the rest will be easy. You and me—the garagekings of Southern California." Bill Merrick laughed. "And tothink I studied law! We'd better start for that real-estateoffice."

Half an hour later they stood with the real-estate man on acorner about ten blocks from the center of San Marco, where thenew state highway was crossed by another road, frequentlytraveled.

"Believe me," warbled the agent, "if this road wasn't brandnew you'd never get a shot at a location like this. You're closeenough to get a lot of town business, as well as transients. Ifyou say the word we'll hang round here an hour and count thepassing cars."

It seemed a good idea. The count ran remarkably high.

"Just a normal week-day morning," the agent said. "I leave youto imagine Sundays and holidays. No funny business this time.Here's all the traffic Petersen drew from, and twice as muchmore. If you want to build a shack to do business in while yourbuilding's going up I can arrange a temporary lease on the groundnext door. Your gas tank and pump can go in at once."

They succumbed, returned to his office and signed a five-yearlease. That being settled, the real-estate man led them into theoffice of a young architect in the same building. That gentlemantook his feet off his desk, laid down a volume of zippy storiesand entered whole-heartedly into the spirit of the occasion.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I'll be frank. You fall on me likemanna from heaven. Building is at a standstill and I'm boredstiff. Even a garage sets my heart leaping."

"Where do you get that even-a-garage stuff?" Bill Merricksaid. "We don't propose to desecrate the landscape with theordinary shack," and he explained what they wanted.

"Glory be!" the architect cried. "Just turn me loose! I'llgive you a building that will cause tourists, at first glance, toreach for their guide-books, and it will be practical too."

He promised to sit up all night and finish the job. Many men,he said, were out of work. He could promise them a temporary homein a week and their main building in a month.

"Let's go!" was his war cry.

"I think," said Jim Alden, when the partners returned to thestreet, "I'd better jump on a trolley and run in town. I'll getthat money from Alden and deposit it to our joint account. Thenwe can release the check we just gave on the lease. And I'dbetter see the gasoline people and arrange about the pump."

"Go to it!" replied Bill Merrick. "We're on our way, partner!Looks like happy days."

"Happy days for me," smiled the millionaire.

When Jim Alden returned that afternoon from his business inthe city Bill Merrick was filling the gasoline tank of a handsomecar of Alden's own manufacture in which sat a lean, pleasant manof sixty or more. The hands that rested on the wheel were brownand gnarled.

"Hello, stranger!" Jim Alden said. "What do you hear fromIowa?"

"Things are pretty quiet," smiled the man. "But how did youknow—"

"Tell an Iowa man anywhere," laughed Alden.

The other was evidently delighted. Jim Alden leaned over thecar door and began a discussion of politics. They thought alike.It was the start of a beautiful friendship.

"I see you've got an Alden," said the automobile manpresently. "How's your engine?"

"Rotten," said the other. "Acts like it had the heaves. Nobodyseems able to tell me what's wrong."

"Best engine made," answered Alden, his pride touched. "Oughtnot to go back on you."

He lifted the hood of the car. The Iowa man climbed out andjoined him.

"Never would have gone back on me of its own free will," hesaid. "There was a little carbon in it and I left it at a garage.You know—one of those places where there's one thing wrongwith your car when it goes in and twenty when it comes out. I'dgive a hundred dollars for the name and address of a competentmechanic in this neighborhood."

"U'm!" Jim Alden studied his beloved but rather soiled child."Look here! Look at this!"

With expert eye and hand he ran over the mechanism. He pointedout several things that were wrong, and corrected them as hepointed. The Iowa man stared at him open-mouthed.

"By George," he said, "you know more about this engine thanold Jim Alden himself!"

"Not more," replied Alden, laughing. "But just about as much.Now get in and start your motor."

The stranger returned to his seat, connected his battery andstepped on the gas. A soft purring sound like a cat in cloverrewarded him.

"Great!" he cried. "Say, you're a wonder! It's too bad you'reway over here—sort of off the main thoroughfare."

Alden told him of their proposed move.

"You won't be far from my house," the Iowa man said. "You getall my business from now on. A competent mechanic—I'llspread the good word among my friends. I'm one of the towncommissioners, and I reckon I know everybody in San Marco."

"Send 'em around," said Alden. "We aim to please."

The Iowa man paid his modest bill and went happily on hisway.

Bill Merrick rushed up and seized the older man by the hand."Dad," he cried, "the Lord sure was good to me when he sent me apartner like you!"

"Come inside for ten minutes," said Alden, "and I'll tell youall I know about this game." But he was mightily pleased withhimself.

At half past four Angie appeared on the scene.

"I don't need anything for the car," she explained. "Justhappened to be passing. If you're going into Los Angeles, Dad,I'll be glad to give you a lift."

"Say, Miss Angie, that's mighty good of you."

"In heaven's name, go and scrub your hands!" shewhispered.

For the first time he remembered that tinkering an engine wasa soiling task. He had not been conscious of those grimyhands—they had seemed so natural, so like old times.

He hurried into the office.

Angie and Bill Merrick were left alone. The girl studied herfather's partner—without his knowing it—keenly,appraisingly. A conquest is a conquest, even in overalls,especially when it is young and handsome.

"Is business picking up?" she asked.

"Not much," he told her. "But that's all right. We're going topick up the business," and before he knew it he found himselfrelating all that had happened during the day.

"I'm so glad," Angie smiled. "You're on the road to successalready, aren't you?"

"So it seems. But I'd be on the road to the poorhouse if itwasn't for Dad."

"Dad!"

"Yes, I call him that too. He's the finest partner a man everhad."

"You like him?"

"I'll tell the world he's a prince! Do you like me—forliking him?"

"Naturally. He's an old and dear friend."

Mr. Bill Merrick leaned closer. "I'd better warn you—I'mgoing to do more than like him. He's so gentle and kindly andcapable—before I'm through I fancy I'm going to—tolove him."

"Oh!" said Angie.

A brief speech for her, but all she could think of, with BillMerrick's gray eyes so close, and all.

Fortunately Jim Alden reappeared at that moment, after asomewhat unsuccessful washing up. He got into the roadster.

"This is a bit of luck for me, Miss Angie," he said, sinkingback wearily.

"Me too," smiled Angie sweetly. "By the way, Mr. Merrick, anyfriend of Dad's must consider himself a friendof—er—my family too. Won't you come and call someevening—soon?"

"I should say I will!"

"Dad will tell you where we live. Good-by."

The little car shot down the road.

"I told Haku not to stop for you to-night," she added to herfather. "Thought I'd save you the trolley ride."

"It was kind of you, Angie—but don't do it often. Ouryoung friend might grow suspicious."

She turned and looked at him, then laughed.

"If you could see yourself you wouldn't say that. Nobody willever connect you with James M. Alden—you look too tired andhappy. I think I'd better slip you in the back way."

"Maybe you had." The car sped on. "I notice," said Alden, "youdidn't lose any time inviting Bill to the house."

"That's all right with you, isn't it?"

"Yes—in a way. But what's to become of me? Where do Ihide?"

"Well, there's the garage," laughed Angie. "Or, on rainynights, under the bed."

That evening Jim Alden sat with his wife in the drawing-roomin front of an open fire. The young people had gone to a dance atone of the hotels.

"Jim," she said suddenly, "what's happened to your hands?"

"My—er—my hands?"

"They're not clean. I noticed them at dinner."

"Well—er—I got to monkeying with one of ourengines at—at the garage. That fool Haku doesn't know thefirst thing about an engine. And it isn't so easy to get yourhands clean after you've been fooling round a car. You ought toremember that."

She made no reply. Jim Alden smiled.

"Lord, Mary," he said, "how you used to fuss about myhands—in the old days! Those—those were great days,weren't they? Don't you sometimes wish we could travelback—be young together again?"

It seemed to him that her face softened.

"Don't be an old fool, Jim," she said gently. "What's the goodof wishing for the impossible?"

* * * * *

BUT it was not so impossible as Mary Aldenthought—at least not for her husband. For him the hands ofthe clock were whirling back. He stood again at the beginning ofhis career, facing a dozen obstacles daily, overcoming them oneby one. All his energies were bent on making good.

Inside of a week he and Bill Merrick had moved most of theirequipment to a temporary shed on the lot next to the one they hadleased. Their gasoline pump was already installed and their newbuilding well under way. Their first day in the new location wasbrightened by the appearance of the man from Iowa, who stoppedfor gasoline and to renew his promise of trade from friends. Thispromise he kept. Business increased daily.

Jim Alden found himself in far deeper than he had intended.When he had first acted on the insurance man's suggestion he hadpictured himself hovering over the little business like a richbenignant uncle, lending a hand with the work only when hehappened to feel like it. As the situation stood, however, muchmore was required of him, and he gave his time gladly. Every weekday found him on the job. The light evening business wasentrusted to Al. The old man explained in various ways hisinability to serve Sundays and insisted that his partner shoulddraw down a slightly larger salary because of it.

Two evenings after Angie extended her invitation, Bill Merrickmade his first appearance at the Alden house. Jim Alden was inthe drawing-room when he heard his partner's voice in the hall,and was forced to make use of the servants' stairway at the rearin order to escape. For a time he stalked about his room ratherpeevishly. His masquerade had its drawbacks. He ended by goingearly to bed.

The next morning at the garage Bill Merrick was gloompersonified.

"What ails you, anyhow?" his partner asked.

"I called at the Aldens' last night," Bill explained. "It'sworse than I thought. I mean—I didn't know there was somuch money in the world. A royal palace. I'll never make thegrade. Might as well give up."

"Nonsense! Did you see the old man?"

"Oh, no! He was off somewhere—sitting on his goldenthrone, I suppose. Couldn't be troubled with trifles like me. ButI did meet Mrs. Alden. Ugh! Wished I'd worn my woolens. The icyshoulder, Dad—"

"But, Angie—Angie was friendly?" said Jim Aldenhastily.

"She's a darling," Bill Merrick admitted. "Gosh, how I wishshe didn't have a penny! Oh, for a break in the stock market andthe old man dead broke!"

"In which case he'd call in our ten thousand," Alden remindedhim. "Come in here. It's time for your morning lesson, and pleasekeep your mind on the job."

Bill was proving an apt pupil—had always been interestedin mechanics, he said. In a month he knew enough to qualify as afair mechanic. The middle of February found their new buildingcomplete. It was a reproduction of the mission at Carmel, areally beautiful thing. The Women's Club of San Marco passedresolutions thanking Grant & Merrick for the taste they haddisplayed. The whole town was friendly.

Jim Alden grew younger daily. If at first his muscles hadached horribly and his step faltered when he returned home of anevening, that passed, and he returned merely tired and ready forhis bed. He delighted in puttering round cars. More than that, heenjoyed the daily contact with all sorts of people, the exchangeof views on many topics. The ease with which he played two partsin the world amazed him. When he reached the garage in themorning and donned his uniform he was no longer James M. Alden,but John Grant. He could stand off and regard his old pal themillionaire with an air of utter detachment. There were sometraits in Jim Alden, he found, that were admirable; others he didnot like, and he resolved to speak to his friend about them.

His wife, always breathlessly busy with social affairs, seemedto have no suspicions—at least she gave no sign.Occasionally she mentioned having called him up at his officewithout success. He had a variety of alibis—the movies, theclub, long walks. One evening late in February she spoke to himabout another matter.

"That young fellow, Merrick"—she began.

"What about him? Who is he?" Alden asked, startled.

"He's nobody apparently, and he's coming to see Angiealtogether too often. You ought to look into it. He's nothing buta mechanic—owns a little garage somewhere. In partnershipwith a man named Grant, who claims to be an old friend ofyours."

"Oh, yes, John Grant."

"You know him then? I tried to recall the name, but it was allso long ago. Well, I wish you'd meet this boy and squelch him. Itseems that whenever he appears you're somewhere else."

"Oh, I'll meet him sooner or later."

"But, Jim, this is serious. I believe Angie likes him. Pleasedo something at once, otherwise we may find ourselves in a ratherawkward position."

He put her off with vague promises. So Angie liked BillMerrick.

"Well, what's awkward about that?" he said fiercely—tohimself.

The fifteenth of March Grant & Merrick were able to payJim Alden two thousand dollars of his principal. The youngerpartner was elated.

"Slowly but surely," he said. "You know, Dad, I've taken anoath. I've made up my mind to tell Angie I love her—someday. Then if she pushes me out of her life for ever—well,that's that. But one thing I've sworn—I'll never tell herwhile we owe her father money!"

"A mighty sensible idea," Alden admitted.

"If I can only hang to it," Bill Merrick sighed. "You know,Dad, she's almighty sweet—and spring is on the way!Sometimes I'm afraid I'll lose my head—and her—all inone glorious tragic night."

"Ignore the spring," advised Jim Alden.

He knew, however, that he asked the impossible. Even his ownaging heart could not remain insensible to the wonders of thechanging seasons. April came, perfuming the universe, and on JimAlden's lawn the landscape architect at last began to earn hisfee.

Walking up his driveway in an aisle of blooming beauty oneevening early in the month, he found an old friend on theveranda. Doctor Tillson, from Detroit, was waiting, keenlyanxious to view the effect of his prescription.

"Well, Jim Alden," said the doctor, after the greetings, "youalways thought you knew more than I did."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that."

"Maybe not, but you'd think it. Now you'll pardon me if Igloat a bit. When I ordered you to cut loose from everything, tocome out here and take a complete rest, what did you say? Yousaid it was a death sentence."

"I know I did."

"And now look at you! Why, man, you're ten years younger thanwhen I last saw you! It's a miracle! Excuse me if I press mypoint. Was I right—or were you?"

Alden hesitated. He wanted to gloat a little himself, but themoment was not propitious.

"You were right, as always, Doc," he laughed.

The doctor bowed. He admitted it.

"What do you do with yourself all day?" he asked. "Your wifesays you have an office. I don't quite approve of that."

"Oh, just a place to loaf, Doc. I go in every morning and moonround. Then the club, the movies, long walks."

"Fine! Not a stroke of work, eh?"

"Nothing I'd call work." Alden thrust his hands deep into hispockets. "You're going to stop with us while you're outhere?"

"Mrs. Alden has very kindly invited me."

"Good!" Alden reflected that his moment of triumph might yetcome. "Make yourself at home. I'll be down shortly." He went upto his room.

That evening as he sat with the doctor in the library his wifeentered.

"Jim," she said, "that young Merrick is here. He's takingAngie for a ride. Will you come and meet him now—or must Idrag you out?"

"No, no, not to-night," he protested. "Later."

She stood eying him. He thanked heaven for the presence of thedoctor. Otherwise he felt there would have ensued an argumentlikely to be a losing one for him.

"Very well," said Mary Alden. "We'll discuss it later."

She went out. Jim Alden rose uneasily and walked to a window.He felt that his masquerade could not be maintained muchlonger—things were approaching a crisis. He saw Angie andBill Merrick going down the drive. The perfume of a nightbeautiful beyond words swept in on him. A moon made for loversrode high amid the stars. Could Bill Merrick keep that promise tohimself? Jim Alden rather hoped he couldn't.

He got his wish. His partner appeared at the garage nextmorning apparently a stricken man.

"Well, I'm done for, Dad," he announced. "It was just the wayI was afraid it would be—spring and the moon and theperfume of her hair. I knew as well as I know anything that westill owe her father eight thousand dollars. And yet— "

"Tell me all about it."

"We were loafing along a country road out San Gabriel way. I'dbeen so excited at the thought of seeing her I'd forgot to fillthe gas tank. The car stopped dead—in the shadow under atree. It seemed the hand of Providence. She was mightyclose—the seat in that old bus of ours is pretty narrow.The next thing I knew she was in my arms and I was tellingher—pouring it all out."

"And she refused you," finished Jim Alden sympathetically.

"Refused me? Hell, no! She loves me, Dad. She said," continuedBill Merrick out of his vast gloom, "it was the happiest momentof her life."

"Judging by your looks, you can't say the same."

"I could only—dog-gone it, before she'd finishedspeaking I realized what I'd done. Jim Alden's daughter! It'spreposterous!"

"Well, it's happened. What's your next move?"

"I don't know. I was a little mad last night. I urged her torun away with me—without a word to her family. I didn'tknow what I was saying."

"What was her answer to that?"

"She told me to ask your advice. Said she'd be guided byyou."

"Wise girl," smiled Alden.

"I want to tell you, however, that I've changed my mindovernight. I couldn't run away with her. I'm not such a coward asthat."

"Of course you're not!"

"But what am I to do?" moaned Bill Merrick. "She loves me.She's willing to marry me. I can't just let the whole matterdrop."

The older man rose and put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"There's only one thing to do," he said.

"I know what you mean."

"Go up to Jim Alden's house to-night. Demand to see him. Takea search warrant with you and drag him out from under the bed, orwherever it is he hides. Tell him you're a clean, decent youngman with all your faculties and you want to marry Angie."

"It's got to be done," admitted Bill Merrick, "and I'll do it.But I'm scared to death. You know what he'll think I am—afortune hunter." He got to his feet and glared fiercely at hispartner. "Damn Jim Alden's money!" he cried.

"His money!" repeated John Grant, the middle-aged mechanic,glaring back. "Don't you let him mention his money to you! Hewon't, anyway—not if he's the Jim Alden I used to work within Pontiac. But if he does—if he does—"

"Yes, Dad."

"Back him into a corner and jam a question down his throat.Just one question! Ask him how much he was getting at your age.If he's honest with you he'll tell you—twenty-six dollars aweek, and darned glad to get it!"

He stopped, perspiring. He was vastly indignant with thisarrogant millionaire.

"Dad, you're a peach," Bill Merrick said. "To-night's thenight! I'll beard him in his den. But, gosh, I hope this is along day!"

At three that afternoon Jim Alden was standing in front of hisgarage enjoying a moment of leisure. Al was busy inside. BillMerrick had motored into town to obtain a new part for a car theywere repairing. Suddenly Alden noticed his own limousine comingdown the boulevard with Haku at the wheel. In the back seat wereMary Alden and Doctor Tillson.

Once or twice before Mary had driven by the place. On thoseoccasions her husband had invented urgent business inside. Butnow he stood his ground. His heart beat a little faster, however,when Haku swung in the drive before the garage door and pausedbeside the gas pump. Alden pulled his old hat low over his eyesand stepped forward.

"Ten gallons of gasoline," ordered Mary Alden. She did not add"my good man," but it was in her tone.

"Yes'm." Jim Alden filled the tank. When he had finished hewent to the door of the car. "Two-eighty, please," hemuttered.

It was a point of pride with his wife never to notice amenial. She handed him a ten-dollar bill. He went inside andreturned with the change. As he put it into her hand a spirit ofdeviltry seized him. He pushed his old hat far back on his headand looked her full in the eye.

"All right, Mary," he said. "That fixes you. Drive on."

An expression of—er—well, decidedly an expressionappeared on Mary Alden's face—and froze there.

"Jim Alden!" cried the doctor. "What does this mean?"

"It means," said Alden, "that you were wrong, after all. Itried your prescription for a while. I got worse—worseevery day. If I'd stuck to it I'd have been under the daisies bythis time. I had sense enough to get down off the shelf—tounfold my hands. I bought a half-interest in this business. Forthe past five months I've been here every day, tinkering cars,talking politics, having a darn good time. You told me last nightI look ten years younger. Well, I feel that way."

"Ah, yes," cried his wife, finding her voice. "Satan findsmischief for idle hands to do."

"If this is mischief, give me more of it," said Alden. "And asfor Satan, he has saved my life." Over his shoulder he saw BillMerrick approaching. "We'll talk it all over to-night. Just now Irepeat my suggestion—please drive on!"

No one moved. Alden saw Haku staring at him. It is a generalbelief that the Japanese face can not express deep emotion. Amistaken one.

"Drive on, Haku," ordered Alden. Haku did not stir. This was abig thing and he wanted to get it straight. "Will you take myorders, or not?" roared the millionaire.

Haku came to life and stepped on the gas. The big car shotinto the road, carrying Mary Alden's stricken face from herhusband's sight.

"Well," said Bill Merrick at five o'clock, "all good thingsmust end, including the condemned man's last day. Shot at sunset!I think I would have preferred the morning."

"Cheer up," smiled Alden. "If it helps any, I'm going to be atold Jim's house to-night myself. I've been invited."

"Good!" replied Bill, smiling wanly. "You can take charge ofthe remains."

In spite of his bravado at the garage Jim Alden crossed hisveranda that evening feeling rather sheepish. He was like a smallboy who had gone swimming without permission and been found out.He was surprised to find Mary in his room. She was sitting in achair by the window, her hands idly folded in her lap. He wentover and sat down beside her.

"Well, Mary," he said, "I guess I've been a pretty badboy."

"I guess you have, Jim."

"What are you going to do to me?"

"Angie has told me the whole story. There's only one thing Idon't like—why did you keep it a secret from me?"

"You'd have been against it, Mary."

"Probably I would at first. I'd have talked a lot, but you'dhave had your own way in the end. You always do. And afterward,when I saw how much better you were—how happy—"

"You want me to be happy, Mary?"

"Yes, Jim," she answered gently. "That's all that mattersnow—keeping happy the rest of the way."

"There's one thing more," he said. "My partner at thegarage—Bill Merrick—a fine boy, Mary. I know himinside out. He's coming up to-night to ask for Angie. He doesn'tknow I'm Jim Alden. It will be a shock to him. All I'm going tosay is—that it's all right with me."

"A mechanic!"

"Just as I was—when you married me. He's got a futuretoo. This business of ours is going to grow. I'll attend to that,once I've told him my real name." He leaned closer. "They'll bestanding just where you and I stood thirty years ago. We can'thave our own youth back, but we can live it over again—withour children."

She went over to a table and picked up a package.

"What's this?" he asked as she handed it to him.

"I hunted all over Los Angeles, but I finally found it," shesaid. "It's that soap, Jim—the kind I used to get for youin Pontiac. You remember? It's so good for your hands."

He stood up and put his arm about her.

"There was just one fly in the ointment, Mary," hesaid—"your not knowing. I didn't like it. It seemed to bedriving us so far apart. But that's all over now."

"All over now," she repeated, smiling at him. He kissed her.It was like coming home in Pontiac.

When he came down-stairs dressed for dinner he demandedimmediate audience with Doctor Tillson.

"I forgot to tell you, Jim," his wife said. "The doctor wentinto town this afternoon. He's going East in the morning."

She laughed. "He left a message for you. He said he'd resignedin favor of Satan."

After dinner Arthur and Edie sought intellectual nourishmentat the movies. Jim Alden, his wife and Angie sat together in thedrawing-room. When he heard the bell ring Alden stood up.

"It's poor Bill," he said. "I'll go into the library. Hustlehim right in, Angie. Don't prolong his agony."

He had scarcely seated himself behind his massive desk whenthe door opened and Angie smilingly entered, followed by BillMerrick. The younger partner in the San Marco garage wore eveningclothes, and his face was as white as his hard-boiled front.

"Dad," said Angie, "here's Bill Merrick. He wants to marryme."

"I know he does," said Alden. "He's told me so from time totime."

Bill Merrick opened his mouth, but no sound that couldpossibly be regarded as speech issued forth. He stood therestaring at the distinguished-looking man who seemed so like thesoiled partner he had parted from not three hours before.

"Bill," said Alden gently, "we've treated you rather shabbily,but we didn't go for to do it. Angie will explain it all to youlater on. For the moment all I need say is that they'd put me upon the shelf with the rest of the dust, and I didn't like it, soI climbed down and bought a half-interest in Petersen'sgarage."

"Good lord!" cried Bill Merrick. "You—you are James M.Alden?"

The old man came from behind the desk and put his arm roundthe boy's shoulders.

"Where do you get that James M. stuff?" he said. "You might aswell go right on calling me Dad."

And since that seemed to sum up all he had to say, he left theroom, closing the door softly behind him.

THE GIRL WHO PAIDDIVIDENDS

Illustrated by Charles D. Mitchell

First published in The Saturday Evening Post, Apr 23,1921

MR. HERMAN WINKLE, the eminent producer of filmmasterpieces, sat in his office staring at the director he hadbut recently lured away from a rival concern. California'sspecial brand of early morning sunshine poured through a windowat Mr. Winkle's back, bathing in golden splendor his vast expanseof bald head.

"Well, Kenyon," he inquired, "did you go over that new scriptfor Malone?"

"I did," said the director. "It looks like an A-l story tome."

"Yeah, it's a good piece of property," replied Mr. Winkle,making use of his favorite phrase.

The director smiled.

"Now that shot where Malone appears on the fire escape in hernightgown— "

"Wasn't in the property when I bought it," Mr. Winkle informedhim. "I wrote it in." He paused a moment, his chest swelling withthe pride of authorship. "Well, I guess you're ready to beginshooting as soon as Malone shows up. I hope you two get along O.K."

"Oh, we'll hit it off," smiled Kenyon. "I understand thatPeggy Malone is a regular fellow."

"She's a mighty fine kid," said Mr. Winkle. "Five years webeen working together, and never a word between us that wasn't aspleasant as a good week's gross. Yes, sir, five years ago I foundher in the Follies chorus, getting her measly little fifty aweek. Just for an evening of pleasure I go to the theater, andthe minute this girl walks on I know I'm there for business.Right away I went back stage and signed her up. It was one of mybig strokes."

"One of many," flattered Kenyon.

"Yeah, you said it," Mr. Winkle admitted. "Well, get busy. AllI got to say is, treat her right. I never knew her to be peevishyet, but I ain't taking no chances. I wouldn't lose her forRockefeller's millions. She's the best bit of property I got." Herose and waved an emphatic finger at his new director. "Believeme when I say it, she's the best bit of property in thefilms."

Up at the other end of Hollywood, in a boudoir done, to quotePeggy herself, "in a Los Angeles imitation of Louis the Quince,"the film star sat before her dressing-table. She was running atortoise-shell comb through her hair, which she wore bobbed thatseason. On top it was a tangled glory of gold, but it stoppedabruptly just below her ears, as though it would think twicebefore concealing those charming shoulders.

In the mirror Peggy Malone could see, at her back, the trimfigure of her maid moving silently about the room, straighteningit up. She found the sight of so much calm efficiency, so earlyin the morning, rather wearing. Again she lowered her eyes, underthe famous long lashes, to her dressing-table, where amid thetoilet things lay an opened letter. At sight of the letter Peggysmiled.

"Good old Nell!" she said.

"Beg pardon, miss?" said the maid.

"It's a letter from an old pal of mine," explained PeggyMalone. "A girl I used to know in the Follies—NellMorrison. She went over to London, and turned out a riot. She'sall pep, all ginger, Nell is. And the English are so taken withthat sort of thing, poor dears, having so little themselves!"

"Yes, miss," said the maid stiffly. She was English and proudof it.

Peggy yawned.

"To hear Nell tell it, she's grabbed off a duke. She wants meto come over and go shopping. Says the titles are all lined up onthe shelves, and you just go in and serve yourself—like acafeteria."

"Why don't you go, miss? The rest would do you good."

"If I only could!" sighed Peggy, and smiled again—thattwisted, wistful little smile that held her publicenthralled.

She could do with a rest, she told herself. She was rathertired. She lowered her hand with the comb to the edge of thetable and yawned again. This getting up at eight in the morningwas no joke. Not like the old days in the chorus, days that beganwhen the noon whistles were blowing. Happy days; not much money,but excitement—thrills. Sometimes she wished

How foolish, she reflected. With all her luck! Her thoughtsflew back beyond the chorus, back to the smoke of Pittsburgh, outof which her beauty had so unexpectedly emerged. It was six-thirty when she rose in the mornings then. She smelled again thesteamy little kitchen; saw her mother wearily hovering betweenstove and table; her father, the motorman, drinking his coffeefrom a saucer, then rushing off to the barn to take out his car;and Joey, her brother, whimpering under foot, cross in themornings even at that age. She remembered her own hurriedbreakfast, her race to the big hotel where, as telephoneoperator, she was one day to meet the Broadway manager who was sokeen a judge of beauty wherever found. Lucky—yes, she waslucky. She looked round the luxurious room her beauty had paidfor.

"Nearly nine o'clock," suggested the maid.

Peggy Malone stood up, slim and straight and boyish in herlacy negligee. It was one of her chief assets, that figure ofhers. Whenever a film story faltered, whenever the author'sinvention failed him, they rushed Peggy into a negligee, abathing suit, anything that was nothing much. And right there thepicture went over—scored a big success. Her face waslovely—innocent, appealing, a necessary part of herequipment, of course—but it was not her face Herman Winklewas thinking of when he fixed her salary at eight hundred aweek.

When she was ready to go down-stairs her maid spoke.

"We're all out of the face cream, miss."

"So we are." Peggy opened her purse and took out a bill. "Howmuch is it a jar?"

"I—I don't recall, miss." The eyes of the maid, fixed onthat greenback, were cold, grasping. "The price keeps going up.Two dollars, I fancy, the last I bought."

Peggy tossed the ten-dollar bill down on her dressing-table.

"Get me a couple of jars," she said.

The maid seized the bill and tucked it away in her bosom. Shelooked keenly at her mistress. She wondered if Peggy suspectedthat the cream was only fifty cents a jar. Probably not. Anyhow,Peggy Malone should worry—with her salary! The woman smiledand patted her bodice above the bill. Nine dollars clear, and theday yet young. She must tell Henry, the chauffeur, about this.Not that Henry would be impressed; he wouldn't stoop for suchchicken feed. His arrangement with the garage brought him, heboasted, more than a hundred a month.

Peggy went down to the breakfast-room. Her father, PeterMalone, was already at the table. A powerful-looking man youwould have said, and, indeed, strength had been his boast in thedays when he piloted a trolley car about Pittsburgh. But he wasnot so strong now. His back, he said, hurt him. Three yearsbefore, when his wife died, he had come out to sample the climateof California. The idea had been that he was to obtain a job, buthe had found the air of the Coast strangely enervating. Now andagain he had come into dangerous proximity to work, but when hehad asked the salary and compared it to the money Peg wasgetting—well, it was precisely at that moment that he waslikely to experience a twinge of warning from his back.

"Hello, Peg," he said cheerfully.

"Good morning, Dad. What are you up to?"

"Waiting for you," he said. "You know, Peg, I was just settin'here watching the sunshine on the silver, an' it come tome—how your poor mother would have enjoyed all this."

"Would she?" asked Peggy. She sat down and attacked hergrapefruit. "Somehow I don't believe she would have beencontented just to loll round and enjoy. She was always a worker,Mother was. I imagine I'm like her."

"What do you mean by that?" asked her father.

"Nothing," smiled Peggy. And it was true, she had intended norebuke. "Where's Joey?"

"Ain't down yet," scowled Peter Malone. "I heard him come inlast night. Past three it was. I looked at that watch you gaveme. If you ask me, he was probably over at Hunt's room at thehotel playin' poker."

"Think so?"

"Sure! An' they cleaned him out again, I'll bet you. He ain'tgot no sense, that kid. You ought to speak to him, Peg."

"Oh, no!"

"But, Peg, it's your money he loses."

"What if it is? Let's not have any row."

"Well, it's up to you, of course. An' speakin' of money, mydear—"

"Uh-huh."

"I bought a bunch of silk shirts yesterday. There was a saleon. I got 'em at rock-bottom prices. But it took every penny Ihad."

"More silk shirts? Dad, you've got a thousand already."

"Well, what if I have?" He poured rich, heavy cream on hisoatmeal. "The father of Peggy Malone's got to look snappy, hasn'the? You don't want me goin' round shabby?"

"Of course not, you old dear. How much do you want?" She roseand went to the table where her pocketbook lay. His eager eyesfollowed her.

"Oh, not much, honey. Just car fare, that's all—and afew little extras."

She threw a bill down beside him.

"Will twenty do?" she asked.

"Plenty, plenty!" he answered cheerfully. He tucked the billaway in his vest with a sigh of relief. It assured him thepleasant little adjuncts of his aimless day—a bunch ofexpensive cigars, a good lunch, the cheap vaudeville or moviethat was his solace of an afternoon. "You're a good girl, Peg,"he assured her.

"Never been a word against me," she laughed, resuming herseat.

Joey came into the room, sour-faced, the corners of his mouthdrooping. A sporty youth of twenty, pulpy faced, dressed like aclothing advertisem*nt, and with mean little eyes. His greetingto his father was short and sharp, but he made an effort to bemore genial in his manner toward Peg. Joey was, as usual, atliberty. He had graced numerous jobs round motion-picture lots,but none for long. He sat down and took up his spoon with fingersthat bore the stain of many cigarettes.

"Where was you last night, young man?" his father asked.

"That's my affair," snapped Joey. His eye fell on a letterbeside his plate. He snatched it up and read. "The devil!"

"What's the trouble?" Peggy inquired.

"That money you gave me to invest in oil stocks," replied Joeysadly. "The market's all shot to pieces, and the broker'shollering his head off for more margin."

"Oh, dear," said Peg. "I thought you were going to getrich!"

"Maybe I will—some day. But the market's in the cellar,digging itself in."

"How much does the broker want?" she asked.

"He—he says he's got to have three hundred. If he don'tget it we're wiped out." Peggy had finished her brief breakfast.She rose and went toward her desk in the next room. Joey got upand followed. "Might make it a little more," he suggested. "I'mstripped. Not a drop of gas for my car."

Back at the table Peter Malone had picked up the broker'snotice.

"Three hundred, you say?" he called. "It looks more like twohundred to me."

Joey swung on him, his little eyes flashing.

"Keep out of this, will you?" he cried. "You've made yourtouch, I'll gamble on that. Now you're trying to queer me!You—you dog in the manger!"

"Hush!" cried the girl. "Please—you know how I hate arow." Joey muttered something about being sorry. She took up herrather worn check-book and wrote. "Here you are, Joey. Fourhundred—will that do?"

"Fine—fine!" cried the boy, elated. "You're an ace,Peg."

"Am I?" She smiled at him. "Joey, I wish you'd keep away fromHunt and that crowd at the hotel. They're too clever foryou—you're only a kid."

"Sure I will if you say so!" He went back to the table, hishot fingers clasping the check. "You're the boss round here,Peg," he added, with a contemptuous glance at his father.

Peggy stood pulling on her gloves.

"By the way, Dad," she said, "I had a telegram from MartinFox. He's on his way to Los—gets in to-day. If he calls thehouse tell him to look for me at the studio."

An expression of alarm crossed her father's face.

"Martin Fox! Coming all the way from New York again—tosee you!"

"Well, I guess that's the idea."

"He's crazy about you."

"Wouldn't it be nice if he was—and him worthmillions?"

"Now don't you go and get married, honey. You're doing mightywell as it is. I don't care what Fox is worth; it wouldn't beyour money—like this is. Remember that!"

"Married?" She snapped the catch on her glove. "I may as welltell you what I told Martin the last time I saw him. I'd marryhim to-morrow—if I was free."

Malone remembered then, and a look of relief came into hiseyes.

"But you ain't free, Peg," he said. "You got one husbandalready. You ain't forgot Jimmy, have you?"

"No"—her voice softened somewhat—"I haven't forgotJimmy. He can never say that I did—not once in two yearshave I missed. The first of every month—regular—likerent day—he's got his check from me."

"But Jimmy's a sick man," her father protested.

"Sure! Don't forget what I said. Send Martin round to thestudio. If you go out leave word with the Jap. Ta-ta!"

She waved good-by from the hall and disappeared into thebright outdoors. Malone turned worried eyes on his son.

"You heard what she said? She'd marry Fox to-morrowif—"

"Yes—if. They got to get rid of Jimmy first. And believeme, Jimmy will take some getting rid of! He's a wise old bird,sick or well." Joey got up from the table.

"Here," said his father, "you better take this notice from thebroker."

"To hell with the broker! Four hundred cash—I ain't hadso much money in a month."

"You listen to me—"

"Let the oil stock slide. You may not see me for a day or two.I'm going down to Tia Juana to play the ponies. I'll come backwith a wad."

Peter Malone got to his feet.

"I forbid it!"

"You? Don't make me laugh!"

"How dare you speak to your father—"

"Oh, fade away! Fade away!" And the front door slammed behindhim, while Peter Malone stood raging, helpless.

In a few moments the older man's anger had cooled. He sat downin Peggy's chair, in Peggy's house, looking out over Peggy'slawn. He took out a cigar she had paid for, and spread on hisknees the newspaper for which she subscribed. Slothful contentfilled his soul. She was a good girl, was Peggy. She would lookout for him, whatever happened. Other men set aside stocks andbonds as a protection against old age, but he had that which wasfar, far better—a loving, indulgent daughter.

His daughter was riding in her open limousine down HollywoodBoulevard. Spring comes to California as to other places, thoughthere, of course, it merely gilds the lily. Peggy was consciousof a feeling of spring in the air. She saw, on the lawnsbordering the pavement, new blossoms that had sprung into beingovernight. On a corner an old, bent, ragged man was sellingviolets.

Peggy Malone's thoughts drifted lazily back over sevenyears.

It was spring in Atlantic City too. In front of the theater,on the Boardwalk, an old, bent, ragged man sold violets. Theywere down there to open a new musical show—just another ofthose things. It never had a chance in the world. Its backerswere broke before they rung up the curtain. The only clever thingabout the production was Jimmy Parsons, its press agent, then atthe beginning of his brief but brilliant career as the white-haired boy of Broadway—its pet, its darling. Quaint,whimsical, given to quixotic adventures, to know him was to lovehim; not to know him was to argue oneself unknown on the GreatWhite Way.

On a warm, lovely Monday night, when the Atlantic whisperedsoftly just outside the walk, their show opened and bade thepublic come and see. The girls worked hard that night. Theydanced like demons, smiled eternally, and at the finish wonderedwhether the piece went over. When the next morning at ten,sleepy-eyed and weary, they reported for rehearsal, theirquestion was answered by a notice on the call board. The showwould close that evening! Five weeks of rehearsal and two nightsof work!

When Peggy Malone returned to the Boardwalk the morning hadlost its savor and life its thrill. She was dimly conscious ofthe flower man, who stood directly in her path.

"Violets, lady! Violets!"

"No—no!" she cried, and stopped. Something in thatvoice

"Violets, lady, from the hand of one who loves you!"

She looked again. Jimmy Parsons, in the coat and hat of theflower man, was proffering the purple blossoms. How like him!

"Jimmy!" she cried. Her voice broke.

"Thirty-two bunches of violets—all for you," he saidgayly. "With my undying love."

"Jimmy, you silly old thing! The show's busted."

"Sure it has! I knew that last night. Good idea too. Gives usplenty of time to get married. I dare you!"

She was not one to take a dare. Besides, she loved him then.Jimmy and the flower man once more traded costumes, and there wasa quick wedding, with violets for all the girls, though many ofthem would have preferred roast beef.

"What do we care if the show's a bloomer?" Jimmy had cried."Our love is a big success."

So it had been—for a time. But Jimmy Parsons' career asthe most popular man's man on Broadway left him little leisurefor a wife. Wherever he went his pals were waiting. They woulddrag him in somewhere for a drink. Each night at the club theysurrounded him, urging him on to that flow of brilliant talk forwhich he was famous up and down the big street. He would growmore witty as the day approached, which was probably why theyseldom let him off till dawn. Very soon the love that had seemedso wonderful in Atlantic City was dead and forgotten, like theshow that ran two nights. Peggy went back to the chorus.

Now, as her car turned off the Boulevard into a side street,Peggy smiled softly to herself.

"Violets, lady, violets! From the hand of one who loves you!"He had been a dear in those days. But when she had seen himlast—two years ago!

She shuddered. Broadway had got him—too many highballs,too many four-o'clock breakfasts. When she met him at the LosAngeles hotel he was coughing with a cold that somehow he couldnot shake off, and there were red splotches high on his thincheeks.

"The doctors say I'm all in, Peg," he told her.

She shrank from him.

"You can't believe all you hear, Jimmy," she said. There wassomething in his eyes she did not like, a beaten look, a terriblefear of death. "Listen! There's a place down on the edge of thedesert—it's called Palm Springs. They say the air is finefor—for sick people. You go down there and get ahouse—"

"I'm broke, Peg."

"I'll stake you. You can pay it back when you get well."

He shook his head.

"You'd be throwing your money away," he told her.

He was very sure he would not go, but there was little fightleft in him. She persuaded him, she made all arrangements, rentedthe house, instituted the custom of the monthly check. It wascharacteristic of her that she set the figure at two hundred andfifty dollars, twice the sum that he needed.

Jimmy went off to Palm Springs, and not once since then hadshe seen him or heard from him, save through her canceled checksthat came back from the bank.

"Crawling off to the desert to die," he had told a friend onleaving. But he still lived; he lived this beautiful Aprilmorning, the only obstacle between Peggy and Martin Fox, wholoved her and wanted to take care of her.

Peggy alighted from her car before the studio and went quicklyto her dressing-room.

As she seated herself to make up there came a knock on herdoor and one of her sister actresses entered, carrying a weeklytheatrical newspaper.

"Something in here about you, Peg," she said, and held it out.Peggy took it and read:

"Jimmy Parsons, who went out to California two years ago torecover from an illness, writes to a friend that he's a riot withthe cactus plants. It is understood that Jimmy has beenapproached by the lawyer of a certain Wall Street man and offereda cool fifty thousand to allow his wife to divorce him. The rumorgoes on to say that Jimmy is holding out for a bigger split onthe gross."

Peggy Malone flushed and handed back the paper. "That's allnews to me," she said.

"Oh, sure it is, dearie!" remarked the actress with opensarcasm.

"You heard me!" Peggy's eyes flashed.

"Well, don't get sore," said the girl, and went out.

Peggy sat for a moment staring at her glass.

So Jimmy was holding out for more money! How he had changedsince Atlantic City seven years ago! And Martin Fox was on hisway—would arrive this very afternoon.

"I'm coming to settle things once for all," he had wired.

She was conscious of the imminence of a crisis in heraffairs.

Another knock at her door, and Kenyon, the new director,looked in.

"Whenever you're ready, Miss Malone," he smiled.

"Just a second," she smiled back, and with flying fingers sheprepared herself for a day's hard labor.

* * * * *

WHEN Martin Fox met her at the Los Angeles hotelfor dinner that evening he had another man with him whom heintroduced as Mr. Greenwood. The stranger was a mild, geniallittle chap, with eyes that beamed behind thick spectacles.

Peggy was surprised. It was not Fox's custom to welcome athird party to their meetings.

Fox himself was looking more efficient, more prosperous thanever. He was a big, silky-smooth man, blond and handsome; thesort who, in a play, remarks at intervals: "Remember, I alwaysget what I go after."

In real life he was not so crude as to say it—he justlooked it. At the moment two devastating passions engrossedhim—Peg and money. The former was recent, the latter oflong standing.

They went in to their table in a quiet, partially hiddencorner.

"Don't order for me, please," Greenwood said. "My wife isexpecting me at the apartment. I'll just report and then I'll runalong."

Peggy looked at him wonderingly.

"Greenwood is my lawyer," Fox explained.

"Oh!" she said. She understood now. "Martin, I heard whatyou've done, and I can't say I like it."

"Why not?" He seemed surprised. "I'd do anything to get you,Peg. It means my very happiness—and yours too. Isn't thatso?"

"Yes, of course. But money never counted with Jimmy."

"It didn't, eh?" sneered Fox. "Well, I never met the man yetwho hadn't his price. Dear old Jimmy's seems to be a bit higherthan we expected, but let Mr. Greenwood tell it."

"Well, I went down to Palm Springs," began Greenwood. "Thereare a few sanitariums, some simple little houses—and theair was wonderful."

"You didn't go down to take the air," Fox suggested.

"No, of course not." The lawyer's tone was sharp and held noapology. "I had Mr. Parsons' house pointed out to me—a neatlittle bungalow set amid orange trees. When I came along he waslying in a hammock in the dooryard. He got up and met me."

Peggy Malone leaned eagerly across the table.

"How was he looking?" she asked.

"He was looking mighty well," said Greenwood. "In fact, I wasgreatly surprised.

"'You don't look much like a sick man to me,' I told him.

"He laughed. I can't imagine how that rumor started/ he said.'I'm as strong as a horse.'"

"You see?" Martin Fox's tone was triumphant. "He doesn'tdeserve any sympathy. He's all right; just lazy—lying upthere in a hammock waiting for your two fifty amonth—grafting off you like all the rest."

"Go on," Peggy said to the lawyer.

"Well, he made it difficult for me, I'll have to admit that,"Greenwood continued. "He was so darn glad to see me. Said I wasthe first visitor he'd had in two years. He called his Chineseboy and ordered lunch, and he talked. It was pathetic, somehow,the way he talked. Just ran on and on—couldn't stop. Andsuch talk! It was as good as a show."

"But you hadn't come there to hear him talk," Fox put in. "Youmade that clear?"

"Oh, yes—naturally—after lunch. I told him mymission was sort of delicate. I explained how things stood. Isaid his wife wanted to marry. 'Did she send you?' he asked sortof sharp. I said no, that I represented the gentleman in thecase. 'Ah, yes,' he said, 'I know his sort. I've never seen him,never heard of him until to-day; but I can describe him.' And hewent on to tell me all about you. It was—uncanny."

"Go ahead," growled Fox. "Repeat it."

"Oh, no—no matter," said the lawyer hastily. "I got tothe point at once. I told him I was authorized to offer himtwenty-five thousand to—to step aside."

"What did he say?" asked Peggy Malone.

"He said he was sorry I hadn't come a month earlier. 'Thedesert is at its best in March,' he told me. I went to thirtythousand. 'Though it's no slouch of a desert even now,' he says,'what with the cactus blooms and the palo verde.' 'Thirty-fivethousand,' I said. 'The Spaniards.' says he, never cracking asmile, 'called this spot where Palm Springs stands the CoachellaDesert, which means the desert of the little shells.'"

"Kidded you, eh?" said Fox.

"Well, at that I stood up. 'I'm authorized to go to fortythousand, and not a cent higher,' I said. 'Oh, must you go?' sayshe. 'That's too bad, really it is. I was hoping you'd stayovernight. The desert air is wonderful at night. Man, I'm tellingyou, it's the very breath of heaven!'"

Peggy Malone was smiling gently to herself.

"He was kidding me, as you say," the lawyer went on. "But Ididn't mind. I sort of liked it. When I was about to leave I toldhim I'd be absolutely frank with him—that I could pay fiftythousand, but no more. 'What shall I tell my client?' I asked.'Tell him,' says this boy, 'that we've had a lovely season uphere, but we sure need rain.' So I came away."

The three sat for a moment in silence. Then Martin Fox spokewith decision.

"He wants more money," said Fox. "I recognize the symptoms.The figures you named didn't happen to touch him. I've changed mymind—I'll pay a hundred thousand. Now you go up there to-morrow—"

The lawyer got quickly to his feet.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I'm through. You'll have to getsomebody else."

"What?"

"I never liked this job, anyhow. However, we were underobligation to you, so I took it. But now—I've seen JimmyParsons. I've seen him just once, for a couple of hours—andhe's a friend of mine. I—I like him. I withdraw completely.Good night, sir. Miss Malone, a great pleasure to meet you. Iwish you all the happiness in the world. Good night."

"Sentimental old fool," said Fox peevishly. "I'll get some oneelse—some one who's not so easy."

"Let's drop it, Martin," Peggy said.

"Drop it? Not I! I came out here to settle this, and I will.I'm crazy about you, Peg. And you said last time you'd be willingto marry me if—see here, you aren't still in love with thathusband of yours?"

"Oh, no! That was over and done with years ago!"

"That's all I want to know. Now you leave things to me. Iwon't annoy you with details. I'm out here to get you yourfreedom, and after that I'll win you if it's the last act of mylife. I—I can't get along without you, Peg. You're such agood pal. You do like me a bit, eh?"

"I like you a lot. You—you'd take care of me, wouldn'tyou?"

"Give me the chance!"

"So that I wouldn't have to work. I'm—I'm tired. Somehowthat's what I want most—somebody to take care of me, and ofDad and Joey."

"The whole blame family. Marry me and all the burdens shiftfrom those little shoulders over here." He tapped his own."Nothing to do but look pretty and spend money. How does itsound?"

"Why, it sounds fine!" she smiled. But for some reason she wasthinking of Palm Springs. "Let's go to a show, Martin."

It was close on midnight when he dropped her at her door andtook the kiss he had been looking forward to all evening. Shewent softly up the stairs to her room. As she hastily preparedfor bed she found herself thinking again of Jimmy, Atlantic City,violets. She sighed. Marrying Martin Fox would be so different.Well, she had been twenty in Atlantic City—twenty andbreathlessly in love. The sort of thing that could happen butonce in a lifetime. And Martin was a good fellow at heart. Hewould take care of her, protect her, pay the bills.

When she crept into bed her thoughts had swung round to Jimmyagain. Jimmy better, cured by the air that was like a breath ofheaven. But lazy, shiftless, content to wait for her checks. Wasthat true? Perhaps not. Perhaps he was not so well as hepretended to be. And he was lonesome—one visitor in twoyears. It was sort of pathetic, that lawyer said, the way hetalked. Peggy closed her eyes, tired with a day's hard work.There was a harder one awaiting her to-morrow. Jimmy—in ahammock—she mustn't forget—the first of the month wasclose at hand—she'd write a check in the morning. "Tell himwe've had a lovely season up here, but we sure need rain." Shewas smiling when she fell asleep.

She overslept the next morning, and rushed down to breakfastin an apologetic mood. Her father was alone at the table.

"Hello!" he said. "Martin Fox called up yesterday. Did he findyou all right?"

"Yes; I had dinner with him."

"Any—anything new?" he ventured.

"Nothing new," she smiled.

"Joey didn't come home last night," he told her. "He took thatmoney you gave him and went down to Tia Juana to play the races.Probably cleaned out and hungry by this time." She looked herdistress. "He doesn't amount to a rap, Peg. Going to the dogs.You ought to do something—"

"What can I do?" she asked wearily. "When he was a baby Iremember I used to follow him about, saying 'No, no, Joey! Joeymustn't touch!' I can't do that out here in Hollywood. He's grownup—and I'm too busy, anyhow."

"Shut down on him. Don't give him any more money."

"That's easy to say, Dad; but I haven't the heart."

"You've got too much heart. You're too good to Joey—andme, too, for that matter. I got to thinking about it lastnight."

"Why shouldn't I be good to you? My own father and brother.I'll have a talk with Joey when he gets home. Now I've got torush along. Got a tough day ahead—out on location."

It proved a tough day indeed. In her newest picture PeggyMalone played, as usual, the beautiful daughter of amultimillionaire. In this instance she must fall in love with asimple country boy, late of the A. E. F. The manner of theirmeeting was romantic. Driving her smart racing car up a mountain,she was to round a curve and meet, head-on, the cheap little carof the simple lad who—played by an ennuied Broadwayactor—was growing less simple every minute. By doing itvery slowly and carefully there was no real danger, and the filmcould be speeded up to reveal a rather thrilling collision.

It had been raining, but when they reached the hill justoutside Hollywood, where this bit of script was to be filmed, thesun was out again. They found exactly what they wanted, a sharpcurve with both approaches hidden. Pickets were sent a hundredyards in each direction to warn off the cars of outsiders, andPeg drove her little racer down the road and turned it carefullyabout on the wet asphalt.

She heard the sound of the director's whistle and started upthe hill. Small things alter human destinies. The picket who wasguarding the upper approach turned his back a moment to light acigarette, and as he did so a heavy limousine filled withtourists shot silently by him.

Peg was thinking of Jimmy as she came on up the hill. Thelittle bungalow amid the orange trees, the cactus blooms, thenights when the air was so wonderful. She bore down ratherheavily on the gas—saw that the curve was surprisinglynear.

"Put on your brakes!" shouted Kenyon, directing.

She seized the brake handle; the light car quivered a moment,then began to skid. She brought it to a stop just before thecurve, but at right angles to the road. At that instant the biglimousine shot round the corner and hit Peg's car amidships.

The little racer turned over with Peggy Malone underneath.

On their way to the office of a near-by doctor, Kenyon,sitting in the back seat of a car, white-faced and grim, with theunconscious Peggy in his arms, kept thinking, "Winkle will neverforgive me for this. His best bit of property—practicallyruined."

When she was conscious again, and all her injuries weredressed, Peggy pleaded so hard to be taken home rather than to ahospital that the doctor finally consented. At five o'clock thatafternoon old Peter Malone returned from the vaudeville theaterwhere he had been killing time. As he came up the front walk hewas humming a new song that had taken his fancy. He opened thedoor of the house. At once to his nostrils came the odor ofhospitals; at the top of the stairs he saw the fleeting figure ofa trained nurse. He went up two steps at a time, and into hisdaughter's room.

"Peg!" he cried.

He saw her slim figure under the sheets in the darkened room,caught a glimpse of her bandaged face, a whiff of iodoform thatsickened him.

"Don't be scared, Dad," he heard her say faintly. "I gotbanged up a little doing a picture. I'll be all right to-morrow."

"Peg!" he cried again. The nurse came and led him out.

"You mustn't excite her."

"What—what happened?" he wanted to know.

"Some one else will tell you. I'm busy," snapped the woman,and he found himself in the hall.

He went down-stairs, dazed. The front door opened, admittingJoey. Joey was dusty, sleepy, seedy and, to one who knew him,broke.

"Dad, what's up?" he cried.

"Peg," said Malone. "Hurt doing a picture."

"Hurt? Not bad?"

"I don't know. Her face—her face is all bandaged."

"Her face!"

For a long moment they stood staring at each other.

Neither spoke, but each knew what the other was thinking. Joeywent over and with trembling fingers took a cigarette from asilver box and lighted it. He went back to the foot of the stairsand listened. He heard Peg's voice.

"Turn up the light and give me a mirror—please,please!"

Joey sat down weakly on the stairs.

* * * * *

PETER MALONE did not sleep well that night. Afinal spark of manhood had flared up in his breast to troublehim. He was ashamed of himself; he made brave resolutions in thedark. He would find some sort of employment, earn his own money.Something easy that would not encourage the pain in his back. AndJoey—Joey, too, by heaven, must go to work!

In the bright sunshine of the morning after, his goodresolutions, so far as they concerned himself, began to waver.Everything looked so much more cheerful. Joey and he waited inthe drawing-room for the doctor's verdict. After what seemed avery long time the latter came down-stairs and joined them.

"Well," he announced, "she's not hurt so seriously as Ifeared. No internal trouble. Just badly bruised and shocked. Shemustn't think of working again, for, say, six or eightweeks."

"Oh, then there's nothing to interfere with her working?" saidMalone. He saw Joey's face lighting up like a Christmas tree.

"Of course not," the doctor answered.

"You see," Joey explained, "we was sort of afraid—herface—"

"Ah, yes!" The doctor looked at them keenly.

"She seems to have had the same fear. But I have assured herthere will be no permanent scars—at least not where theywill matter. But it's my opinion she's been working too hard oflate. She ought to have a long rest."

"Sure!" cried Malone, beaming. "That's easy fixed."

When the doctor had gone he sat down in his favorite chair,sinking back with a great sigh of relief. He lighted a twenty-five-cent cigar. His quixotic plans, born in the dark of arestless night, vanished with the smoke. After all, he was alongin years. He had worked hard once; he deserved a bit of comfort,a bit of his daughter's charity. But Joey! He looked Joey overcoldly. Joey was young—nothing wrong with his back. Heintended to tell Joey where he got off—a little later. Justat the moment it was pleasant merely to sit and enjoy his renewedsense of security.

Joey was walking the floor, elated.

"Her salary will go on whether she works or not," he wassaying, "and I'm not sure she couldn't hold Winkle up fordamages. Somebody must have been darned careless. Anyhow, she canuse the accident to get a boost in pay."

"Perhaps," Malone agreed. "Here—what are you doing?" ForJoey had gone over and was rummaging about in Peg's desk.

"I wonder what became of her pocketbook," said Joey. "I had arun of hard luck down at the border. Had to borrow ten to gethome, and I need a shave. I don't suppose you got anything."

"No!"

"No, of course not."

They heard the door-bell ring; heard the Jap go to answer it,and then a strong voice in the hall, a voice they did notrecognize.

"Tell Miss Malone I'd like to see her if she's well enough.What? Oh, nobody in particular—only her husband, that'sall. Beat it, Baron!" And Jimmy Parsons walked into the drawing-room.

"Hello, boys," he smiled. "Busy as usual, I observe. Beforeyou do another stroke—may I see your union cards?"

"Came on the run, didn't you?" Joey sneered. "Sort of afraidthe checks might stop."

"Must have been it," said Parsons. His face grew serious. "IsPeg badly hurt?"

"Don't worry," Joey answered. "She'll be back on the job in afew weeks."

A look of relief appeared in the eyes of Jimmy Parsons. TheJapanese servant entered with the word that Peg would see him. Hewalked to the center table and picked up the morningnewspaper.

"Have you boys read this?" he inquired innocently.

"What do you mean—about Peg's accident?" askedMalone.

"No, not exactly. Have you read it line for line—I mean,the way you should? No, something tells me you haven't"

"I don't get you," said Joey.

"Ought to go over it pretty carefully, both of you," went onParsons. He put the sheet into Joey's hand. "Word forword—line for line. Just a suggestion on my part. AfterwardI'll have a little talk with you."

He went into the hall. Joey stared at the paper.

"What's he talking about?" he wanted to know.

"Don't ask me," Malone replied. "I never could follow him halfthe time. Give me that paper. I've been all over it once, butI'll look again."

In the hallway beside his hat and coat Jimmy Parsons found asmall package wrapped in tissue-paper. He picked it up, and as heentered Peg's room left it on a table just inside the door.

He went over to the bed. "Well, Peg," he said.

"Hello, Jimmy." Her voice came faintly from out the bandages."I'm sorry about your check—this is the first of themonth—I never missed before—"

"Good lord, Peg," he cried, "is that all you have to say tome?" His voice broke.

"No, that isn't all. Put up the curtain, please. The doctorsaid I could have more light. I want to look at you. You'rebetter, Jimmy?"

"I'm well," he said. He lifted the curtain and stood forinspection. "There wasn't anything wrong, Peg, except too muchBroadway. I got rid of that cough the second month down there bythe desert. I've been all right—for a long time. I'll sitdown if you don't mind."

"Sure, Jimmy."

He drew up a chair.

"I was on my way here before I heard about your smash-up, Peg.I read about it this morning in Los Angeles. It—it sort ofknocked me all in a heap."

"Nonsense, I'm all right!" she said. "And you—you're allright, too, Jimmy. It does me good to look at you. So differentfrom that—that last time I saw you. What have you beendoing these last two years?"

He smiled.

"Peg," he said, "you'd be surprised!"

"Surprised?"

"Yes, when I tell you what I've been doing. I've beenthinking—down there by the desert, with only a Chink andthe cactus plants for company. Great place to think. Otherwisenot a darned thing stirring."

"What did you think, Jimmy?"

"Mostly I thought about you—what a corker you are. Uphere working your pretty little head off, while we vultureshovered around, waiting for your pay day."

"Jimmy, please—"

"Well, one thought sort of led on to another." He reached intohis pocket and took out a little slip of pink paper. He put itinto her hand. "This is a big moment in my life, Peg," he saidsoftly.

"What—what is it, Jimmy?"

"It's a check. My check for six thousand five hundred dollarsmade out to you. It represents twenty-six checks from you fortwo-fifty each. Every cent you ever gave me, Peg—back inyour hands—where it belongs."

She swallowed the lump that came into her throat.

"I—I can't take it."

"Yes, you can—for my sake. That's my self-respect you'reholding there. Keep it, and thank heaven there's one man in yourfamily who can take care of himself."

"But how did you manage it, Jimmy? In a place like PalmSprings!"

"Well, a lot of it is your money that I never touched. And therest"—he drew his chair closer—"I wasted three monthswondering how I could swing it. And nights, when I lay on my cotout under the stars, they kept marching by me—the people Iused to know—trying to show me the way. And me too blind tosee—at first. But one night it came to me, and the next dayI sent down to Banning for a typewriter." He smiledreminiscently. "I could hardly wait till it arrived. I wrote thatfirst story in two days. It was about Nell Morrison and BillyArcher. I changed everything, of course. No one could possiblyhave recognized them—except you, perhaps. You—youdidn't happen to see it?"

"I'm sorry, Jimmy, I didn't."

"No time to read, of course. Well, I wrote some more stories.Great bunch of people I had to draw on, and that's what counts,Peg—real, live human beings. The first year I made sevenhundred dollars—not much, but a start. And this year Icleaned up nearly eight thousand. I could have made more, butI've been fooling with a play I've had in my mind a long time. Isent the scheme of it to Georgie Cohan, and he wrote me awonderful letter. Said he liked my idea. You know what thatmeans."

"Oh, Jimmy! But I always knew you were clever."

"It's been a great satisfaction to me, Peg. And this bigmoment—this large third-act curtain—I've been lookingforward to it so long. Of course, it's not so wonderful as I'dhoped it might be—"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, down there in the shadow of old San Jacinto I'm afraidI got to thinking—pretty silly things."

"What?"

"I got to thinking that maybe when I brought you this check Icould tell you that one man in your family was ready to take careof you at last; that maybe I could carry you away—lookafter you—that is, if you could be fond of me, as you wereonce. Wasn't I the fool, Peg? That fussy little lawyer dropped inthe other day, and then I knew what a fool I'd been." His voicesoftened. "I want to tell you—it's all right, Peg. If itmeans your happiness you don't have to pay me to get out of theway. You must have known that. I'll do all I can tohelp—and I'll wish you luck."

The nurse entered suddenly.

"Mr. Martin Fox is calling," she announced.

"I'd like to see him," Peg said.

"He makes a good entrance," smiled Jimmy, and Fox came in.

Peg introduced them. Fox started at sound of Jimmy's name,gave him a cool nod and passed him by.

"I was here last night, Peg," said the millionaire. "Theywouldn't let me see you. By gad, you are banged up! Poor littlekid!"

"Only a few scratches," she told him.

Jimmy came over and tapped Fox on the shoulder.

"Just a moment," he said.

The big man turned and stared at him.

"Well?" he said sharply.

"Well," drawled Jimmy. He looked down at Peggy Malone. "It'sno use, Peg," he said. "I can't stage the grand renunciationscene, after all."

"What are you talking about?" asked Martin Fox.

"It's like this," smiled Jimmy graciously. "I thought I'd comeup from Palm Springs to hand you my wife—take her, old man,God bless you both, and all that stuff—but I'm damned if Ido. A fellow doesn't draw a wife like Peg more than once in alifetime. I've been looking you over. I cut out a dozen like youseven years ago—some of them wanted to marry hertoo—and what I did once I can do again."

He went to the table just inside the door and took up hispackage, unwrapping the tissue-paper covering. He carried theobject over and laid it on the pillow close by his wife'sface.

"Jimmy!" she cried.

"Violets, lady, violets! From the hand of one who loves you."He turned again to Fox.

"I suppose you do a lot of motoring out here inCalifornia?"

"What the devil—"

"Maybe you can tell us about a house that's for sale—orfor rent," Jimmy went on. "A little house—we won't havemuch money at first. We'll want something with snow-cappedmountains at the back door, and if it's not asking too much, aglimpse of the sea down in front—yes, I rather want thesea—and it ought to face the west, so that the sun can pourin on us all day long. Have you run across anything like that inyour travels?"

"I guess Peg will have something to say about this!" growledFox.

They waited.

"I want you two boys to shake hands," she said. "You'reregular fellows, both of you, and there's no reason why youshouldn't be friends. And after that—if you know any suchhouse, Martin, you might tell us; but if not—just wish usluck—before you go."

Martin Fox stood for a long moment; then he held out his hand.Jimmy took it.

"All the luck in the world to both of you," said Fox. Hewalked unsteadily to the door and turned. "You—you want tohurry up and get well, Peg," he said, and went out.

Jimmy leaned over and dropped a kiss among the bandages. Thenhe followed Fox down-stairs and politely helped him find his hatand stick.

"She's the greatest little girl in the world," Fox said. "Youdon't blame me if—if I tried—"

"To grab her? Man, it does you credit!" Jimmy held open thedoor. "A pleasant journey East," he said.

He returned to the drawing-room. Joey and Peter Malone weresitting there, the latter with the morning paper still in hishand.

"Well, boys," said Jimmy genially, "I've got important newsfor you. Peg isn't going to work again."

"Wha—what's the trouble?" Joey cried.

"No trouble at all," Jimmy told him. "Everything's lovely.She's just picked up a husband she mislaid, and strangely enoughhe's able and willing to take care of her."

He paused for a moment to enjoy their faces, then stepped overand removed the newspaper from Malone's limp hand. "Now in regardto the morning paper—"

"What did you mean about the paper?" asked Malone. "I been allthrough it and so has Joey—"

"Ah, yes! But I'm afraid you sort of skimmed through the pagethat ought to interest you most. Just a minute—here we are!There's more than a page; there's a page and a half. What luck!"He folded the paper carefully, thrust it into Joey's reluctanthands and pointed. "Study it well, both of you," he said.—"'Help Wanted—Male'—that is, if you think you stillcome under that classification."

He stood for a moment, smiling at them. Then he turned andwent up-stairs to his wife.

A LETTER TO AUSTRALIA

Illustrated by C.D. Williams

First published in The Saturday Evening Post, Feb 11,1922

TOM MEADE was walking home under the barebranches of the trees on Center Avenue. High in the heavens shonea chill October moon, tracing a weird network of shadows alonghis pathway. His step sounded briskly on the wooden sidewalks,his head was thrown back, the events of the evening had set himdreaming of great things.

Over Center Avenue, over all Mayfield, hovered a somnolentcalm. The hour was late, well past nine, and Mayfield was alwaysa nine-o'clock town. At that hour came regularly the sound of theimperfectly stifled yawn, the click of the back door followingclosely on the exit of the cat, the rasp of timepieces beingwound, the voice of parental authority—"Come, young man,put up that book and get to bed!" Then silence. By ten o'clockrevelers straying home from Mike Forrester's Happy Hour Pool andBilliard Parlor saw only at rare intervals a lighted window, andspoke loudly of emigrating to Indianapolis, where, it wasunderstood, were laughter and music—night life to meet alltastes.

Nights were for sleeping in Mayfield then; and, indeed, inthose early 'nineties the days were not much more exciting. Lifewas simple and wholesome and placid, and the good people of thetown aimed to keep it so. Meeting casually under the maples thatlined the streets they had time for prolonged social chats, forkindly inquiries as to one another's health and welfare. And ifthere was one with graying hair amid the group you were fairlysure to hear a complaint about the restless hurry of the newgeneration, a longing sigh for the amiable 'eighties, thegracious 'seventies.

Tom Meade quickened his step, for the clock in the tower ofthe new courthouse had struck the half-hour, and he had much totell Jenny before they went to bed. The Republican rally had beena huge success, the opera house was crowded to the doors. Suchrousing enthusiasm—but this was Indiana, where politicalargument was, to most men, food and drink. As for his ownspeech—and Jenny would first of all want to know aboutthat—it had been enthusiastically received. He had donewell, he knew it; with persuasive eloquence he had pleaded forthe reelection of Mr. Harrison. Not an easy task, either, forthere was little in the personality of the President to inspirean orator. However, the crowd had been with him, they hadwelcomed his sallies against Mr. Cleveland with loudapproval.

Behind him, on the new brick pavement of the avenue, rang therhythmic beat of a horse's hoofs. Turning, he saw old Bill Love'shack outlined in the moonlight. The nine-twenty was in fromIndianapolis; some plutocratic citizen of Center Avenue wasriding home in state.

The hack passed him and came to a stop in front of an ornatehouse, the finest in town, and the fare alighted just as TomMeade came abreast. He recognized Jackson Perkins, president ofthe First National, leading citizen.

"Hello, Tom!" said Perkins. "Have a good meeting?"

"Great!" Meade answered.

"There's talk down in Indianapolis that Cleveland may comeback," the rich man said.

"Don't you believe it," Tom reassured him. "You should havebeen in that opera house to-night. Looks to me like a Republicanlandslide."

"I hope so, I'm sure," replied Perkins fervently. "Goodnight."

As Tom Meade passed on he saw the banker carelessly bestow acoin on old Bill. Evidently Jackson Perkins thought nothing oftwo bits for a hack when he was tired. Oh, well! Tom reflected,he was only thirty-three himself. Lots of things could and wouldhappen. Some day he, too, would be a power in Mayfield, have agreat house on the avenue, come rolling home through themoonlight in Bill Love's hack.

He turned off the thoroughfare of the big bugs into his ownstreet, Monroe. There, some distance down, stood the simplelittle frame house for which he was struggling to pay. Jenny-musthave heard him coming, for the door opened and she stood there,sharply outlined against the yellow glow of the lamp within. Herfigure was alert and slim, and the light at her back emphasizedthe rather alarming smallness of her waist, laced almost tonothing in the fashion of the period.

"Tom, I've been worried. It's nearly ten o'clock," shesaid.

"Never worry about me," he laughed, and kissed her. "I cantake care of myself, I guess."

She caught the note of elation in his voice. She looked up athim eagerly.

"How did the speech go, Tom?" she asked.

"Like a house afire," he told her, putting modesty aside inthe sanctity of his home. He tossed his overcoat on to a chair."The best I ever made, Jenny, and that's a fact. I'll tell youhow well they liked it—they're going to nominate me forprosecutor when the party convention meets next June."

"No! Oh, Tom!"

"It's the truth. Judge Marvin told me it's practicallysettled. Of course, I'll have to give up the street-railway job.But—county prosecutor! It's a big opportunity, Jenny."

"They're beginning to appreciate you at last. I've known allthe time."

"Have you? Yes, I guess you have. Well, it takes a younglawyer a long time to get going, but once I'vestarted—"

He followed her into the tiny parlor, a room of green-plushfurniture, enlarged crayon portraits, hand-painted china,innumerable tidies. On the center table a large oil lamp waslighted, and close beside it sat his daughter, a fair, spindlinggirl of nine, spelling out an article in a woman's magazine.

"What? Clara, you still up?" he cried, surprise in hisvoice.

"I told her she could wait until you came," the motherexplained. "I never dreamed it would be so late. Come, dear, kissfather and run to bed."

Clara rose and came to him. He took the magazine.

"What's this you're reading? 'The Girl with the Voice'."

"It's by a great opera singer," said Clara shyly. "Advice togirls who want to do like her."

"Oh, yes. Come on now. Up-stairs you go."

"I wish you'd go up and see if David's still awake," Jennysaid. "You didn't kiss him when you left after supper, and hetold me he was going to sit up in bed until you came. It would bejust like him to do it too."

Tom Meade accompanied Clara up the short flight of stairs. Inthe little room sacred to his six-year-old son a night light wasburning. He tiptoed in and bent over the bed. Evidently David wasasleep. But as he was turning away the child stirred and openedhis eyes.

"Hello, Daddy," he said-drowsily. "Want to have a boxing?"

"No, no boxing to-night. Too late," Meade told him.

But David would not be denied his nightly drama.

"I'm Corbett," he announced, for the recent bout in NewOrleans had made a deep impression on the small boys of the town.Meade assumed his usual role of John L. Sullivan, and after abrief exchange of easy blows permitted himself to be laid low bythe diminutive Gentleman Jim. Too sleepy to enjoy his triumph,David fell back on the pillow, his little fists clenched abovehis head. For a moment his father stood looking down at him; hewondered if David was getting a wrong idea of how battles may bewon. Then, smiling gently, he kissed the boy and went down-stairsto Jenny.

Jenny had resumed her sewing. She was mending a rent in thelining of her sealskin coat, getting it ready for the winter. Itwas the pride of her life, that coat; so fashionable—thegift of Tom in one of his reckless moods. There were very fewsuch coats in town. Mrs. Jackson Perkins had one—Mrs.Doctor Clark

"Well, Jenny," said Meade.

"Oh, Tom, I was just thinking. Prosecutor! That will bewonderful!"

"Yes, won't it?" He sat down and smiled at her pretty, flushedface. The future, with its infinite possibilities, opened againbefore him. "I tell you, my dear, it's something to look forwardto!"

She sewed on.

"Who was at the meeting, Tom?"

"Everybody in town, I guess. I had quite a talk with CharleyNelson."

"How was he looking?"

"Not very well. Awfully thin, and—sort of transparent,almost."

"Mary is so worried about him. She was telling me the otherday. She says he isn't feeling right. She's afraid he won't behere long."

"Too bad," said Tom. "By the way, he told me about Dan. Itseems there was a big strike in Australia two years ago, andeverything looked black for a time. But now, Charley says, Dan'sdoing mighty well again. Expects to be taken into that firm he'swith. I forget the name—Holding and Somebody, Ibelieve."

Jenny was looking at him accusingly.

"Tom, you've never written to Dan," she said.

"No, I haven't," he admitted.

"Really, it's too bad. And Dan your very best friend."

"I know—I agree with you. I was thinking about it cominghome. Let's go up-stairs, and if you don't mind I'll stop in myden and have a try at it."

"Oh, Tom, I wish you would," said Jenny. "I always liked Danso much."

Ten minutes later he was seated at a cheap oak desk in theroom known as his den. On the walls hung pennants handed downfrom his college days, a group picture of his class at the lawschool, a crude copy of one of Mr. Gibson's drawings, done byClara and presented with her love the preceding Christmas.

He lighted a pipe and took from the top drawer of his desk asmall bundle of papers. On the top was an envelope somewhatyellowed by the passage of time. He removed it from the packageand drew out the sheet of letter paper it contained. Although heknew almost by heart what was written there, he read itagain:

"Holbrook & Bunting, Ltd.
Direct Buyers Sheepskins, Rabbit Skins, Wool, Hides and Tallow
189 Little Bourke Street,
Melbourne, Victoria

"Dear Tom:

"Your letter with the news of yourengagement to Jenny Fairbanks came in on the last boat, and Ihasten to send my sincere congratulations. I always thought Jennythe prettiest cleverest girl in Mayfield, and you're mighty luckyto get her. As for you—well, I guess she knows what I thinkof you. May you have the long happy life together I'm wishing foryou to-day.

"You asked for news of me. I'm still ploddingalong. Australia isn't so bad, even if we are a long ways fromanything. I've never regretted coming out, though of course thereare times when I get homesick as the devil for the old town, theold friends—you most of all. I guess I don't need to tellyou what a letter from you means to me.

"I'm rushing this to catch the boat. Some timelater I'll write at length about my life out here. This is meantto be nothing more than a friendly hail from this far outpost.Good luck, old man, and God bless you both.

"Your old friend,

Dan Nelson."

The date on the letter was August 26, 1880.

Tom Meade got up and paced the floor of that tiny room.Eighteen-eighty—why, that was twelve years ago! For twelveyears he had put off writing to his friend. In heaven's name,why? He who in his daily life was so punctilious, so prompt; hewho never vacillated.

"I guess I don't need to tell you what a letter from you meansto me," Dan had said.

Good old Dan, the boy with whom he had roamed the woods andfields about Mayfield, the inseparable pal of his youth. He hadloved Dan like a brother, and yet he had let twelve years driftby.

He dropped again into his squeaky little desk chair and beganan examination of the papers that had been tied up with Dan'sletter. He never threw anything away. Here were the false startshe had made at a letter to Australia during those twelve years;the first one, written a year after he received Dan'scongratulations:

"Dear Dan: I owe you a thousand apologies; but,as a matter of fact, I was so pressed for time, what with theexcitement of—"

Why hadn't he sent that? As he recalled it now, Australia hadseemed so far away. One really should have news—importantnews—to put into a letter that would be anywhere from fortyto seventy days on its journey. And, wonderful as his marriagehad seemed to him, there was no news in it for Dan; Dan had knownhe contemplated marriage. However, something else was impending,something of vital importance. He had been admitted to the bar,was shortly to go into Henry Brackett's law office. His namewould be on the stationery. He would wait and write then.

His next attempt was, indeed, on the Brackett stationery.

"Dear Dan: I'm sure you will understand, butwhat with all the anxiety I have gone through owing to Jenny'sillness—"

What illness was that? He tried to remember. Nothing serious,evidently. Like the first, this letter had never been finishedand sent. Before its completion there was something new to lookforward to. A baby—a son, he hoped.

The baby came—Clara. He loved Clara with all his heart,thought her wonderful, proposed writing Dan about her. He wasonly waiting to include in the letter another bit of news.

Old Judge Marvin had come to him and offered to take him intopartnership as soon as he could break away from Brackett. Danwould remember Judge Marvin, would realize what a big step upthis was, would rejoice with his old friend.

But Dan had never got the news. By the time Tom Meade hadsettled himself in the Marvin office and remembered his projectof a letter to Dan another baby was imminent. A son this time, hehoped. To his great joy, David appeared, answering his dearestwish. He proposed to take Jenny, as soon as she was able, on apleasure trip to Washington. A lively description of Washington,he reflected, would round off nicely his letter to Dan telling ofDavid's birth.

The Washington trip followed, but for some reason nowforgotten he held off writing to Dan.

Running through these incomplete records with their abjectapologies, their ever-changing narrative, he perceived that therewas always something in the air, something for which he waseagerly waiting—a nomination for mayor, which had finallyeluded him; the winning of a big case; his appointment asattorney for the new street-railway company.

Well, he reflected, the waiting must stop. All nonsenseanyhow. He would write to Dan without any more delay; to Dan, inMelbourne, Australia. And with the feeling of a man who sits downto write a history of the civilized world he drew toward him ablank sheet of paper.

"67 Monroe Street,
Mayfield, Indiana,
October 25, 1892.

"Dear Dan:

"I don't know what you'll think ofme, I'm sure. Believe it or not, I've sat down a score of timesto answer that letter you wrote me so long ago—the onecongratulating me on my engagement to Jenny. Yes, Dan, time aftertime, and always something held me up, sidetracked me. The truthof it is, of course, that I'm tremendously busy. My practise isgrowing all the while; and then, too, I'm attorney for the newstreet railway.

"But look here, I'm not going to bore you witha lot of stupid apologies. All I can say is that if you'llforgive me—which same you can indicate by answering thiswithout delay—I'll promise to do better in the future.

"It was seeing your Cousin Charley at the operahouse to-night that got me started on this. I had a little talkwith him, and he told me how well you're doing. I want to assureyou right here; Dan, before I go any further, that your kindwishes on our engagement were deeply appreciated at the time.Jenny and I have now been married eleven years, and all thehappiness you bespoke for us has so far been ours. Jenny is stillthe prettiest girl in town—and the cleverest. What's more,she's not a day older than when you saw her last. Our daughterClara is nine and David is six.

"As for my work, I've kept plugging along.Nothing very exciting has happened as yet, but I have hopes. As amatter of fact, only to-night—"

He stopped suddenly and read over what he had written. Stalestuff, every line of it. It seemed to him that in all thesetwelve years he had never had so little to put into a letter.

Once more his acutely materialistic sense of space asserteditself. Australia—the end of the world! Twelve thousandmiles stretched between Mayfield and Melbourne, Monroe Street andLittle Bourke. Thirty-two days of actual travel for this letter,provided it just caught one of the Oceanic Steamship Company'sboats at San Francisco. If it missed it might lie over fortwenty-eight days. There was a possibility that his letter mightbe sixty days on the way! A letter that traveled sixty days oughtto carry news—real news.

And was he not, after all, right on the brink of somethingwell worth writing to Dan? Prosecuting attorney—that was notrifling office. As good as settled, too, the judge had said. Hevisualized a new letter:

"Dear Dan:

"At last I've got something to tellyou. I've just been elected county prosecutor by an overwhelmingmajority—"

Folding up the sheet of paper on which he had been writing, headded it to the package that had the yellow envelope on top. Herestored the package to its old place in the drawer.

The little house was cold when he went out into the upperhall. He wondered if he had locked the back door. All the lampswere out, but the autumn moonlight shone faintly through therooms. He felt his way cautiously to the kitchen, found the reardoor securely fastened. Opening it, he stood on the stoop. Themoon shone brightly on the modest garden where he had workedthrough the long summer evenings. Over the houses of hisneighbors, over all Mayfield brooded peace and content.

He loved his neighbors, such simple, kindly, understandingpeople. He loved his town. In it, he told himself, he would climbhigh, become a power, make Jenny proud of him, give his childrenthe best life could offer. He looked forward to big things.

When he entered the bedroom Jenny lifted her head from thepillow.

"Did you write to Dan?" she asked sleepily.

"No, not exactly. When I came right down to it, there was nonews worth sending all that distance. And I thought if I'm to beprosecuting attorney— "

"That will be something to write Dan about," she agreed.

"Yes," said Tom Meade. "I thought I'd wait until that comesalong."

His intentions were of the best. But it was eighteen yearsbefore he began another letter to Australia.

* * * * *

ON Thanksgiving night, in the year 1910, thefirst snow of the winter fell in Mayfield. "The beautiful," asnext day's Evening Enterprise described it, "cloaking in its mantle of white our fair and prosperous city."

Accuracy was the self-confessed aim of the Enterprise, and itwas accurate here. The snow was beautiful. It was of the wet,clinging variety that lay where it fell—on telegraph wires,on picket fences, on the bare branches of the trees that linedCenter Avenue, and on the cornices and window-sills of a housethat stood on the avenue not far from the corner of Monroe, agreat brick mansion of many rooms that advertised the wealth anddignity of its owner.

Tom Meade sat before the fire in the library of this house,with his family about him. That slender young lawyer who spokefor Harrison in the opera house in 'ninety-two was gone for ever;probably only Jenny remembered him. For the years had addedweight to Tom Meade's figure, grayed his hair. But they had notdimmed the twinkle in his eyes.

It had been an old-fashioned Thanksgiving, and he had enjoyedit thoroughly. The snow outside added the final happy touch; allhis folks about him in this comfortable room. On his right satJenny, fragile, birdlike, pretty, still. On his left were Davidand Jean, David's wife. Behind him at the grand piano, Clara sat,singing, at his request, Kathleen Mavourneen. He listened,enthralled. There was in Clara's voice a soft beauty that alwaysthrilled him, that exalted yet saddened him. He remembered whatthe great teacher in New York had said of Clara's voice.

Poor Clara, thin and faded and wasted—at twenty-seven!What a pity!

The last notes of the song died away through the silent house,and reaching out Tom Meade patted Jenny's hand where it lay onthe arm of her chair.

"Don't be silly, Tom," she said, and they laughed softlytogether.

"What next?" demanded Clara, turning the pages of the ancientsong book before her. "You choose, Father. This is your party,you know."

He moved his head in time to catch a look he was not intendedto see, a questioning look from Jean to David which said moreplainly than words, "Can't we break away now? Haven't we beenhere long enough?"

Tom Meade stood up.

"Guess we'd better let these children off, Mother," he said."It'll be a hard drive back to Indianapolis through the snow. Ithink it was mighty good of them to come up here and spendThanksgiving with us old folks."

"Speak for yourself," said Jenny quickly. "You know, David,ever since he passed fifty your father's perfectly absurd. You'dthink he was a hundred. For my part, I'm never going to grow old.Never going to admit it anyhow."

"That's the talk, Mother," said David. "You stick to it." Hegot up and tossed his cigarette into the fireplace. He was astout, rather florid-faced young man, decked out in clothes thatwere the despair of all the would-be snappy dressers inIndianapolis. "Come on, Jean, I guess we had better be driftingalong. My carbureter acted sort of funny on the way up," he addedto his father.

"Well, if we must," said Jean. She rose with seemingreluctance, a slim pretty girl, but like David a bit overdressed,a bit flashy. "You must come and see us soon—both of you.And—oh, yes," she remembered tardily, "you, too,Clara."

"Thanks," said Clara, without turning her head.

They went into the big oak-paneled hall, where the visitorsdonned their coats with more animation than had been theirs allday.

Tom and Jenny accompanied them to the side door. Under theporte-cochère stood David's car, a smart, blood-red racer, thesportiest model the year 1910 had to offer. Jenny was therecipient of two hasty kisses, after which Tom helped Jean to herplace and even lent a hand to David, who had now taken on thelook of a large fur-bearing animal.

"Well, folks " David began, his hands on the wheel. He fumbledround in his mind for some kindly words of farewell, but wordswere never his specialty. He gave it up and turned his attentionto starting the motor, which whirred instantly. "Listen to that!"he cried with enthusiasm. "It's a lalapalooser, this car!Well—well—we had a fine day."

The automobile began to move. Tom Meade, standing bareheadedin the shelter of the porte-cochère, heard "fine day"flung over Jean's shoulder. He watched them creep down the longdrive, gaining speed as they went, then swing out through thegreat gate into Center Avenue. Bill Love's hack was not abroad onCenter Avenue to-night, nor any other hack. At intervals a motorhorn sounded shrilly through the storm and the lights of apassing car flashed momentarily over the snow.

"Come in, Father, you'll catch your death," Jenny said fromthe door.

He returned to the hall. Clara, half-way up the stairs, calledher good night.

"It's early yet," Meade said. "You're not turning in,Jenny?"

"Of course not," she answered. He followed her into thelibrary.

"Where's Cuffy?" he asked, referring to his aged coloredbutler.

"I told him to go to bed," Jenny said. "He wasn't feelingwell—ate too much, I guess. You'd think he'd knowbetter—at his age."

Meade laughed and began to pile logs on the fire.

"Well, it's been a happy Thanksgiving," Jenny went on. "Idon't know as I recall many happier. I do hope they get back toIndianapolis safe and sound." She went over to the bay window andstood staring out. "It's dangerous driving in a storm like this.I wish I'd told David to call up when they get there."

Her husband came over and put his arm about her shoulders.

"Now, Mother, none of your worrying." He stood staring outacross his lawn. It was a broad lawn, three hundred feet or moreto the old Jackson Perkins place on the south, five hundred feetto the river in the rear. On it lay the Thanksgiving snow. "It'sbeautiful, isn't it, Mother?" Tom Meade said.

"Yes," she answered, "if only it would stay that way."

She was thinking, he knew, of what would happen to the snowto-morrow. For Mayfield was no longer the leisurely town of old,clean and calm. There were blast furnaces to the south, the westand the north, a hundred factories whose chimneys would in themorning belch forth smoke and soot. On the streets where TomMeade had once known everybody many strangers walked, some ofwhom conversed loudly in the tongues of far countriesoverseas.

"The livest manufacturing city in Indiana," boasted theEnterprise.

He had kept his word; he had risen to power in Mayfield; butit was no longer his town; his town lived only in the lovingmemory of the middle-aged.

A cold wind swept in on them through the cracks round thewindow, and they returned to their places by the fire. For a longmoment Tom Meade sat smiling at his wife.

"Well, Father?" she said.

"I was just thinking—that was a gallant thing you said,about never growing old. I believe you meant it too."

"Of course I did!"

"It's odd, Jenny, but to me you don't look a day older thanyou did when—when we were engaged. That Thanksgiving in1880—do you remember?—just before we were married.The snow was three feet deep on the level, and when I went up toyour house to Thanksgiving dinner they were racing cutters onCenter Avenue."

"I remember. You were wearing a new stock. It was yourambition to look like Henry Clay."

"It was my ambition to look worthy of you—the prettiestgirl in Mayfield, and the cleverest." He stopped. "'I alwaysthought Jenny the prettiest, cleverest girl in Mayfield,'" herepeated. "Who was it said that—in a letter, somewhere?"His mind groped back through the years. "Oh, I remember now! DanNelson said it in that old letter—that letter fromAustralia."

He paused, conscious of his guilt. He knew that Jenny's eyeswere on him reprovingly.

"The letter you never answered," she said. "Oh,Father—"

"I know, I know. I'm ashamed of myself. It's been years sinceI even sat down to have a try at it. Though I've thought of itnow and then, times when I've had a glimpse of Charley or seen adispatch from Australia in the paper or—or something likethat. I've even lain awake at nights and planned abeginning."

"But Dan doesn't know that."

"No, of course not. However, it salves my conscience. Why,only the other day I thought of writing him—that is, it wasabout two years ago, when we were on our way home from David'swedding. 'That letter from Dan Nelson congratulating us on ourengagement,' I said to myself. 'I'll answer it when our firstgrandchild arrives.' It struck me that would be amusing."

"Father, Jean doesn't want any children," said Jenny softly."I've known it for some time."

"I suspected it. Jenny, what's come over this new generation?I tell you, the world will go on the rocks."

"Don't try to change the subject," Jenny broke in. "We'retalking about Dan Nelson's letter." She got up and went to hisbig mahogany desk, opened a drawer, took out a little package ofpapers. "I was cleaning out your desk the other day—youknow you said I could—and I found this." She laid thepackage on top. "Come on, Father. No time like the present."

He walked over and took up the package.

He saw a letter postmarked Australia—faded ink on yellowpaper.

"By gad," he said, "I supposed this was lost long ago!"

He sat down and began to read, while Jenny returned to herplace before the fire.

Finally he looked up.

"Here's my last attempt," he smiled. "October 25, 1892. In thelittle house on Monroe Street." Into his mind flashed a pictureof the room known as his den, the strip of rag carpet on thefloor, the cheap oak desk, the creaky chair, the pennants and theGibson drawing. He stared about him at the room in which he satto-night, his big comfortable library with its lofty ceiling, itsPersian rug on the floor, its soft, inviting chairs, its warm,rich, prosperous air. "We've traveled a long way since 1892," hesaid with a sort of awe in his voice.

"So we have," Jenny answered softly.

He read aloud the final lines of the letter in his hand:"'Nothing very exciting has happened as yet, but I have hopes. Asa matter of fact, only to-night—'" He looked up and smiledat Jenny. "Only to-night!" he repeated. "Do you remember howthrilled we were, Jenny? County prosecutor! I was about to becomecounty prosecutor!"

"It seemed almost too wonderful to be true," she smiled.

"It was true, though," he reminded her. He laid down theletter, a reminiscent mood seized him. "It all comes back soclearly. That night in June when the party convention adjourned,and I raced up the avenue to tell you I'd been nominated. Youwere waiting on the porch—happy times, my dear."

"Yet you didn't write to Dan."

"No. It was such a busy summer—remember? The summer ofthe World's Fair—and the panic. How big a dollar grew tolook! I had to borrow from your father to make my campaign, andafter election I was busier still; busy night and day, trying topay back that loan, to meet the payments on the little house. Wewere pretty hard up, weren't we, Jenny? We might be hard up stillif it hadn't been for Jim Wakefield and his horselesscarriage."

"Yes," she admitted, "that was the turning point, and we neverguessed at the time."

"I should say not! I was pretty discouraged, as I recall. Itwas in 'ninety-six, wasn't it?—yes, a July night in'ninety-six. Hot as the devil in my little office above the Bon-Ton Store. And there was Jim Wakefield, all excited over hisinvention. I'd just drawn up the papers of incorporation for hisfactory, and I was hoping for a hundred dollars—fiftyanyway. We needed money so badly. And then he told me he couldn'tpay me—gave me those five hundred shares of stock instead.Jenny, I was pretty bitter when he left, though I didn't let himsee. I'd have sold those shares for twenty-five dollarsthen—spot cash."

"Yes, and I'd have let you."

"Yet to-night David's riding back to Indianapolis in aWakefield car, and those shares are worth more money than you andI can ever spend. Funny how things turn out."

"What came next, Father? The circuit court, wasn't it?"

"Yes. I was planning to write Dan about that. But by that timeJim Wakefield was paying me dividends; I was getting in on theground floor in a dozen factories—I was on the make.Something seemed to say 'Bigger things coming—go on, goon!' And when I got to Congress—"

"You should have written Dan then—from Washington."

"I did think of it, but I was waiting for something definite,some brilliant speech, some impressive victory. And the firstthing I knew my term was over and I was back here. Things herelooked better than ever. In another year I had my first hundredthousand. I thought of writing Dan, but I held off. We werebuilding this house—I decided to wait and write him aboutthat." He rose and walked back and forth over the soft rug. "Thatwas a happy night, Jenny—when they gave us the housewarminghere. Everybody seemed so glad we were getting on. Not an enviousword or look. And how proud we were of Clara when she sang Home,Sweet Home. That was when I began looking forward to great thingsfor Clara."

He paused.

Jenny said nothing, but continued to stare into the fire.

"I wanted a big success for Clara," he went on. "I counted somuch on writing Dan about her. A concert tour abroad—opera,maybe. But of course—it never happened."

"No," answered Jenny gently, "it never happened." She got upfrom her chair. "Father, you've waited long enough. You mustwrite to Dan to-night."

"But it's so late."

"Nonsense! It's early. You said so yourself. No time like thepresent, Tom—for my sake."

"All right," he said amiably, "I'll do it."

She kissed him and moved toward the door.

"I'll leave you alone," she said, pausing there. "Don't youdare to come upstairs until the letter's finished."

When she had gone he sat again at his desk. He was stillthinking of Clara; Clara in New York, studying under the bestteacher in the country; letters coming in from Clara's teacher,speaking sincerely, earnestly, in praise of her voice, urgingthat she be sent abroad; passage engaged, plans settled, himselfand Jenny in New York to put her on the boat and say good-by.

He recalled now with something of the old surprise and painthat scene in the bare little parlor of the New York hotel suite.Clara had been rather apathetic, rather gloomy, ever since theymet her. She was due to sail at three the next day. Suddenly shegot up from her chair and came over to her father.

"I've got something to say," she began. "I think you ought toknow. I'll sail to-morrow if you wish—I'll go on with mymusic—but it's against my will. I don't care if I neverhear a note of music again as long as I live!"

He gasped. It fell upon him out of a clear sky. He had thoughther devoted to her career, wrapped up in it.

Jenny and he questioned the girl gently. It seemed she was inlove; in love with a young man named Harry Parker, who worked ina store at home, an utterly commonplace boy whose reputation wasnot of the best. Tom Meade was appalled. He had been barely awaresuch a person existed; yet here he was, entering his life,wrecking one of his fondest dreams. Though the hour was late, hewent to the studio of Clara's teacher, asked the advice of thatwise old Frenchman.

"No use to force her," the teacher said. "I have noticed. Theheart is gone from her singing. We can not shape the lives of ourchildren, wise though we may be. Let her follow her heart, whichis no longer in the music."

So Clara followed her heart back to Mayfield, and they wentwith her. The day for her wedding was set, the trousseau bought,when suddenly, pale and tragic, she broke her engagement. The manfor whom she had given up everything was not worth it, thoughjust what act of his it was that enlightened Clara her fathernever knew. For months she walked about the big house like aghost. Jenny and he hoped she could again take up her career, butas time went on they saw that Clara was finished with song.

The force of the blow was mercifully broken for TomMeade—his son was left. David was in his first year at lawschool, struggling hard. Eagerly his father looked forward to themoment when David would come into his office, share his burdens,carry on the torch. "Meade and Meade, Attorneys at Law." Heclosed his eyes and saw the letterhead.

And then—it had happened only three years ago, and thesting of it was still sharp in Tom Meade's heart—David wasexpelled from school. A boyish prank, his father liked to callit. But it was the culmination of too many pranks, too long alist of failures, too little interest in the work.

"I'm sorry," wrote the dean of the school a bit brutally, "butI can see in your son no mental capacity whatever for the callingof the law."

In this very room David and his father had met, Davidalternately shamefaced and defiant. His father studied the boy.He was a bit florid for his years, a bit heavy. Could itbe—a bit dissipated? Fiercely Tom Meade asked himself, wasit his fault? Had he given David too much money to spend incollege? He had had more than other boys—yes. But hisfather had only meant to be kind. Had he been tookind—ruined him with his kindness?

But David wasn't precisely ruined; he turned into an average,rather chuckle-headed citizen of the republic. He ate and drank alittle too much, and his brain power did not carry him far pastthe sporting page. But he got along. He went to Indianapolis,secured the agency for the Wakefield car and was soon able tosupport himself. In another year he married Jean, spoileddaughter of a wealthy family, and Tom Meade began to dream of agrandchild.

Well, that was no use, either, it seemed. He glanced at theclock—eleven—he must get down to it. He felt no realurge to write Dan to-night, but Jenny was right—it was hisduty. Besides, he had promised he would.

But what a job! After all these years! He arranged a blanksheet of paper before him and took up his pen.

"39 Center Avenue,
Mayfield, Indiana.
November 24, 1910.

"Dear Dan:

"I hold in my hand to-night a letteryou wrote me in August, 1880, congratulating me on my engagementto Jenny Fairbanks. No doubt you have long ago forgotten it;perhaps you have forgotten me. If so, here's a line to remindyou. Your old friend Tom Meade is still alive, and he's beenplanning to answer for a long, long time. By the Lord Harry, he'sbeen planning for thirty years!

"Thirty years! Honestly, Dan, I can't findwords. What can I say in apology? My silence constitutes arecord, I suppose; yet it was only the silence of a man who wasnot content to scribble off anything and send it on its way. Itwas the silence of a man who, knowing how deeply you believed inhim and his talents, wanted some big bit of news, some notableachievement to put into his letter to Australia.

"The odd thing is that as I look back that bigthing seemed always just ahead, around the next corner. And soI'd go on. Sometimes when I turned the corner the thing was gone,sometimes it was there, but looking so much smaller, so much lessimportant than I'd imagined it. And whether it was there or not,always there was another corner looming up, a bigger, betterthing waiting there. And a voice that said, 'Go on! Go on!'

"I suppose that's life, Dan; always somethingto look forward to, to keep us moving on. It was life for me, alawyer, and no doubt for you, a business man, and for all meneverywhere.

"I've had a busy time of it. I've been prettylucky and successful, as things go. After I was admitted to thebar Henry Brackett took me into his office— "

He set down his Odyssey—a page or more. The long list ofhis honors and achievements, the story of his investments, hisfinancial rise, the high position he held in hisprofession—lecturer at the law school in the city,president of the State Bar Association, editor of The Benchand Bar of Indiana, in three volumes. He omitted nothing, itmade an impressive history.

"Well, Dan, that's my record. I won't try toconceal the fact that I'm mighty proud of it. And now I want tohear about you. How have you got on? Write and tell me all aboutyourself.

"You wished Jenny and me happiness in thatletter long ago. We've had it, Dan, thirty years of it, apleasant life together. Two children—fine kids, both ofthem; nothing brilliant, of course, but mighty satisfactory aschildren go these days. How about you? Did you marry? It seems tome Charley said you did.

"Can you ever forgive me, Dan? Thirty years toanswer your friendly hail! I can explain it to myself, butsomehow when I try to explain it to you the words won't come.However, I believe you will understand. Thirty years, but allthat time thinking of you again and again as I walked this townwhere we were boys together! A different town, Dan, a verydifferent town.

"God bless us both, you said. God bless you,too, old friend, and write me soon. As ever,

"Tom."

He put the letter into an envelope and sealed the flap. On theoutside he wrote Dan Nelson's name, then paused—"189 LittleBourke Street"—but that was thirty years ago. Dan hadprobably moved since then—several times, perhaps. He wouldhave to save this letter until morning, when he would drop intoCharley Nelson's hardware store and learn Dan's latestaddress.

For a moment he held the letter in his hand, thinking. It wasnot quite satisfactory somehow. None of the news it contained wasrecent enough to be interesting. After all these years of waitingit was an anticlimax. It had a sort of everything's-all-over,this-is-the-end tone to it. No, it wasn't quite what he wouldlike to send, but still He put it in the top drawer of hisdesk.

The fire on the hearth was out, the room icy cold. He wasshivering when he rose from his desk and went up-stairs. Jennywas sleeping soundly. He was careful not to wake her. He creptinto bed, chilled through. In the morning he was too ill to rise.His old friend, Doctor Clark, came in and looked him over.

"How's your general health, Tom?" he asked. "You don't lookwell. I'm going to get you out on the golf course nextspring."

"Nonsense!" snorted Tom Meade. "Chase a little white ball allover creation? No, sir; not me!"

"We'll fight that out in the spring," smiled the doctor. "Forthe present you do as I tell you. Stick close to bed. Jenny, Irely on you to manage him."

A week later he sat, a convalescent, in his library in theearly evening. Cuffy announced a visitor—Mr. Fred Perkins,from next door. Perkins had taken his father's place in the bankand as a leading citizen. He rushed in, a short, bald, puffylittle man.

"Hello!" he cried. "Glad to see you up. Just stopped a minuteon my way home to dinner. I was down to Indianapolis to-day andhad a chat with the governor. I've got news for you."

"Yes?" Tom Meade questioned.

"You know, of course, that there's a vacancy on the supreme-court bench in this state. Has been ever since Marvin died. Well,the governor was telling me he's thinking of appointing you. Hewanted me to sound you out."

"Appoint me? The supreme court?" Tom Meade's voice wastrembling.

"Yes. You could serve Marvin's unexpired term and then run forit. You'd be elected. You're the best lawyer in the state andeverybody knows it. I expect to see the governor again in a fewdays. What shall I tell him?"

"Why, tell him I shall be honored. It's a greatresponsibility, and I'd give it my best."

"Fine! Must run along now. Helen's waiting dinner."

Five minutes later Jenny entered the library to find that hehad thrown aside the covers in which she had wrapped him and waspacing the floor in his bath robe.

"Now, Father " she began.

"Jenny!" he cried. "Big news! Fred Perkins was just here. Thegovernor is going to appoint me to the supreme court."

"Is he really? Well, that's nice, I'm sure. Now come back hereand cover up."

He permitted her to restore him to the chair.

"Jenny, I'm a proud man," he told her. "I won't try to concealit. The crowning honor of my life. The thing every lawyersecretly longs for, and just when I thought I was about finished.But I'm not. I tell you, my dear, I've got years of usefulnessahead of me."

"Of course you have, Father," Jenny answered. "Would you likeanother glass of milk?"

Before she sent him off to bed she allowed him a moment at hisdesk. In the top drawer he found a sealed envelope with the nameDaniel Nelson, Esq., written on it. Ah, yes, his letter toDan—the letter with which he was not quite satisfied. Sortof anticlimax. But now—the supreme-court bench

"It's a matter of only a few weeks," thought the HonorableThomas Meade. "Yes, I'll wait until that comes along."

It came along three weeks later, but it looked trivial andunimportant when it came, for Jenny was lying desperately ill inthe big front room up-stairs and a dreadful fear was gripping TomMeade's heart.

* * * * *

WINTER, as the Mayfield Enterpriseremarked, had not seen fit to linger in the lap of spring. Thiswas in the year 1921. He had been a timid, impotent fellow,anyhow, and he vanished, terrified, when April arrived with theearliest consignment of warm breezes from the South. By the firstof May summer, too prompt to be entirely welcome, held thestage.

On the fifteenth of the month—early enough to constitutea record, as all golfers will recognize—winter greens wereabandoned at the Mayfield Country Club. Three days later, just asthe noon whistles were blowing in the smoky town, Tom Meade stoodon the tee of the eighteenth hole ready to drive off.

Solemnly, as befits such occasions, he took a practise swing.He seemed, if anything, younger than he had been on thatThanksgiving when he had last attempted a letter to Australia.True, his hair was now almost entirely white, but his figure hadimproved greatly and his cheeks glowed with health. Golf is agrand institution.

He approached the ball as one who has received that innermessage that the hour is ripe to strike.

"Don't forget the brook," said his caddie suddenly. He glaredat the boy with an expression of acute disfavor. Surely the childshould have known that the brook was the one thing in all theworld he had no wish to remember now.

He drew his club back slowly and drove straight and far. Theball bounded on toward the water hazard that traversed thefairway about a hundred and seventy-five yards away.

"In the brook!" shouted the boy, with no attempt to concealhis satisfaction. He had the caddie temperament.

"Nonsense!" said Tom Meade. "Something wrong with your eyes,Son. It stopped this side."

An unwonted excitement shone in his face, for he was on theverge of a big moment. In the ten years during which he had beendevoted to golf he had never gone round the course in less than ahundred strokes. But this morning, counting his drive in thefinal hole, his score was a beautiful ninety-six. If he made thecup in three his record would be smashed. He said a golfer'sprayer as he went toward his drive.

The prayer was answered—his ball lay a good two feetfrom the brook. Pointing out to his caddie the error of goingthrough this world a pessimist, he took his mashie andaccomplished a magnificent shot to the green. His heart sang; itwas his morning, beyond dispute his morning of glory. He wouldhave something to tell his fellow judges when the supreme courtmet again.

The brook being safely out of his way, he stood for a momentregarding it kindly. His eyes followed it as it crept out ofbounds under a rail fence, across a field and disappeared amid aclump of trees. Old memories assailed him.

"Used to go swimming in this brook when I was a boy," he toldthe caddie.

"Tha's so?" said the caddie.

"Yes, sir. Over there under those trees—only cool placeround here in July and August. We used to come tearing up fromtown, running across the fields, undressing as we ran."

"Get arrested fer that," the boy warned him.

"Yes, I guess we would nowadays. There were five fellows in mygang—Spider Griffiths, Mike Forrester, DanNelson—"

He walked on for a moment in silence. "Remember once DanNelson thought he'd be smart. Hid my clothes, and I had to hanground those woods until dark. Anybody ever hide your clothes,Son?"

"Naw," responded the bored younger generation. "Here's yerball."

It was ticklish business, those last two strokes. His heartalmost stopped beating, but he managed them safely.

"Ninety-nine!" he cried. "Not bad for a man my age, eh,boy?"

"I seen the professional " began the boy.

"Yes, but I'm no professional. Here, give me the bag. I'm justhappy enough to mark you 'excellent,' though you know mighty wellyou don't deserve it."

He went exultantly into the locker-room. Passing cronies heardthe news. The club steward heard it and was properly impressed.His chauffeur, waiting to take him back to Center Avenue, alsoheard it.

"Under a hundred—the first time in my life!"

He rolled away from the club, over the bridge that spanned thebrook. The boards rattled beneath his heavy limousine. Back intothe sprawling city, down Center Avenue, through the big gates andup to his house. Somewhat old-fashioned now, his house, but stillimposing and dignified.

Clara was waiting for him in the big hall. She managed hishouse, now that Jenny was gone. Thirty-eight and unmarried,Clara. Once she would have been that creature scorned inMayfield, an old maid. But the world was changing, even Mayfield,and the unmarried woman was no longer looked down upon. Clara wasfinding life not so bad, after all.

"Hello," she said. "Lunch is ready if you are. Have a goodtime?"

"Did I?" her father cried. "Clara, went round in ninety-nine!What do you think of that?"

"Splendid!" she answered. "I'm so happy for your sake. I knowit's been your great ambition."

"It was," he corrected. "Got a new one now—ninety-fiveor better by September."

After lunch he went into his library. The efficient Clara hada cheerful fire crackling on the hearth. He lighted a cigar andsat for a time in his favorite chair, at peace with the world.The cigar finished, he went over to his desk. Great piles oflegal-looking documents awaited him. Ignoring them, he sat for along moment staring into space. Then he began to rummage throughthe drawers of his desk. For about ten minutes he continued tosearch, then he abandoned the project—whatever it was. Helaid out a blank sheet of paper and took up his fountain pen. Hewrote:

"Dear Dan:"

[Pity he couldn't find that old letter of Dan's, but no matter, he didn't need it.]

"Well, Dan,here I am again after all these years. Thought I'd dropped of?the earth, didn't you? And no wonder. I certainly have been afailure as a correspondent, haven't I, old man?

"However, I know it's all right with you. I'vebeen busy, Dan, busy as the devil with a lot of little thingsthat, as I look back on them now, didn't matter much after all.Every day now—I wonder if you find it that way,too—every day the memory of those middle years growsfainter and fainter, and the old times, the days of my youth,seem more distinct and nearer.

"I was out playing golf this morning, Dan. Oh,yes, we have a golf links here now—you wouldn't know theold town. As I say, I was out on the links. They're north oftown, on what you may recall as the old Marvin tract. Across thefairway of the eighteenth hole runs a brook the sight of whichwould stir memories in you, Dan, as it always does in me. It'sthe brook where we went swimming together as boys.

"Remember, Dan, that time you hid my clothes inthe crotch of a tree and left me shivering half the evening inthe woods? Pretty mean trick, my lad. I always swore I'd get evenwith you, but I don't know that I ever did. Remember the time weheld Spider Griffiths' head under water because he saidRepublicans were skunks, and he almost strangled and scared ushalf to death? And the night Mike Forrester's mother came for himwith a switch, and got hold of you by mistake in the dark andcaned you good? And said, when she discovered her error, that shewasn't sorry, as she guessed you needed it. Maybe you did, eh,Dan?

"It's the truth, Dan, you wouldn't knowMayfield. It's big and dirty and prosperous; full of strangerstoo. There's a tire factory on the field where we played ball.Green Hill, where you and I went coasting, is now our mostexclusive suburb, dotted with Italian villas and handsomecolonial mansions somewhat the worse for soft-coal smoke. I wasout there the other day and it reminded me of the time you brokeyour sled—your new one—and I could see you standingthere in the snow with the tears frozen on your face and the redmuffler round your neck, just as plain as though it wasyesterday.

"I've got a colored man named Cuffy—he'sover ninety, I guess. He was in here the other day complainingabout the weather. 'We don't have weather like it was in theolden times,' he said. And he added, in a voice that brought alump into my throat, 'Oh, jedge, I'se sholy longin' fo' oldentimes to come back.'

"I'm like Cuffy, Dan. I'm sholy longin' fo'olden times to come back.

"Why not come home for a visit, Dan? Nothingwould delight me more. We'd tear down this town as it is to-dayand build it up as it used to be. I'd take you over our golfcourse. It's a mighty sporty little eighteen-hole affair of morethan six thousand yards. People tell us there's nothing inChicago can beat it. I go round in just under a hundred—notbad for an old fellow, eh, Dan?

"Dan, I'd love to see you. Jenny would haveliked it, too, but she's no longer here. She thought a lot ofyou, old man. She was always after me to answer that letter youwrote congratulating us on our engagement. I may be a little latenow, but I want to tell you that we appreciated your good wishes.I guess your letter brought us luck and happiness. Certainly wehad both. Thirty years together, Jenny and I—twochildren—life mighty kind. That's about all there is totell.

"Well, Dan, excuse the delay, and write me allabout yourself. Do you play golf? Got a course in Melbourne, Isuppose. What do you make it in? Don't forget to tell me. Are youunder a hundred too?

"Don't wait as long as I did. And, if you canpossibly arrange it, come home, Dan, come on home. You've beenwandering long enough.

"Your old pal, Tom Meade."

He was smiling softly to himself as he put the letter into anenvelope and wrote Dan's name on the outside. A keen satisfactionfilled his heart. Here was a matter that had long demanded hisattention; it was attended to at last. Pretty good letter, too.Covered the ground thoroughly. Only dimly was he conscious of theforty-one years he had delayed; it didn't seem so long. Why, itseemed only yesterday that Dan was here!

He put the letter into his pocket, went into the hall anddonned his overcoat. This time he would not delay an instant. Hewould go at once to Charley Nelson's hardware store and find outDan's latest address.

"Mr. Nelson's out, Judge," said Phil Barclay, the clerk. "Beback in a minute, I expect."

"I'll wait," said Tom Meade. He sat down on a keg ofnails.

"Say, Judge, have you seen these new golf balls?" inquired theenterprising Phil. Charley carried a side-line of sporting-goods.He came over with a box of balls. "The Green Flyer. Liveliestball made. Guaranteed to carry ten yards farther than any other.Permitted by the golf authorities too."

"You don't tell me!" Tom Meade replied. He took up one of theballs and examined it critically.

"Better buy a box, Judge," Phil went on. "Cut ten strokes fromyour score as sure as fate."

Tom Meade restored the ball to its place.

"No, I guess not, Phil," he smiled. "I'm doing pretty well asit is. Went round in ninety-nine this morning. Not so bad for aman my age, eh?"

"Not bad at all," answered Phil, his enthusiasm tempered byhis failure to make a sale.

The front door slammed. Tom Meade saw Charley Nelson comingtoward him. A thin wraith of a man, Charley; transparent, almost,a man who seemed not at all well.

How many years had it been, Meade wondered, since Jenny toldhim how worried Mary was about her husband. Long, long ago. NowMary was gone, and Jenny, too, and Charley was still abroad amidhis hardware.

"Want to see me, Judge?" he inquired.

"Just a minute," Meade answered.

"Come into the office," Charley said.

He led the way into a little cubby-hole at the rear, just bigenough to accommodate an aged roll-top desk and a fat tipsystove. Mild as the day was, the latter held a rousing fire.Charley Nelson had always found the world a mighty chillyplace.

"What can I do for you, Judge?" he asked.

Tom Meade took the letter to Australia from his pocket.

"I've written to Dan, Charley," he said. "I've written thatletter at last. Here it is, sealed and stamped. I didn't have hisaddress, though, so I thought I'd drop in and ask you—"

He stopped. Charley was staring at him solemnly.

"You can't send that letter, Judge," he said.

"Can't send it? Why not? What's happened? Danisn't—"

"Dan's left Australia," Charley said. "He's somewhere inCalifornia now. I expect him here in about two weeks."

"Here? In Mayfield? Say, that'll be great!" Tom Meade's facewas beaming. "Funny too. I was telling him he'd better comehome—in this letter I wrote to-day."

Charley stared owlishly at the envelope.

"Well, you was a little late," he said. "Dan sailed fromMelbourne last October. He's been spending the winter on theCoast."

"A little late," Tom Meade smiled. "Forty-one years. Yes,Charley, I guess I was a little late."

"I ain't sure that Dan won't settle down here," Charley wenton. "He's alone in the world—wife gone, children married.He sold out all his interests over there. Yes, he spoke as if hemight end his days right here in Mayfield."

"Where he belongs," answered Tom Meade. He sat staringdubiously at the letter in his hand. "Well, Charley, I guess Ihaven't any use for this, after all. Forty-one years to get itfinished, and now—"

He opened the door of the fat old stove. Live coals glowedwithin. Slowly he tore the letter across and laid the pieces onthe fire. He closed the door.

"Judge," Charley was saying, "you'll be glad to know that Danhas done real well out there. I guess he's worth a million ormore. From what I hear—"

"There's just one thing I want to know," Meade said. "This isimportant, Charley, try to remember. Does he play golf?"

"I don't recollect," Charley answered. "He's a wool merchant,you know—the biggest in Australia—"

"You don't recollect! Think, man, think!"

"Well, I guess he did say something in one letter—oh,yes, he stopped in California to play golf. I remember now. Ofcourse Dan never says much about the big success he's made. Butin a roundabout way—"

"I wonder what he goes round in?" Tom Meade cut in on himagain.

"Round what?" asked Charley, who was no golfer.

"Round the golf course—his score."

"Oh, his score. Land sakes, I wouldn't know that, Judge! But Iguess anything Dan does he does well. He built that business ofhis up out of nothing. On the day he left Australia they gave hima dinner in Melbourne, and the leading men of theplace—"

"Well, he ought to be good," said Tom Meade. "He's been at itall winter." He stood up. "You let me know when he's due,Charley, and I'll be at the station to meet him. I'll have him upat the club before he gets his breath." He smiled gently. "Danand me playing round the old Marvin place once more," he added."Life sort of moves in a circle, doesn't it, Charley?"

"I guess it does," said Charley Nelson.

Tom Meade returned to the front of the store and summoned theclerk to his side.

"What was the name of that ball?" he asked.

"The Green Flyer," said Phil. "Do you want—"

"Wrap me up a box of 'em," he ordered.

Phil smiled as he handed them over.

"Not quite satisfied with your score, after all?" heventured.

"Not yet," said the Honorable Thomas Meade.

He had a number of errands in the town, and dusk was fallingwhen at last he swung up Center Avenue on his way home. The boxof golf balls was clutched firmly under his arm, his heelsclicked a youthful tattoo on the stone sidewalk, his shoulderswere thrown back, there was fire in his eye. Now and then heglanced up at the soft spring sky; he hoped to-morrow would befine.

To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow! Looking forwardstill!

NINA AND THE BLEMISH

Illustrated by Saul Tepper*

[* Illustrations omitted by reason of copyright.]

First published in The Saturday Evening Post, Aug 18,1928

THE desert caravan in which Jim Dryden rodetraveled only at night. Long nights they seemed to Jim, with thewind howling in his ears, the sage and the mesquite lying in adeathly hush under the pale unfriendly stars and the gray sandwhirling ahead of him down that lonely stretch of macadam.

He stepped on the gas and glanced at his speedometer. Thirtymiles—thirty-two. Vainly he sought to catch the whir of hismotor above the roar of the wind. Was it running smoothly now? Hehoped so. Dawn ought to find him close to his journey's end. Forday and the sun's heat in that country meant that the preciouscargo at his back in the truck would perish. He bent over and,skilful from practise, lighted a cigarette, his wrists guidingthe wheel.

A romantic figure? The idea would have startledhim—called forth that slow, surprised smile of his. A youngman, lean and tanned, in khaki shirt and trousers, doing his job.Speeding on down the long road that leads by the Salton Sea;rumbling through little desert settlements where people awokesuddenly at the noise and knew that the Imperial Valley wassending its cantaloupes up to the breakfast tables of LosAngeles.

To-night he rode alone; the caravan was far in advance. Anexploding tire, faulty ignition—one thing after another hadcaused him to fall behind. He thought of his melons in the boxesand was worried. But that cold biting wind still swept in on himfrom the sandy waste land and brought him, oddly enough, comfort.Thank heaven for the wind. Better than the refrigerator cars inwhich the freight shipments traveled East.

His headlights caught a sign on the road ahead: Stop! U. S.Officers. One more delay. He cursed under his breath and threw onthe brakes. Two sleepy immigration men with flash-lights andabsurdly large guns greeted him as he leaped to the ground.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" said one of the officers. "So farbehind the rest of the gang we almost missed you."

"Well, I guess I could 'a' lived through that too," Drydengrinned. "What can I do for you? Breakfast? I can give you a realnice melon, but I'm a little short on coffee an' rolls."

One of the men climbed on to the truck and his flashlightplayed over the crates. The Imperial Valley lies close to theborder and smuggled aliens on the melon trucks are not unknown.Dryden watched him, a tired smile on his face.

"You're the most suspicious guys I ever met in my life," hecommented. "Ain't you ever goin' to trust me? What would I bedoin' with smuggled Chinks at a measly three thousand a head? Me,I ain't got no use for money."

"Is that so?" replied the other man. He dropped to the roadand rolled under the truck, where his light flickereduncertainly.

"You be careful, Buddy," said Dryden. "If that gun o' yoursgoes off, you'll blow up all Southern California. What gets me isyou guys goin' around with nothin' but a cannon in your belt.Brave, I call it."

The man on the truck jumped down. "Got a cigarette, Kid?" heinquired.

"Oh, is that what you was lookin' for?" Dryden proffered apackage. "And me thinkin' all the time you was after the Chink Igot curled up in a melon in that back crate. Will the cigarettebe enough, or are you all out o' matches too?"

The officer took the sign from the road. "Go along," hesuggested.

"I'll do that," Dryden answered, and swung on to his seat. Heleaned over, harassed and sarcastic. "You must come and see mesome time," he remarked, and the truck leaped off into thegrayness that presaged dawn.

Dawn was a fact as he rolled into Indio. He went down the mainstreet like the Limited on a falling grade. A friend waved to himfrom the doorway of a garage; he answered the greeting, but thescowl remained on his face. "A good-natured guy," he was oftencalled, but the night had tried him sorely. The town droppedbehind; the flaming sun peered over the wall of the hills,turning their dusky red to rose. The beauty of a desert sunrisefilled the world. An old story to Dryden; he was thinking ofmelons.

As he approached the road that turns off to Palm Springs abattered little flivver came up behind and screeched by him, downthe center of the empty highway. Dryden watched itidly—then suddenly his hand was on the brakes. For aglittering roadster had shot out of the Palm Springs road atfifty miles an hour. It struck the flivver amidships. There was acrash, a woman's cry, and Dryden stopped just in time on the edgeof the wreckage.

He leaped to the ground. The solitary occupant of theexpensive car was still at the wheel—a handsome girl ofabout twenty. Though she had been betrayed into a cry of fright,there was nothing of distress in her brown eyes now. She regardedJim Dryden coolly, impersonally, as though he were part of arather uninteresting landscape.

"Well, that was real pretty," Dryden said. "And what are yourplans now?" More delay. He was inwardly raging. "Back away, ifyou know how it's done, and let's see what was runnin' this othercar."

Her eyes flashed indignantly, but she backed off. A mandisentangled himself from what was left of the flivver. His hairwas prematurely gray; he was thin and ill-looking, trembling allover. He said nothing.

"You hurt, Buddy?" Jim Dryden inquired.

"No—no, I guess not." The man's pale face twitchednervously. "But my car—it's—it's done for now, Iguess."

Dryden looked at the wreckage. He was about to mention thejunk heap, but hesitated. Some sixth sense told him that this wastragedy. "Don't you worry. The young lady's goin' to pay you forthe damage. Say, Sister, do you always travel on to a main roadat that speed?"

She had alighted and stood there on the highway. Slim, hat-less, with bobbed brown hair, the modern young woman at herbest—or worst.

"Since when?" she inquired haughtily.

"Since when—what?" Dryden asked.

"Since when have I been your sister? It's news to me."

Dryden grinned. "My mistake. And lucky for you it is." Hermanner, arrogant and self-confident, roused him. "If you was mysister you'd get a good spanking right now."

"Really? How interesting! And for what?"

"For coming round that corner the way you did. It wasn't goodsense."

She shrugged. "This man was traveling on the wrong side of theroad. You're probably not overly intelligent, but you know thatmuch."

"Is that so? Kid, I don't know anything of the sort. I was theonly witness to this smash-up, and I say it was all your fault.You ought to pay for it." Their eyes met. "And you will," addedDryden grimly.

She smiled—a superior, maddening smile. "Look at myfender. It's badly bent. There must be other damage too." Sheturned to her victim: "Will you let me have your name andaddress, please?"

"Of course," said the man nervously. "But I'm sure—I'mquite sure—it wasn't my fault. I may have been in themiddle of the road. You see, I'd just passed thetruck—"

"You was on the side," corrected Dryden. "I saw you."

"Your name?" persisted the girl coldly.

"Name's Sam Bristol. I'm living over at Green Palms."

Dryden looked at him suddenly. He could place this fellow now.He stepped to the roadster. On the steering wheel was thecertificate of registration. Dryden took out a soiled bit ofpaper and a stub of pencil and copied off the name andaddress.

The girl turned. "What are you doing?"

"Never you mind, Miss Brockway," he answered. "You'll hearfrom us later. Got insurance, I suppose?"

"That happens to be my affair."

"Yeah? Well, we'll let you know how much you owe us. I guessyour check will be O.K."

She came over and got into her car. "You seem rather sure ofyourself," she remarked.

"The same to you, Kid," he answered. Again their eyes met."One of us may have to back down," he suggested.

Her eyes defied him. "It's a little habit I've neverformed."

"Funny," grinned Dryden. "I'm that way too. Solong—until I see you again."

She turned the wheel and swept grandly off toward Indio.

Dryden stood for a moment looking after her. He shrugged hislean shoulders. "I know her kind too," he said, as one whoboasted wide acquaintance among women. "Queen of the world, inher own opinion. Tourist, most likely. A few of 'em still hangin'round, infesting a pretty good state. From New York, Isuppose."

"I'm from New York myself," said Bristol, with a touch ofasperity in his voice.

"Yeah? Well, what you goin' to do, Buddy? What about this pileof tin?"

"Might as well leave it and walk back home," replied Bristolhopelessly.

"What? Say, now, don't quit on me! Leave it—hell! Hop onboard my truck an' I'll take you into Banning. Fellow I knowthere runs a garage. We'll tell him to come an' get your car an'fix it up."

Bristol shook his head. "I haven't a cent in the world. Thegarage man would know it too—no credit."

"That's all right. He'll fix it up if I say so. An' we'll makethat high-an'-mighty dame pay for the job."

"She won't," objected the other. "I could see that. Morelikely she'll send me a bill. She's that kind."

Dryden snorted impatiently. "Say, Buddy, I'm late as it is.Get aboard here an' let me handle this. Never saw the dame yetcould put anything over on me."

Reluctantly the owner of the wrecked car helped Dryden push itto the side of the road, then climbed aboard the truck.

Again Jim Dryden and his cantaloupes were on their way. For atime neither man spoke. Bristol's face still twitched, his handstrembled.

"Pretty hard lines losing the old bus just now," he said atlast. "They're doing a movie over by Palm Springs nextweek—a big war picture. I'd been promised a job as anextra—five dollars a day, real money—and I wanted itpretty bad."

"War picture, eh?" Dryden's voice was filled with scorn. "Themovies cashing in on the war again. Trenches an' actors in nicenew uniforms—love among the hand grenades. It won't be yourfirst time in the trenches—hey, Buddy?"

"How did you know?" Bristol looked at him. "Oh,yes—Green Palms—it's a sort of label, isn't it? It'strue, I'm one of them. Gassed and a few bits of shrapnel. I'vebeen trying for ten years to get right again."

"If anybody's got any call to make money out of the war, Iguess it's you, hey, Old-Timer?"

"Maybe—but how am I going to do it now? No car to get tolocation. I promised two of the other fellows I'd take 'em along.Gosh, they'll be sorry!"

"Sorry about what?"

"About my not having a car."

"You'll have it. Quit kidding yourself."

"But the money—"

Dryden shot nonchalantly past a big limousine, leaving it justan inch of leeway. "I tell you that dame's goin' to pay. I was awitness, wasn't I? You leave it to me."

Bristol was silent for a moment.

Suddenly he looked at Dryden. "What was that name you calledher?"

"Brockway—Nina Brockway. It was on the registrationcard."

"Palm Springs?"

"Yeah."

"Good lord!" Bristol's voice was awe-struck. "You know who herfather is?"

"God help him, whoever he is."

"But he's Henry C. Brockway. You know what that means?"

"It means nothing to me, Buddy."

"Why, he's got millions—millions! Cleaned up in WallStreet. Somebody told me he was at Palm Springs. I used to hear alot about him in New York. He's a big man."

"One man's pretty much like another out here," said Dryden."It don't matter to me who he is. Don't be so easy impressed,Buddy. You give me a pain in the neck."

Bristol relapsed into silence, thinking his New Yorkthoughts.

They swept up before a Banning garage and the proprietor cameout smiling.

"'Morning, Bill," Dryden cried.

"Hello, Jim. You're pretty late, ain't you?"

"I'll say I am ... Listen, Bill. This is Sam Bristol, a friendof mine. Some jazzy dame nicked him out by the Palm Springs roadan' wrecked his car. Go out with him an' pick it up an' put itback in shape. He's got to have it by Saturday night."

"Sure will," agreed Bill.

"An' say, give him a statement," added Dryden. "The dame willpay it, an' if she shouldn't, I'm responsible."

"Oh, no, I couldn't let you " began Bristol.

"Hush up, Buddy," Dryden admonished. "You worry too much. Itell you I ain't seen the dame yet could get away with anythingin my neighborhood. Now I gotta leave you. These here melons iscryin' to be et." And he dashed away down Banning's mainstreet.

* * * * *

IN the big house he had rented at Palm Springs,Henry C. Brockway was lying in a darkened room on the secondfloor, taking his afternoon rest. Three thousand miles werebetween him and Wall Street, that brief thoroughfare where he hadpicked up twenty million dollars, high blood-pressure, aneuralgic heart and a little asthma on the side. "Rest," thedoctors said—"you must have rest." He lay there tense andunrelaxed, seeking to attain that rest, going after it like aborn go-getter, but unlike the millions, it eluded him. Hesighed.

He heard a car in the drive, and then the voice of his son-in-law, Arthur, Edith's husband, who had been playing solitaire onthe veranda.

"Hello, Nina—back at last.... What's this, my girl?Another smash-up?"

Henry C. raised his head, alert and frowning. He waited forthe voice of Nina, his younger daughter.

"Oh, pipe down," she said. "Father will hear and hit theceiling again. Had a little accident, that's all." Henry C. creptsilently to the window. "Some one got in my way, as usual."

"Who was it this time?" inquired the blase Arthur, glad of abit of excitement at last.

"Who? What does that matter? Just a blemish—that's allhe was. And another blemish got down from a truck and had thenerve to say it was my fault. They stick together, theseblemishes do."

Wearily Henry C. put on his shoes, his coat. Going below, hefollowed his wayward daughter into the garage. He stood for amoment staring at the car.

"Again, eh?" he inquired.

"What do you mean—again?"

"You know what I mean. I'm sick and tired of it, I can tellyou. Drive like a wild woman I've a good mind to take this caraway from you."

"Now, Dad, don't get excited."

"Who wouldn't get excited? Every time you go out on the roadNo wonder they canceled your insurance.... It wasn't your fault,of course."

"Of course not."

"I don't believe you. But even if you were right, you couldn'tprove it—not with your record. Well, by heaven, you'll payfor it this time—out of your own allowance! I've signed thelast check for you."

"Neither of us will pay. I'll see to that.... Calm down."

"Calm down? That's good. Calm down—rest—keepquiet. That was the idea out here. But with youaround—"

She frowned. "I'll leave if you say so. If I'm in the wayhere—"

"Now—now!" There was a note of panic in Brockway'svoice; he was, oddly enough, fond of her. "I don't mean,Nina—you understand—I'm on edge all the time."

She glanced at him and her hard young face softened a little.He did look unutterably weary. "I'm sorry, Dad," she said in aquite different tone. "You're not to worry about this. I canhandle it."

"I hope so. But controversy—wrangling—I don't likeit. Somebody will be around to see me—somebody with agrievance—"

"Nobody but a blemish—nobody who matters."

"I wish you wouldn't talk like that," he said. "These peoplehave as much right in the world as you have."

"Have they? Well, they're here, at any rate, cluttering it up,infesting the beaches, the roads, the cities. I get so sick ofthem—"

He looked at her keenly. "I was what you would have called ablemish once myself. Up from the crowd—that's where I camefrom. And I've never forgot—"

"I know. But surely you're not going to stand here in thedoorway of the garage and tell me about those early struggles.I've heard all about them, Dad—believe me I haveheard."

He sighed. "Did you get the mail?"

"I certainly did—the New York paper too. Now go up onthe veranda and relax over the financial page. If the person whogot in my way this morning tries to make any trouble I'll takecare of him—I promise you."

"See that you do." He went up on to the porch and was shortlyback on the New York Stock Exchange.

On the afternoon of the second day following, Nina Brockwaylooked out the living-room window and saw that a truck hadstopped before the house. She was not the sort of person to beinterested in trucks, but this one seemed somehow vaguelyfamiliar. For a moment she was puzzled; then she saw Jim Drydenswinging up the path between the cactus plants.

The strain of driving in the desert caravan was not upon himnow, and he walked as one at peace with the world. There wassomething rather attractive about his genial you-go-to-the-devilair; it must be admitted that—for a person of hisclass—he was strikingly good-looking. Nothing about himsuggested that battle was in the air, but Nina Brockway sensed itand was ready.

Arthur was lolling on the veranda, an elegant figure. Thepride and hope of a good but impoverished family, he had been abond salesman until Edith, Brockway's elder daughter, had rescuedhim and brought him to this. Jim Dryden looked him overappraisingly. The appraisal was not very high.

"Hello," said the truck driver.

"How do you do?" answered Arthur coldly. "Deliveries are atthe rear door, if you don't mind—"

"What of it?" said Dryden. "I ain't delivering anything, Son.I'm lookin' for Miss Nina Brockway. You can run along an' fetchher—if you don't mind."

Arthur glared at him but rose. He encountered his sister-in-law in the hall. "Gentleman friend to see you," he announced.

"I know," she said. "Just one of those blemishes I told youabout. He won't be here long."

She went out on to the veranda, her head high, her mannerhaughty. Dryden greeted her pleasantly.

"Hello, Sister," he remarked easily. "Glad to see you. Afraidyou might be out on the road somewhere. But you ain't—an'that's good news for anybody else happens to be goin' somewhereto-day."

"What do you want with me?" she asked. She looked straightthrough him at the cottonwood trees in the garden.

"Reckon you know what I want," he returned. He had been tooharassed, too hurried, on that other occasion to pay muchattention to her, but now he had leisure to look her over. He didso, casually, and without much interest. "Little matter ofbusiness," he went on, taking out an envelope. "Just saw SamBristol over in Banning. He tells me you sent him this—thisbill for damage to your car." He grinned at her, and removing theenclosure from the envelope, tore it carelessly across and tossedthe fragments to the floor. "I got to admit, Sister, I admireyour nerve. Wreck a poor guy an' then try to make him pay forit.... Well, that's all settled."

"You think so?"

"I sure do." He took a slip of paper from his pocket. "I justdropped in with the garage bill for repairs to Sam's car." Shereached out a hand, but after glancing into her eyes, he drew hisaway. "Second thoughts, I'll hang on to it. All the tearingthat's going to be done you just seen done. One hundred andforty-five dollars, Kid. I'll wait while you write a check."

"You'll wait for ever then," she replied, her eyesflashing.

"Well, no, I couldn't do that," Dryden explained patiently."Got to be back at El Centro by dusk. I ain't got much time, yousee. Would you mind stepping on it, Sister?" He dropped into achair. "A. H. Bemis—that's the garage man's name. Just makeit out to him."

"Never!" the girl said firmly. She remained standing; she waslooking at him now, but there was only contempt in her look."You're wasting your time. I've told you before—he was onthe wrong side of the road—"

"Got to leave that to the witness," Dryden cut in, still withthe grin that maddened her—"meanin' me. Witness beingsworn, deposes that you came round that corner like hell fire an'lit into poor Sam. Damages assessed to you."

"Try to get them!" she said.

"Just what I'm doin'," Dryden answered amiably. "An', Kid,when I set out to do a thing, I generally stick—like asummer cold."

"If I may inquire, just what is it to you?"

"Sure—you can inquire. Won't you sit down? You make menervous about my manners. Too tired to stand myself—on theroad all last night. Don't expect to get more than three-fourhours' sleep this evening. But what's it to me, you're asking.We'll, it's this way: Poor old Sam is sick an' livin' all alonein a shack on the desert. He hasn't got a penny in the world. Heneeds his car. Otherwise he just sticks to that shack—nogames of pool in Banning, see? You come along an' knock hisflivver to smithereens, an' when we try to talk to you, yourmanner is—well, out of my way, you scum. Sam may get out ofyour way, Sister, but I won't. Get that—I won't."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Just about—except that I'm for justice. Too little ofit in the world, the way I see it. Nights riding over the desert,I get lots of time to think—want to see more justicedone.... Now please don't keep me waiting."

"I'm not keeping you," she answered. "You may go anytime."

Henry C. Brockway came out on to the veranda, his afternoonrest broken once more. He stood there.

"An' who is this?" Jim Dryden inquired.

"My father," the girl said at last.

"Yeah? The big Wall Street man. Well, we don't see many of 'emon the desert." He looked Henry C. over curiously, but made nomove to rise. "How are you, sir? ... Just a little matter ofbusiness between your daughter an' me. You see, she wrecked acar—"

"Your car?" Brockway asked.

"No—belonged to a friend of mine—Sam Bristol. I'mactin' for him."

"Why doesn't he come himself?"

"It's a fair question. But circ*mstances have made him sort ofdiscouraged—meek. Me, I'm not like that."

"Not precisely," remarked Nina Brockway.

"You said it, Sister. Poor old Sam ain't got any fight left inhim. It was all took out in France some years ago. Needs afriend—an' he's got one too. The damages to his car comesto one hundred and forty-five dollars."

"It was never worth that at the start!" flamed the girl.

Dryden nodded. "I know. Ain't it—er—terrible whatthese garages do to you? You ought to remember that when you hearthat speed bug buzzin' round your head. Anyway, that's the bill,an' since your daughter was to blame for the accident, Mr.Brockway, I been askin' her in the politest way I know to pay it.If she won't, maybe you—"

Brockway shook his head. "No, this is her affair. She's beenwarned. If any one pays she must."

"That's the ticket," Dryden agreed. "Put it up to her. Theproper way to raise a child, if you ask me."

The girl stamped her foot. "I'm not a child!" she criedpassionately. "This silly interview has gone far enough. I wasnot to blame for the accident and I won't pay. I deny that thisman Bristol's financial affairs have anything to do with it. Hewas on the wrong side of the road. Some of the rest of us arekeen on justice too. And if you think I'm soft enough to paybecause I'm sorry for him—"

Dryden stood up. "If I think that, I guess I'm all wet," hesaid. "Hard, ain't you, Sister?—wise. New York in yourblood. All right. It takes all kinds to make a world. I got to begoin' now. But I hate to give up—for Sam's sake. I'm makin'a last request of you. Will you do something for me?"

"It's hardly likely," she told him.

"I'll be goin' back through here with the empty truck dayafter to-morrow. Meet me at the corner where you wrecked Sam'scar. Make it two-thirty."

She was about to turn away, but something in his eyes

"Why should I do that?" she wanted to know.

"Just like to take you on a little jaunt—over to GreenPalms. You'll do that much, won't you?"

"Oh, I see," she answered coldly. "You want to play on myemotions. You think that out of pity—"

"Well, you'll come, won't you?"

"I will not!"

He regarded her with his slow smile. "Well, that knocks mecuckoo. Guess I was gettin' too set up about myself as a judge ofhuman nature. I thought you was surer of yourself than that. Ithought you'd just know it wouldn't do any good an' would comealong to prove it to me. But of course, if your hardness ain'tany deeper than that—if you're a coward—"

"How dare you?"

"Oh, all right. Maybe I'm mistaken. Maybe you ain't such acoward as you seem. If that's so—prove it. Day aftertomorrow—two-thirty—the corner where you hit Samthrough your carelessness.... I'm sayin' good-by now. I've got togo."

He strolled off between the cactus plants, whistling a popularair. Without a backward glance at the house, he climbed on to histruck. The girl turned on her father.

"You were a great help. I thought of course you'd take mypart. Your own daughter—"

Henry C. Brockway's eyes were on the retreating truck. "I sortof wish you'd pay it," he remarked.

"Never!" Her voice was near to breaking. "Not foryou—nor for that—that appalling roughneck!"

"I rather liked him," said Henry Brockway mildly.

* * * * *

AT two-thirty on the second day following, Ninawas waiting in her expensive car at the point where the PalmSprings road joined the main highway. Almost on the minute JimDryden appeared and brought his empty truck to a stop beside her.He leaned over, smiling his engaging smile.

"Good for you, Sister. You're surer of yourself than youthought, hey? Goin' to follow me over to Green Palms?"

She nodded. "Yes; I want a talk with Mr. Bristol. I prefer todeal with a principal, not with an agent—especially thisagent."

"Suits me," agreed Dryden.

"I shall put the matter up to him," continued the girl. "Theaccident was not my fault and he must know it. Perhaps he isinterested in justice too—in justice—notsentimentality."

"I'll lead the way," grinned Dryden. "Be a good kid an' don'thit me from behind."

They traveled on down the macadam and turned off on to a dirtroad. The going became heavy, but Dryden did not slacken hisspeed. All about lay the eternal waste of the desert, treeless,monotonous, yet with a weird fascination. Mountain slopes, darkred and rocky and forbidding, walled in this arid corner of theworld.

The winding road led at last to a discouraged littlesettlement: A number of cheap shacks, a desert inn with apathetic attempt at a garden, a combined general store and post-office. Parking before the latter, Dryden addressed a group ofyoung men who sat idly on a bench.

"Which is Sam Bristol's house?" he inquired.

One of the men pointed. "Right over yonder. He ain't in,though. Walked into Banning this morning to see about hiscar."

Nina Brockway parked beside the truck and stepped down intothe dust of the road. Fresh and lovely in her white frock, afigure from another world, she created a mild sensation on themain street of Green Palms. The young man who had been speakingleaped to his feet, his eyes alight. Jim Dryden turned to thegirl.

"Sam ain't in," he explained. "But come along. We'll have alook at his place anyhow. Maybe we can leave a note for him."

Without a word, she followed him to the little shack, built oflumber that appeared to be second hand. It boasted a tipsyveranda, on which was a cot with army blankets. Dryden pushedopen the door. They entered a bare room with a kitchen table, atottering chair, a wardrobe minus one leg, an oil stove. No needof the latter at this hour, for the room resembled an oven.

Dryden stood looking around. "Home, sweet home," he remarked."Take a look at it, Sister. This is where your fellow New Yorkerlives. An' he ain't forgot his old home town, I guess."

He pointed to the walls. All available space was placardedwith pictures of New York, most of them carefully cut fromrotogravure sections. The Woolworth Building, City Hall Park,Brooklyn Bridge, Fifth Avenue, the Library with the lions infront.

"Seems like New York's a disease people don't get over,"Dryden said. "Me—I don't understand it. I was there once.Not for mine. A hard town. Every guy for himself. We ain't thatway out on the desert."

Nina Brockway walked slowly about the room and Dryden followedat her heels. "Look familiar to you?" he inquired as she stoppedto examine the photographs. "The limousine parade on theAvenue—been in it yourself, I suppose. Not driving, I hope.Does it make you homesick? Sam's homesick, he tells me. But yougot it all over him. You can go back—he can't."

Still the girl said nothing. Dryden waved a hand toward thehot sandy world outside. "Yes, old Sam's here for life. Maybethat ain't so long, at that. But as long as he lives—justthis. Goes to the movies now an' then—leastwise he did whenhe still had the car. Sees his old town on the screen. TimesSquare an' the signs—the Battery, WashingtonSquare—the water front with the ships. To hell with it all,I'd say. But Sam, he don't feel that way. Born in the burg, hesays. How about you? Born there yourself maybe."

He had forced her to speak at last. "I—I was born onLong Island," she told him.

"Yeah—Long Island," he nodded. "I know—I seemovies too. Booze parties an' polo, hey? But a New Yorker, likeSam—You know his town. Madison Square—he was tellin'me he marched through there one time—when he come home fromFrance. Maybe you was near enough to hear the music. The heroes,comin' home—nine-ten years ago. Nine-ten years—theymake a difference. Out on the desert now, Sam is. Had a careeronce—the war smashed it. Had a second-handflivver—an' you smashed that for him too. Everythingsmashed. Has to walk when he goes to the city—tenmiles—if he can't get a lift."

Nina Brockway shrugged her shoulders. "What has all this to dowith me?"

"I'm wondering," Dryden answered. He looked into her defiantyoung eyes. "Sam needs his car next Monday. Somebody who ain'tforgot the war—somebody cashin' in on it—they'redoin' a picture over by Palm Springs. Wants some of thesedisabled for atmosphere. It's a big chance for them. But theycan't make it without the flivver."

"I'm sorry," said the girl coldly. She looked up at JimDryden, so earnest, so eager. Something about him—hissureness, his easy familiarity—maddened her. "I'm sorry,but he should have thought of that and kept on his own side ofthe road. Sentiment—pity—where have you been allthese years? They went out of fashion long ago."

Dryden's smile faded. "All right. Hard as nails, ain't you,Sister? I been readin' young folks is like that, but somehow Icouldn't believe it. I thought it was all a—a pose. Ithought you'd take one look around here an' sign on the dottedline. I was plannin' to leave a note for Sam sayin' the garagebill was goin' to be paid an' he could get his car." The girlshook her head. "It would mean a lot to Sam, Sister."

"It means something to me," she answered. Her voice roseslightly. "It means something to me to stick by myguns—to—to beat you. You're so sure of yourself, socertain there's only one side to it—yours. You thought I'dbe easy, didn't you? Well, I'm not. I won't surrender. A lessonto you. You need it."

Dryden nodded grimly. "Maybe I do.... Well, then it's all off.You won't admit you're wrong?"

"Why should I?"

"You won't pay that bill anyhow, without admitting—"

"That would be admitting it."

He turned away, walked to a corner of the little room. "Didyou notice this?" he inquired.

She came over and he pointed to a crude sign, lettered with ashaky hand on a strip of cardboard and tacked to the wall: "Thisspace reserved for a radio—if I get it," said the sign.

"Funny idea, ain't it?" Jim Dryden said. "A radio—if hegets it. That's the one thing in the world he wants most justnow—something to help him through the evenings, he said.An' maybe when there's a big hook-up on—a reception tosomebody, say—maybe he can hear New York, if he can't seeit. Hear the crowds an' the music—" The girl turnedsuddenly away and walked to the window, where she stood lookingout at the sun-drenched town. "He's figurin' this movie moneymight be enough, but of course " Jim Dryden stopped.

"Is there any reason why I should stay here?" the girlinquired.

"None that I know of." Jim Dryden shrugged hopelessly. Shemoved toward the door. "Well, I got something new to think of,nights on the road," he continued. "I've met dames a-plenty, butnot many like you, thank God. I won't forget you, believe me,Sister."

The girl looked at him—a long look. "And I won't forgetyou."

"That's as may be. Don't matter to me one way or theother."

"You may tell your friend to sue me if he likes."

"Sue you? Say, quit kidding. Where would he get money forthat? No, you're free of this thing. It's over now. Go yourway—an' I wouldn't have your conscience for a milliondollars."

"It's not for sale." She paused in the doorway. "You've lost,haven't you?"

"It looks that way."

"I told you you would. If I've deflated that ego of yours abit, then I haven't lived in vain. After this, perhaps you'llkeep out of affairs that don't concern you.... Go back to yourmelons."

"I'm goin'. You've licked me, Sister. Run along." She crossedthe sagging floor of the veranda to the yellow glare of thestreet. Jim Dryden stared after her, his honest face filled withwonder. "I didn't know they came like that," he muttered.

When he went back to his truck Nina Brockway was well on herway down the road.

* * * * *

THE season was late, it was very warm thatevening after dinner in the living-room of the house at PalmSprings. Edith sat by a floor lamp, yawning over a book. Arthurwas at the piano, improvising jazz. Rather clever at that sort ofthing, Arthur was. Nina Brockway walked restlessly about. Shestood at the window, staring at the snow of the cottonwoodsdrifting through the dusk.

Arthur burst into a roar of insane discords, banging the pianowildly. The girl at the window turned. "Oh, Arthur, for heaven'ssake—"

"Can't help it." He gave the instrument one last vicious blowand got up. "I'm going mad. This quiet—this eternalquiet—it's getting impossible."

Edith threw down her book. "Surely we can leave before long."She might have been pretty had it not been for her constantexpression of peevish discontent. Henry C. Brockway came into theroom, smoking a forbidden cigar. "Dad, how long are we going tostay in this place?" Edith began.

Her father glared at her. "How do I know? When the weatherwarms up at home we'll go. It's a late spring—it always isthese last few years."

"I want to get back to New York," complained Edith.

"New York!" Arthur threw himself into a chair. "Never knewwhat the place meant to me until I came away. Shows and nightclubs—people again."

"Still, this is an interesting country," said Brockway.

"Too much Nature," Arthur objected. "A highly overratedcommodity—Nature. Mountains and deserts and sunrises. Notfor me. Ye gods, just think—if a fellow had to stay outhere—a fellow who had known something better—like NewYork!"

Nina turned away from the window. "Some do," she remarked.

"Rather be dead," Arthur answered.

Brockway suggested bridge.

"Again?" said Edith. "Good lord, but I'm sick of it! However,I suppose there's nothing else."

They were at the bridge table once more. Arthur wasdealing.

"By the way, Nina," Brockway said, "did you see that truckdriver to-day?"

"I saw him." Her eyes were on Arthur's hands—the handsof a gentleman; no automobile grease about those well-manicurednails.

"Well, what about it? Is he going to make trouble for us?"Brockway wanted to know.

"He won't make any trouble." She was studying Arthur, asthough busy with some vague comparison. "I've settled him."

"Fine—fine!" glowed Brockway. "I was a bit afraid ofhim. He looked so—so sort of competent. I'm glad he's outof the way.... What did you say, Arthur? Pass? I make it threespades."

They played their half-hearted game in the still hot room.Once, while her father dealt, Nina inquired languidly, "How muchwould a radio cost?"

"A radio. Who wants a radio?" Her father looked at heruncertainly.

"Nobody. I just wondered."

At ten o'clock the game broke up. It was Henry C.'s bed hour.His younger daughter stepped out on to the veranda, then to theroad. She strolled on under ancient fig trees to the main street;it was deserted, the hotels closed for the summer. On she wentuntil she came to the desert, gray under the stars. The moonshone on the storm-twisted pines that topped Mount San Jacinto.All about her were the intriguing little noises of the desertnight.

The picture of Dryden, tall, nonchalant, grinning, filled hermind—driving a melon truck through scenery such asthis—night after night—driving it up to LosAngeles—coming into the market before dawn. "Get lots oftime to think, nights on the desert." What was he thinking to-night?

She went back to the dark house, through the door that wasnever locked, up the stairs to her bed. Too warm for sleep. Shelay there in the darkness, staring at the ceiling. How much did aradio cost? They had thought she wanted one for herself. TheBrockways never wanted anything except for themselves.

The morning came. She was out with Edith and Arthur, gallopingacross the desert on a horse, her sleek bob disarranged, hercheeks red with a color that was real. Not so bad, Palm Springsin the morning. After luncheon she took her roadster from thegarage. Her father was on the veranda as she drove out.

"Please be careful, Nina," he called.

She waved to him reassuringly. "I will, Dad.... See youlater."

She dropped in at the small local bank, then sped away to callon a friend who was stopping at a desert hotel near Indio. Atfive o'clock she drove again down the main street of Green Palmsand drew up before Sam Bristol's shack. She found him cooking hissupper over the oil stove; the small room was filled with thepleasant odor of frying bacon.

"How do you do?" she said. "You remember me?"

He gasped. The daughter of Henry C. Brockway calling on him!His New York mind could scarcely comprehend.

"Sure I remember you," he answered. "Don't see many like youout this way."

"I was just passing, and I thought I'd look in on you."

"That's—that's mighty nice of you. Won't you take thechair?"

She glanced round at the pictures on the walls. "We're bothNew Yorkers, it seems," she smiled.

"Say, I guess we are! You're looking at my pictures, ain'tyou? Sort of carry you back, don't they?"

"In a way—yes. Would you like to go back—really, Imean?"

"Would I?" His eyes lighted. "Say, I'm going too—just assoon as I feel a little better—that is, I hope I am. Idon't know, though—could I get a job? It's been solong—"

"What sort of work did you do?" she asked.

"I was a clerk in a broker's office when the war came along.Sometimes, nights, I feel I got to go back—got to get onemore ride in the Subway. I don't know, though—I'd be sortof afraid to tackle it. But if I could only feel the sidewalks ofNew York under me again " He stopped.

"Go on with your cooking, please. I don't want tointerfere."

"You ain't interfering." He removed the frying-pan from thestove.

"I just came to say—I'm sorry about the car," said thegirl.

"Why, that's all right."

"Not yet, it isn't." She hesitated. "I want you to promisethat this is just between ourselves."

"Of course," agreed Bristol, flattered and puzzled.

"Not a word to that Dryden person—just between us two."She opened her purse and took out a roll of bills which she laidon the table. "One hundred and forty-five dollars, I think hesaid. But don't you dare tell him I gave it to you—tell himsomebody paid an old debt."

"I don't get this," Bristol frowned. "You've paid it once.What does this mean?"

"I've paid it once?" It was her turn to be puzzled.

"Yes—you have, haven't you? The garage man called up thestore this morning and told me to come for the car. It's outbehind the cabin now. When I went in he said Dryden had stoppedearly this morning and given him the money. Dryden said he got itfrom you."

The girl stood up, a flush slowly spreading over her face."I—I think I understand," she remarked.

"I don't," Bristol said.

"What does that matter? It's paid, isn't it? That ought to beenough for you." She picked up the roll of bills thoughtfully andglanced toward the corner with its hopeful placard. "Tellme—how much do you think a radio would cost?"

"Oh, I expect to get one for about " He paused. The red in hischeeks deepened. "No thanks," he said firmly. "I—Icouldn't—"

She put the money back in her purse. "Of course not....I—I rather wish I knew when Jim Dryden will be goingthrough here again."

"I spoke to the garage man about that," Bristol said. "Yousee, I want to thank him. Bemis thought Jim would be through herelate this afternoon. I'll have to put my thanks off for a day ortwo. I'm pretty tired to-night."

Nina held out her hand. "I hope you get to New York again,"she said.

"I hope so too. And say, I want to thank you—"

She shrugged. "Don't thank me," she said. "Thank your busylittle friend, Jim Dryden."

Her eyes flashing, her lips a thin determined line, she spedback to the main highway. Down it she went at forty miles anhour, scanning every passing truck with interest. When she cameto the Palm Springs road she turned into it, swung about and drewup at the side just around the bend. There she sat, watching theprocession of cars down the El Centro highway.

The dusk came; the mountains purpled and the yellow glare diedon the acres of sand. But enough light remained for her torecognize Jim Dryden's truck when it came along, traveling at aterrific speed. Her intention was to shoot out ahead of him andthus attract his attention, and she almost made it. But his frontwheel struck the rear of the roadster and there was anothercrash, a grinding of brakes and the sound of a strong manswearing loudly in the dusk.

He came over to where she sat limp and frightened at thewheel. "You!" he cried. "Good lord! Is this your daily accidentat this corner, or what?"

"I only wanted you to stop," she said in a weak smallvoice.

"Well, I stopped, didn't I?" She got out of the car with nohelp from him. For a moment she stood there, and then began tosway.

He put his arm about her shoulders. "Brace up! What's thematter with you?"

"I—I don't know." Her voice was faint, far away."I—I must be a little frightened."

"Fine business!" he remarked heartily. "It probably won't doyou any good, but I'm sure glad to see you scared. You ain'thurt, are you?"

"I don't seem to be."

"A charmed life. But the Lord watches over children an'fools—an' when you get both in one package—"

"Look! There's a wheel off my car," she cut in.

"Yeah. That's all right. I got insurance—I'll settle forit. Your fault again, but I know better than to argue withyou.... How you goin' to get home?—if home's where you wantto go."

"I—I can walk, I suppose."

"Oh, hell!" he said wearily. "Twenty miles out of my way, butI suppose I'll have to do it. What did you want me to stopfor?"

"I merely wanted to suggest that—you mind your ownbusiness for a change." Her spirit returned. "You had your nerveto give that money to Bristol and say it came from me!"

"Why not? I didn't want him to know what I know about you. Thepoor simp is from New York, an' he thinks all New Yorkers isperfect. Say, how did you find out what I'd done?"

"I—I went over to see him thisafternoon—and—"

"—an' pay those damages? By heaven, you ain't as bad asI thought you was! You decided it was your fault?"

"I did not!" she answered passionately. "I justthought—it seemed to me— "

He patted her on the shoulder. "Don't try to explain it, Kid.I want to tell you, I'm sure obliged to you. You've sort ofrestored my faith in human nature. Now for Pete's sake, climb upon the truck an'—"

"Just a minute." She took her purse from the seat of theroadster. "I want you to take this—this money."

He removed it promptly from her hand. "You bet I'll take it.Things ain't so good on the ranch I can afford to toss moneyaround. Thanks."

"You'd better count it."

"I'm in an awful hurry, Kid. Your word's enough. I'll justshove your car into the ditch an' you can send somebody over forit from Palm Springs to-night." She watched him as he laidstrong, competent hands on the roadster and practically lifted itfrom the right of way. There was an odd look in her eyes. Strangethings were happening there in the desert dusk.

He turned to her: "Now, Kid, on to the truck if you don't mindriding on that. Sorry I didn't bring the limousine."

She climbed up to the seat and he took his place at herside.

"It's a shame to take you out of your way like this," sheventured.

"It sure is," he agreed warmly. "I wish now I'd give you thatspanking the other day." He shook his head. "You got to be morecareful, Kid," he warned.

"Nothing has happened to me yet," she said.

"Who said anything about you? It's the general public I'mthinkin' of. Give 'em a chance for their lives."

"You—you don't care what happens to me?"—aplaintive note in her voice.

"That's no affair of mine." They swung round a turn betweendusky red hills and the road to Palm Springs stretched ahead.Dryden stepped on the gas. "Sit tight," he advised. "I got to lether out now. Seems like I'm always late."

"I'm sorry."

"You ought to be. It'll be after midnight when I get to theranch."

"Is it your ranch?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me about it."

"Nothing to tell. Three hundred feet below sea-level—reclaimed land. I like to reclaim things."

"Is that so?"

"Sure is. Having a hard struggle of it. Sometimes it justlooks hopeless, an' then again it looks impossible. But we'remakin' progress."

"We?" A sudden possibility loomed. Well, what of it? Why didher voice sound so stricken?

"Maw an' me," he explained. "Maw's an old-timer round here.Born on the desert. She knows this country like a book." He droveon in silence for a moment. "She'll wonder what makes me so late.Does a lot of worryin', Maw does."

"I—I've been trying to tell you—how sorry Iam."

"What's the good of it? The damage is done."

Silence again. "Shall you be coming back to-night?" asked thegirl.

"Not to-night. Too late—what with you an' all. Buttomorrow night Say, what's it to you?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'll—I'll think of you—to-morrow night—on that windy road by the Salton Sea."

"Well, don't come dashin' round no corners into me; that's allI ask."

"You don't like me, do you? You—you hate me."

He gave her a fleeting glance. "No, Sister, you got me allwrong. I don't hate you. Only—"

"Only what?"—a ridiculous eagerness in the words.

"Well, I guess you won't care if I say it. It's just that youdon't mean anything to me—one way or the other."

She clenched her small hands in the dark. Of course she didn'tcare. Why should she? "Oh," she said.

The lights of Palm Springs twinkled suddenly against the blackbackground of the mountains. So soon—so soon. A sort ofpanic gripped her heart.

"Thank God, there's the town," said Dryden with deeprelief.

She thought of the men—all the men who had followed her,who had tried to make love to her—the men who had meantnothing—nothing at all. If only she had been a littlekinder to them

"Take the next turn to the right," she said—"the stuccohouse at the end."

"I've been here before," he reminded her. "You forget easy,don't you?"

"Do I?" Her tone was thoughtful. "I wonder."

He drew up under the fig trees. "Here you are, Kid. Jump down.I gotta be on my way."

She forgot all her pride. "Won't you come to see me—sometime?"

"Come to see you?" He was amazed. "What for? You've paid themoney. The only thing there was between us is settled now."

"I know, but—"

"Kid, I'm in an awful rush."

"Yes, but—but, Jim " She laid her hand on his arm.

He shook it off impatiently. "Blemish to you," he remarked."Oh, I heard what you called me."

"I didn't mean it!" she cried passionately. "I didn't mean itI"

"It don't matter," he told her in a kind voice.

His words were like a sentence. It didn't matter! She leapedto the ground, and already the truck was starting.

"I'll never see you again!" she cried.

He leaned down, serene, impervious. "'Tain't likely, Kid. Notif you behave yourself on the roads. That's my last word to you.Take it easy on the roads."

The engine sputtered and roared; the truck moved off, gainingspeed as it went. Its red tail light grew dimmer and dimmer inthe distance. She stood there a little while under the gray oldfig tree that had stood there so many years.

When she went into the brightly lighted living-room her fatherlooked up from his New York paper.

"What are you crying about?" he asked.

"I'm—I'm so lonesome here," she answered.

"Cheer up," advised Brockway. "I wired for our tickets to-day.You'll be back in New York before you know it."

Her eyes filled again. "Oh, Dad," she said, "I'm afraid I'llbe lonesome there too."

She hurried past him and ran up the stairs to the shelter ofher room.

BROADWAY BROKE

First published in The Saturday Evening Post, Oct 7,1922)

Illustrated by James H. Crank

YOU may have met them drifting alongBroadway—men whose names were once in the lights, women whowere the toast of the town. Something, they tell you, is gonefrom their theater; something they find it hard to define. Butthey who have followed it from Union Square to Madison, thencenorth to Herald and finally to Long Acre, feel that in each ofthe neighborhoods it deserted it left a little of its glamour, alittle of its romance. They shake their heads and travel on,seeking one more engagement, one more opportunity to wrest aliving from their profession before the final curtain falls.Unless you wish to encounter heartbreak, do not inquire tooclosely into their fate. It is an alien land through which theywander now, a "show me" country where the cry is ever foryouth.

On a humid August afternoon Nellie Wayne was walking upBroadway—our Nellie of the magic voice. Your father willremember her if you do not. At the old Fourteenth Street Theaterearly in the 'eighties she first flashed on the town, andthereafter for twenty years her name was synonymous with beauty.Lady Teazle, Viola, Rosalind, Camille—it mattered not inwhich guise the young men saw her first, from that moment herportrait adorned their bureaus and her lovely face often hauntedtheir dreams.

It was at that forgotten playhouse, the Standard, that sheappeared in the comedies and melodramas written by the brilliantCharlie Farren. She was Charlie's wife then, and when the criticsurged her back to the classics she only laughed, for to herCharlie's poorest line was better than Shakespeare at his best.Late in the 'nineties Charlie died, and in the hour of her sorrowshe first began to realize that something almost as precious hadleft her, too—her stock in trade, her youth. One blackmorning a manager offered her a mother role, and though she atfirst indignantly refused, she took it in the end and so starteddown the long slope beyond the hilltop.

She was well down that slope this August afternoon, a womanof—well, no one could say precisely how many years; butsixty-eight is a good guess. A beauty still, her age considered;tall, with the carriage of a great lady and a face but faintlylined. Though her hair was snow white, a youthful sparklelingered in her eyes. Yes, a fine figure of a woman, but lackingsomething—hope, high spirits, a real destination along thisfamous thoroughfare. Once, when she walked on Broadway, twentyblocks down, people nudged one another and turned to stare; butnow in the cold, fishy eyes about her gleamed no faintest sparkof recognition. Well down the slope, indeed.

A stocky, prosperous-looking man was standing on the corner ofForty-Fourth Street, gazing out across the alien tide thatdrifted by him; a gray-haired man who seemed lonesome on thatcrowded corner. Suddenly he chanced to see Nellie Wayne. His facelighted and he strode boldly through the horde of lessercreatures between and seized both her hands.

"Nellie!" he cried. She looked up, startled. Old memories ofher golden past flooded her heart and her eyes filled with thequick tears of the artist.

"Tom! Tom Kerrigen!"

"Nellie, is it you? Fine and blooming as ever!"

To have some one step out of the mob and tell her that! Lifewas worth living, after all.

"Tom—where from? Whereto?"

"From Denver. I've been living out there since I closedhere—ten years ago."

"In business, Tom?"

He shook his head.

"Retired." They walked along together through the Wednesdaymatinee throng. "I decided it wasn't any game for an honest manany more."

She glanced up at him, a little breathless, thrilled. It waswonderful just to see him again. Charlie's best friend, SquareTom Kerrigen, a dazzling figure on the old Broadway, a patron ofthe drama, front row on the aisle every opening night; SquareTom, whose establishment just off Fifth Avenue was the favoriteresort of the men about town whose gaming instincts were activeand who preferred to play where the game was fair.

"Nothing but crooks in my business to-day," Tom was saying."The dirty outcasts of Europe—the scum of the earth. I sawit coming—no Americans left. Besides, I wouldn't paytribute to any man living, in uniform or out. So I quit when itstopped being a gentleman's game. I dropped it. Denver was my oldtown—my daughter's out there. But I had to come back forone more look at the big street. And I'm sorry I did. I'vespoiled it all." He turned to her wistfully. "Where's ourBroadway, Nellie?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't know, Tom. Gone! Gone with the theater weknew—the theater that had traditions. Show business. That'swhat the drama is now—the drama of Booth and Cushman andthe rest. Show business—a trade, like cloaks and suits."They walked on for a moment in silence. "I'm mighty glad to seeyou," she told him. "But I'm sorry you came back."

"I know—I suspected—but I got to thinking. So manyold friends I had to see once more."

"And have you found them?"

"I've found you, and there's none I'd rather meet. But theothers—lord, I don't know where to look for them! Once itwould have been simple—a stroll up Broadway at the co*cktailhour, from Martin's to the Metropole, and you met every last soulyou knew. But now—"

"Not now," she smiled sadly.

"I shouldn't have come," he admitted. "But my memories broughtme. Lord, Nellie, what good times we used to have! Nights afterthe show, in your old house on Twenty-Second Street, with Charlieat the head of the supper table—good old Charlie. Thenafterward, when you'd sing for us, and the good talk lasting tillmorning, and Charlie following us to the door, holding us back,pleading with us not to go. 'The night's young,' he alwayssaid."

"Dear Charlie," she sighed. "Never wanted to go to bed. Neverwanted to get up once he got there."

"I wonder what he'd think of our Broadway now." They walkedalong. "You—you're not working, Nellie?"

She looked away from him.

"Not for two years," she said softly.

"Oh!" He glanced at her quickly, then away. "Where youstopping?"

"I'm living with Gracie." Gracie was her daughter, her onlychild. "We've got a lovely—a little apartment on Forty-Eighth, near Sixth Avenue. Gracie and young Nellie and I. YoungNellie's just turned seventeen."

"No, by gad! Well, if she looks like her grandmother at thesame age—but there never could be another Nellie Wayne.What's become of Gracie's husband?"

"Joe? Oh, he's on the road most of the time."

"An actor, eh?"

"Well, he's in vaudeville."

"Oh, I see! I don't recall his act."

"No?" She was silent a moment, as though debating something."H'm—Karger and Chum. That's the name of it."

"Chum? Who's Chum?"

"He's—it's—it's a dog act."

Tom Kerrigen was too tactful to reply. He knew what theadmission must have cost her. Nellie Wayne, CharlieFarren—all the glory, all the lights, all theapplause—and the line ending in a dog act. The oldgambler's heart was touched.

"You and Charlie made a lot of money once," he began, ratherclumsily. "I—I understand you hung on to some of it.Enough—enough so that—you're all right, I hope,Nellie?"

"You know me," she answered, looking toward the street. Herhead went up. "I'm all right, Tom, and thank you for asking."

"I'm glad to hear it. That was the impression I got from LewGorman. Lew made a lot managing you, and he's held on to it,believe me. By the way, he's in town. I met him on the traincoming from Chicago. See much of him now?"

"Not for years," she said.

"Lew spends his winters in Hollywood, putting out a picturenow and then just to pass the time. Tells me he makes good moneyout of them. A foxy boy, Lew."

"You don't need to tell me that. I'm going down here, Tom."They were at the corner of Forty-Ninth. "I thought I'd drop inand see Madge Foster's new piece."

"I'll walk along to the door," said Kerrigen. "Listen here,Nellie, why don't you take a fling at the movies? Something tokeep you amused."

She turned on him, her eyes flashing.

"The movies! Are you serious? I'd die first."

He was surprised at the fervor of her tone.

"Well, I don't care much for the pictures myself," hebegan.

"I should hope not, after what they've done to our theater,our Broadway. Silly pap for fools. I hate the movies! There usedto be a road to play to. Where is it now? There used to begallery boys." Her voice softened. "Do you remember when I cameback from England late in the 'eighties—my first night atthe Standard, when they let down that banner from theceiling—'The Gallery Boys Welcome Their Nellie'? Theflowers and the tears and the cheering? Where are the galleryboys to-day? Oh, Tom, Tom, the movies have killed it all; thedignity and the glamour; everything that was human and lovableabout the theater."

"I didn't know you felt that way," he said apologetically.

"I told you I'd die before I'd touch them," Nellie answered."I meant it."

At the door of the playhouse Kerrigen invited her to dine withhim that night, and she accepted. She would meet him, she said,in the foyer of his hotel, but he insisted on calling for her.Rather reluctantly she gave him the address.

"The fifth floor," she said. "A walk-up apartment. Orare—"

"Don't worry, I can make it, Nellie," he assured her with alaugh.

She went into the lobby of the theater. She was somewhat late,the place was deserted, the audience all inside. Through thefront of the house as she entered spread the sudden coolness thatinstinctively greets the seeker for free seats. No, the man atthe box office didn't know where Mr. McCarthy was—very busysomewhere, no doubt. Oh, sure, she could stand round and wait ifshe wanted to. Not much use, though. Mr. McCarthy probablywouldn't return.

With all the dignity she had she moved over to a corner. Abeardless young press agent followed.

"Anything I can do?" he inquired. She explored her bag andoffered him her card.

"I'd like a seat, please."

He read the card and glanced at her coldly.

"In the profession?" he inquired.

In the profession! Nellie Wayne! The insult set her heartthumping with indignation.

"My name is rather well known," she said haughtily, "to anyone who matters."

Johnny McCarthy, fat, bald, genial, bounced out of theauditorium past the ennuied ticket taker.

"Nellie!" he cried. "You stranger!"

"Come here, Johnny," she said. "Come here and tell this youngman whether I'm in the profession or not."

McCarthy's smile faded as he looked at the press agent.

"You lost your bib somewhere," he said. "Go back to thenursery and find it. Nellie Wayne in the profession? You poorbonehead!" The young man beat a hasty retreat. "They make mesick, these kids," continued Mr. McCarthy. "They think theyinvented Broadway. How many you want, Nellie? Are you allalone?"

"Just one, John."

He went to the box office and returned with the coupon for agood seat.

"How's all the folks?" he inquired.

"Oh, Gracie's well. We all are."

"I caught Joe's act over in Philly. The dog's good, but Joesort of crabs it."

"You never liked Joe, did you, John?"

"I couldn't understand why Gracie preferred him to me. Ialways told you he was lazy, and now—living off a dog!"

"Joe's been a good son, John. Mighty kind and gen—andgentlemanly. By the way, I'm not working. If you hear ofanything—"

"Oh, sure! I'll keep you in mind, Nellie. But it's not goingto be a big year. Last season was so bad everybody's lying low."He looked at her pityingly. He had heard how, two seasons beforewhen she was rehearsing a part, her memory had deserted her andshe had been unable to learn the lines. All Broadway had heard;it was common talk for a time; and there was no engagement forNellie Wayne; would probably never be one again. "The theater'sbeen through some pretty tough times," he went on. "Worse than'ninety-three, and they're not over yet. You can be glad you laidaway your pile, Nellie."

"What? Oh, yes."

"Better go on in. Foster's entrance is about due. You'll enjoyher in this"—he lowered his voice—"she's rotten! Butshe still gets the crowd. Over a thousand in the box thisafternoon."

"That's good," said Nellie, and went to her seat, where shespent an envious afternoon.

When she returned to the street after the matinee her spiritswere drooping. She had meant to go behind and congratulate MadgeFoster, but the task was beyond her. Broadway was sizzling. Menhad draped handkerchiefs about their collars; some carried theircoats. The street is at its worst in August, though hope is inthe air; high hope for the new season; a hit perhaps, recognitionat last! Managers, authors, actors, pinning their faith to a newplay, all the old failures forgotten—this—this is theone! Millions in it! Millions!

Rehearsals were still on, and round the stage doors oftheaters not yet open for the season little groups of perspiringplayers awaited their cues. Nellie Wayne hurried by. The sightwas almost more than she could bear. To be called again forrehearsal—the dim stage, the dusty piles of scenery, theempty auditorium, the droning voices, the kitchen chairs set torepresent exits, and in the distance the first night looming,inspiring hope and terror too! Just once more—once more!She'd get the lines; she'd have them. That lasttrouble—that was the author's fault. His silly speechesdidn't mean anything. Why should they hold that against herstill?

With heavy heart she climbed the five flights to the littleflat. Gracie was playing solitaire in the parlor—pale,colorless Gracie, who had come into the world without one sparkof either parent's genius; Gracie, her inexplicable child, whonow looked up from her game with a frown.

"Hello, you back?"

"Any word from Joe?"

"Not a line. I can't understand. You'd think the Orpheum inFrisco would answer my wire."

"You'd think Joe would answer." Nellie took off her hat andsat down in a rocker by the window. "No money order for threeweeks—what does he figure you're going to live on? But thenhe's no good. I always said so."

"Now, Mother, I won't have that." Gracie pushed the cardsaside. "Talking against Joe—and you living on his money fortwo years past."

"His money! That's good, that is! A fine time I'd have had ofit on any money Joe could earn. The dog's money, you mean. And doyou think I'm proud of it? Do you think I want to be reminded ofit? Me—Nellie Wayne—supported by a trick dog invaudeville!" She took out her handkerchief. "If Charlie Farrenwere alive to see me now—"

"Oh, Mother, don't cry! Things are bad enough as it is."

"I'll cry if I like. I met Tom Kerrigen on thestreet—you remember him. Your father's old friend."

"He's got money, hasn't he?" Gracie inquired.

"Yes, and he'll keep it for all of me. I'd die if he foundout—I'd die. If he knew what I've come to—"

The door opened and young Nellie came in, a slender, sweetgirl in a blue tailored suit. She had a newspaper in her hand,her eyes were big with excitement.

"Mother," she cried, "I got a Frisco paper! Dad isn't on thebill. The act was canceled."

"Why?"

"I don't know. It doesn't say."

"I can't make it out." Gracie's face was blanker than usual."What could have happened to him? Why doesn't he send us awire?"

"You can starve for all he cares," Nellie Wayne said.

"That's no way to speak of Joe Karger," Gracie objected."Every week regular he's come across—you know that. Andnever a word of complaint when you quit working—"

"Go on! Reproach me with it! Throw my misfortune in myface!"

"Well, if you'd saved a little of your money—"

"You know where the last of it went. Joe put it into those oilstocks. A fine business man he is! If he's paid my keep it's nomore than he owes me!"

"Please," said young Nellie. "What are we going to do? That'swhat I want to know."

"The agent for the landlord was here," Gracie said. "He'sgiven us two more days. I got that out of him. Heaven knows I'mnot fitted for that sort of thing, but I managed it. There's noice, and the milk has soured, and what more we can pawn I don'tknow."

"I told you not to buy that gray foulard," her mother remindedher.

"But it was marked down—a bargain. And I needed it; Ireally did. I'm not accustomed to going about in rags."

"If I could only get an engagement!" sighed young Nellie.

Nellie Wayne stared at her.

"What do you mean—an engagement?"

"She's been round to the agents," Gracie explained. "Shethought—we both thought—"

"I won't have it! Baby on the stage!"

"Please stop calling me Baby," protested the girl. "I'm grownup. I've got to go to work some time. Why not now?"

"But not in the theater!" Nellie cried. "Look at me! Look atwhat it's done to me!" She stood up as though called upon for aspeech. "Gave it my best, I did; made a name, a bigname—none bigger. And what has it all come to? What's beenthe end? Forgotten, slighted, insulted, living on the earnings ofa trick dog! That's the theater for you! I'd rather see you inyour grave!"

"Well, it's all true, of course," Gracie admitted. She pickedup the cards and shuffled them. "I've heard interior decoratingis a splendid profession for women. If you could take that up,Baby—or even stenography—"

"Nonsense!" said the girl. "I'm going on the stage."

"Listen to her!" cried Nellie Wayne. "Gracie, have you noauthority—"

"Oh, Mother, do stop!" Gracie was dealing the cards. "Whatails you anyhow?"

"I'm upset." She sat down again and wiped her eyes. "Upset,and I can't help it. Seeing Tom Kerrigen and remembering the oldhappy days—and a young fool of a press agent asked me if Iwas in the profession! Me! That's Broadway for you—nogratitude, no memory. A star to-day and a has-been to-morrow.It's just as Charlie used to say—"

A knock on the door interrupted her. The three women sat for amoment, startled into silence.

"It might be the agent for the landlord," Gracie whispered."He said he was going to put it up to the boss; maybe we'reevicted. I could never hold up my head again." The knock cameagain, more insistent. "We'll pretend we're out— "

"We can't do that," young Nellie said. She walked boldly tothe door and opened it: "Dad!" she cried.

"Hello, Baby!" Joe Karger came into the room, an overdressed,wise-looking citizen of forty, sleek and debonair, but with aweak mouth. "Hello, Gracie! How goes it? Ma, how are you?" Hekissed them both.

Through the open door behind him trotted a small Irish terrierwith a huge rhinestone collar about his neck—Chum, thevaudeville artist; three hundred a week, real money. Young Nelliedropped to her knees and put her arms about him.

"Joe, what happened?" Gracie cried. "We haven't had a wordfrom you in three weeks. What you doing here? We thought you werebooked solid through the winter."

"It's a long story," replied Mr. Karger, throwing his strawhat on to the table. "A long, sad story." He sat, but addednothing. Like all small souls, he enjoyed keeping others insuspense. It tickled his vanity.

"But, Joe, things are pretty bad here. The agent for thelandlord—"

"Things are worse than you think," Joe assured her, and stillhe held back his news.

"Father!" pleaded young Nellie.

Joe Karger pointed to Chum, who stood trembling slightly andlooking exceedingly guilty.

"It's the dog," said Joe. "He's laid down on us. He's quit uscold."

"What? What do you mean?" Gracie's voice was terror-stricken.

"Old age, I guess," Joe said. "I never got his age straight,and it seems I was off a few years. Anyhow, out in Los Angelesone night, what does he do but forget his routine." He glancedmeaningly at Nellie Wayne. "I'd heard of it happening to actors,but never to an animal act. However, he forgets it—balls upthe whole turn—we're a frost. They canceled me. I took Chumto a vet and he tells me the dog's too old; nearly blind for onething—can't get my signals. This vet says there's nothingleft but chloroform."

"Oh, no!" young Nellie cried.

"Well, I guess Chum wouldn't want to be a burden, Baby," saidJoe. "I guess he'd understand."

They sat there in a circle, staring at the dog, these fourgrown people who had been living on his wages. And Chum lookedback at them; looked anxiously from one to the other, a humbleplea for forgiveness in his tired old eyes. He had sinned; heknew it; committed the deadly fault, lost the routine and crabbedthe act. Yet there was his honorable past, his long years ofservice to the arts. Only in young Nellie's eyes could he find ananswering spark of friendliness.

"Poor Chum!" she said softly.

"He was a good wagon, but he done broke down," said Joe.

Gracie's face, capable only of the simpler emotions,registered dismay. As for Nellie Wayne, she regarded Chum withrenewed hostility. She had never been friends with the dog. Toher he had been the symbol of her shame. She had hated him whileshe took her share of the money he earned. And now, to quote Joe,he had quit her cold. An icy fear gripped her heart. He had ledher along a little way and then deserted her, and the greathorror of these last years had descended on her at last. She wasold and done for—broke, with not a ray of hope insight.

"Joe, what can we do?" Gracie wanted to know. "We've spentpretty freely, with you booked solid over the Orpheum time. Therent's due, and the meat man wants his, and—and I don't seewhere we're going to end."

"Oh, we'll get along," said Joe the optimist.

"You—you got any money, Joe?"

"Me? Say, what do you think I am? Three weeks out of the bill,and my fare to pay from Frisco. This is a hell of a reception,anyhow!" Talk about money always annoyed him. "Ain't any of youglad to see me? I haven't heard you say it. You ain't, I guess.No, you'd rather have me out slaving, playing four shows a day,writing money orders. That's all you want out of me—moneyorders."

"Now, Joe, we're worried, that's all," Gracie said.

"Well, what the devil's the use of that? What does worry getyou? Something will turn up. I can pawn that collar of Chum's fora few dollars. Then I'll look round. I'm going into business.Where I should have been long ago, with my talents. If I'd onlygone into that broker's office when I had the chance! Oh, I'llfind something. It's up to me of course. Nobody else will lend ahand."

"I'm going on the stage," young Nellie announced.

"Sure, you're old enough," Joe approved. "And you got whatthey want—you got youth."

"Mother doesn't think she ought to," Gracie began.

"Oh, is that so?" Joe turned and glared at Nellie Wayne. "Andwhat has Mother got to say about it? What right has she to buttinto our affairs? I haven't seen any of her money paying thegrocery bills."

"Oil stock—that's where my money is," Nellie remindedhim. "Going to be rich soon. That's what I was told when I handedit over to the person who got me into it."

"That's right, bring that up again!" growled Joe. "I was onlytrying to do you a favor."

A knock on the door interrupted him; and, opening it, Nellieadmitted Tom Kerrigen. Mr. Kerrigen was in a gay mood, and if hefound his old friend in surroundings that surprised him he gaveno sign. Presently they all retired and left him in the parlor,while Nellie Wayne made ready for dinner. As she passed throughthe dining-room on her way Joe resumed their argument.

"Don't you try to interfere!" he warned. "If Baby wants tobreak into the profession it's no business of yours. Somebody'sgot to work round here. Somebody's got to support you, now thatthe dog's quit."

"Hush, Joe! Hush!" Nellie cried.

"Afraid your friend'll know, eh?" sneered Joe. "Well, I don'tcare who knows. You been sponging off that dog—"

"Father!" young Nellie cried. She alone could silence him; hesubsided. The girl kissed her grandmother. "Have a good time,"she said.

A good time! Nellie Wayne paused for a moment outside theparlor door, gathering her wits. Then she opened it and swept inas though it had been the entrance at rear center and the shabbyparlor lay in the footlights' glare; swept in with her famoussmile, her air of a great and vivacious lady. Tom Kerrigen wentback thirty years at sight of her.

He took her to a quiet old restaurant, where the head waiter,a bent veteran of seventy, greeted them in a voice quavering withexcitement:

"Nellie Wayne! Mr. Kerrigen! You remember me?"

They recognized in him a relic of their dead past. He had beena slender, blond young waiter at Delmonico's when that restaurantstood three blocks south of Union Square; a lad who haunted thetheaters about Fourteenth Street, who worshiped at the shrine ofNellie Wayne. Only that afternoon she had wondered as to thewhereabouts of her gallery boys, and here was one ofthem—wrinkled, feeble, one foot in the grave, but heradmirer still.

During dinner he came again and again to their table with bitsof old gossip, shreds of loving reminiscence. His open homage andthe gallant attentiveness of Tom Kerrigen, looking very handsomein evening clothes, combined to make the evening a happy one forNellie. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkled, her troubles weretemporarily forgotten.

They witnessed the last two acts of a modern play and agreedthat the acting would not have been tolerated for a moment byAugustin Daly. When Nellie climbed to the fifth floor after herevening with the past she found the little flat silent and indarkness. A bed had been prepared for her on the couch in theparlor. She heard Joe snoring loudly in the room at therear—the room she had been sharing with Gracie.

As she was stooping over to unlace her shoes a pathetic littlecreature crept in from the kitchen. Chum, unable to sleep,walking the house, conscious of something wrong, something thatwas his fault. He came up to her timidly, apologetically, andtouched her bare arm with his nose.

But Nellie Wayne was back in the present now, the icy fearagain in her heart. The dog's advances annoyed her.

"Go back! Go back, sir!" she whispered, and he meekly turnedto obey. She watched him as he reluctantly left the room,dignified but hurt.

"Chloroform for you!" she said bitterly. "But forme—what? God knows!"

In the morning things looked a little brighter. Joe awoke inan aggressively optimistic mood. Everything, he announced, wasall for the best. But for the dereliction of Chum he might havegone on indefinitely wasting his talents in vaudeville, when as amatter of fact he belonged in business, where he would shortlypile up an amazing fortune. He was a bit late starting, but hewould show 'em now. He was through with the theater.

"Know a guy up in Columbus Circle sells automobiles," he said."Three years ago he tells me I'm a born salesman. I'll just walkin on him this morning and ask when do I go to work."

After the meager breakfast Joe put on his hat and called toChum. The dog ran to him eagerly, barking his joy, anticipating ahappy stroll in the sunshine. Joe stooped and removed therhinestone collar from Chum's neck.

"I'll see how much I can get on this," he told them. Hewinked. "Chum won't need it where he's going." And he wentblithely out, leaving the dog whining his disappointment.

At six o'clock that evening Mr. Karger returned to them,wilted and again in the depths. His day had not been happy.

"Seems the car trade's all shot," he announced. "Nothing doingthere. And the best I could do on Chum's collar was six measlyones. 'But look here, Uncle,' I says, 'them stones is set insterling silver.' 'Six bucks,' he answers, 'and not a pennymore.'"

"Oh, Joe," cried Gracie, "and the agent for the landlordcoming back to-morrow! I told him positively—"

"I'm doing my best, ain't I?" Joe demanded. "What's the restof you doing? Was you round to the agents, Baby?"

"Yes," said young Nellie. "They told me to call again."

"The old bunk! Ma, I don't suppose you got anything up yoursleeve."

"I'd like to help if I could, Joe. I've got a sort of aplan—"

"Kerrigen?" he inquired eagerly.

"No, not Kerrigen."

"Well, Ma, he looks to me like your best bet."

"That's not the way he looks to me," said Nellie Wayne.

"Well, come on, folks." Joe stood up. "We'll dine at theautomat. While the six last we live high."

Nellie Wayne asked to be excused. She had lunched well, shesaid, and had eaten a wonderful dinner only last night. The threewent out and left her. For a long time she sat, staring intospace.

She was thinking of Madge Foster. An old friend, Madge; theyhad toured together years ago, shared the same make-up box, thesame bed in dreary hotel rooms. Madge was slightly younger.Nellie had given her her first engagement, shown her many akindness in that dim past. Now that Madge was working,prosperous, she could not well refuse a little temporary aid toher old friend and benefactor.

Nellie sighed. It would not be easy to walk into Madge'sdressing-room, and there amid the many evidences of her oldassociate's success and prosperity confess her own plight. Still,the situation was desperate; she must face the ordeal; she owedthe sacrifice to Gracie and to Joe.

She arrayed herself in the best she had, and at seven-thirtywas on her way up Broadway. The theater crowds were not yet onthe streets; only occasional pedestrians, many of them actorshurrying to their work. Their work! With bitterly envious eyesshe saw them turn off into narrow alleyways that led to variousstage doors. Once she, too, had had a destination at this hour,had known the cheery greeting of the door man, had hurried to thestar's dressing room and found her maid waiting for her in thebright interior, with the lid of the make-up box open under themirror; the mirror lined with a hundred telegrams and messages,friendly words from camp followers of success.

She came to the alleyway beside the theater where Madge wasplaying, and turned in. An old man with drooping shoulders wasloitering near the tall iron fence.

"Nellie Wayne!" he cried.

"Why, Frank Shore!" she said.

"Hello, Nellie! I ain't seen you since that week in NewOrleans eighteen years ago. Remember? Bidwell's, in CanalStreet—Charlie's piece, The Midnight Flyer."

"As long ago as that! Working, Frank?"

"Me? I ain't had a berth for three seasons, Nellie.I'm—I'm at the end of my rope. Been to the fund fivetimes—I can't go again. Just—just begging in thestreet, Nellie."

Again the easy tears in her eyes. Frank Shore, an artist, aman who respected his profession, come to this!

"Wait for me here," she said. "I'll be along again in a fewminutes."

She nodded to the door man, an old acquaintance, and crossedthe stage, set for the first act, to the star's dressing-room.Madge Foster, resplendent in the evening gown she wore at thebeginning of her play, greeted her effusively. She kissed Nellieon both cheeks and gushed with all the fervor at the command of afamous emotional actress.

"Nellie darling, this is a treat! Marie, a chair for MissWayne. Sit down, dearie—do. You're not in the way. Really,you're not. Where have you been keeping yourself?"

"Oh, I've been around," Nellie said. "How are you, dear?"

"Never better." Madge sat, too, a handsome woman, a magneticpersonality, but with a face that bore the mark of many years ofselfishness, of thinking only of Madge Foster. She leaned forwardeagerly. "Have you seen me in this piece?"

"Yes; I was out front on Wednesday." A pause, while Madgewaited impatiently for the laurel wreath. "I want to tellyou—I think you're splendid, dear. Growing all thetime."

"Thanks," said Madge. The implication that there was stillroom for artistic growth did not please her. "I don't knowanybody I'd rather hear say that. I value your opinion, my dear,even though you're no longer working."

The shot went home. Nellie sat straighter in her chair.

"Of course, it's a wonderful part, dearie. Almost actor-proof."

"Oh, you think so?"

"But I'm glad to see you going so well, Madge."

Madge shrugged her white shoulders.

"If I was doing any better I'd be worried. Honest, Nellie, Iget scared sometimes, the way things keep breaking for me. Youwouldn't believe the money I'm drawing down! I told Levy it wastoo much, but he insisted."

"He would," smiled Nellie.

"And my children—all artists—allsuccessful—all making big money. I ought to be a very happywoman, Nellie."

"You certainly ought, dear. Everybody's not so lucky. I metold Frank Shore in the alley."

Madge's face clouded.

"Is he still out there? You wouldn't believe, Nellie, what awoman in my position is up against. The appeals for help, thepanhandlers—"

"I can imagine, dearie. I've been through it all myself, asyou may recall. And I always tried to be kind—ours is sucha precarious profession. One never knows what one's own finish isto be."

"Oh, I'm not worried about mine. Did you spend the summer intown?"

"Why, yes! You see, I didn't know what minute I might becalled for rehearsal."

"Oh," said Madge, "I thought you'd quit."

Nellie's head went up.

"I'm trying to drop out, Madge, but they just won't letme."

"Really?" The tone was incredulous. "Well, if I'd known youwere about I'd have had you down to my place in Great Neck. Liketo have you see it, dearie. It's a darling littlehouse—tiny, of course; I only paid fifty thousand for it.But that's enough about me. How about you, Nellie? How'sGracie?"

"Gracie's fine, and very happy with Joe. Joe's doingwell."

"Got a trick dog in vaudeville, I hear."

"Yes, temporarily," Nellie admitted. "He'd like to go outalone, but the dog's so popular. It would be a crime to refusethe money they pay him."

"Well, dearie, I'm glad to hear that," Madge said. "Must comein handy in your old age, so few engagements and all."

Nellie laughed lightly.

"Means nothing to me, Madge. I laid away my pile and I cantake care of myself. I'd have been a fool if I hadn't—andme the best Rosalind of a generation, as Winter called me. Thenthere was Charlie's royalties—there's never been aplaywright could touch him. Don't worry about me, dearie."

"I'm not worrying," Madge assured her. "How's thatgranddaughter of yours? It must make you feel old to look ather."

"I'll never feel old, dear; not while I've got my figure.Baby's well. Just at present we have all we can do to keep heroff the stage. Every manager on Broadway is after her. I guessthey figure she's a good deal like me."

"Oh, they want youth, Nell. Youth's the ticket. You can't getby without it." She glanced complacently at her mirror.

"That's why I always say you're such a wonder, Madge," saidNellie sweetly. She stood up, a triumphant figure, proud,successful, smiling. "I must run along. Just happened to have afree evening, so I thought I'd run in and offer mycongratulations."

"Must you go, dearie?" Madge rose too. "Sorry the place inGreat Neck is closed—like to have you down. Perhaps nextsummer—"

"That's mighty kind of you, Madge. Next summer, maybe—ifI don't go abroad. I'm thinking of it. So many good friends inLondon. You remember my big hit over there. They write me tocome—I don't know—"

"Well, it was good of you to drop in. Now don't be such astranger." They kissed—to the outward view warmly,affectionately.

"Good-by," said Nellie. "Here's hoping your good luckcontinues, dear—as mine has." And with a gracious smile sheswept from the room.

She crossed the stage—the old odors, the old thrill! Shewas extremely well satisfied with herself. But in the alley,where Frank Shore came shuffling toward her, she felt suddenlyguilty.

"Well, Nellie, here I am." His quavering old voice washopeful.

She took him by the arm and led him along.

"Listen, Frank. I can tell you what I can't tell many. I'mbroke too."

"Nellie—not you!" There was real distress in his voice."Oh, I'm sorry to hear that! It doesn't matter about me—Iwas never much, but you, Nellie, you were so wonderful!"

"Don't, Frank!" she said. "Don't, or I'll cry! It's the truth,I went in to borrow something from Madge Foster, but—Idon't know exactly what happened. She started boasting, andI—I just couldn't do it. I couldn't tell her."

"Of course you couldn't," he said approvingly. "Don't you takeany of her dust, Nellie. She's an amateur; a rotten littleamateur compared with you."

"But I'm sorry for your sake, Frank. Here—here's adollar."

"Can you spare it, Nellie? I'd rather not—"

"Nonsense! We old-timers—we must stick together. Getyourself a meal and a bed, just for auld lang syne."

"God bless you, Nellie! There was never one could touch you.An artist and a lady. I always said it. One of my proudestmemories—I played with Wayne."

"Good-by, Frank, and good luck."

"Good-by, Nellie." He started to leave her, paused. Trained ashe was in the old artificial comedies, the exit line did not suithim. "A meal and a bed," he added. "And dreams of the oldBroadway where we were young together."

That was better, and he shuffled off into the crowd. Nellieturned toward home. The theatergoers filled the street, shininglimousines drew up to the curb, expensively dressed peoplealighted. Inside, the orchestras were tuning up, the actors werestrolling about in the wings; presently would come the rise ofthe curtain. The rise of the curtain! Then on for that firstsweet laugh, that first beloved ripple of applause.

She climbed wearily to the fifth floor and knocked. No answerat first, and then the sharp bark of Chum. Taking out her key,she unlocked the door and entered the dark passageway. Chum,overjoyed, frisked at her feet. She turned on the light andglanced down at him. He looked strange without his collar; but hewouldn't need it where he was going, and it meant six moredollars, the last he had to give.

There was a note from Gracie on the table—"Joe and Ihave gone to the Palace." How like them—the precious sixfading fast! "Baby will be in soon."

Removing her hat, Nellie sat down by a parlor window—theone at the side that overlooked the alleyway of the theater nextdoor. She could see far up the street the electric signs flashingin front of half a dozen playhouses, the dense throngs daring theAugust heat—the pleasure seekers.

The hour of eight! It was the hardest of all the twenty-fourfor her. Every evening at eight a feeling of restlessnessoverwhelmed her. What was she doing here, at home?

She leaned far out into the humid August night. A thousandmemories assailed her, little pictures out of her past: a dressrehearsal that lasted till morning—and the greatest managerof all time on his knees before her in the dawn, thanking her forthe genius she had shown; a big dinner table back stage, aChristmas tree in the center, and the great Nellie Wayne passingout the presents to her retinue; a moonlit night on Boston Commonafter the show, with Charlie Farren walking beside her,beseeching her to marry him; the dining-room of the house onTwenty-Second Street at midnight, dear, handsome Charlie standingat the head of the table, a champagne glass in his hand; a firstnight at the Lyceum, her dressing-room banked with flowers,flushed, excited people crowding in to acclaim her newesttriumph.

Down below, through the open doors of the theater, she heardthe orchestra tuning up. She began to speak, the magic voicechoked and uncertain: old lines from forgotten plays, deathlesslines from the classics, lines taken at random from the jumblefor ever passing through her mind. Little wonder she could notlearn a new role now. Up from below came a quick crash of music.The overture! Nellie Wayne was silent, and her head sank down onher arms.

Suddenly close beside her sounded a loud, sharp, excited bark.She turned, startled, and there stood Chum, every muscle alert,trembling with anticipation, his ears pointed, his absurd littletail wagging furiously. And then Nellie Wayne realized—itwas eight o'clock for Chum!

He was not in this shabby little parlor—he was in thewings of a theater. The overture blared louder, and Chum'snervous bark rose above the music. He leaped against her, fellaway, leaped again. It was time to go on. Time for his act.

"All right, Chum," she said. "Go to it!"

He tumbled into the center of the room as though into aspotlight's glare. He rolled over, played dead, did his drunkenbit, walked on an imaginary ball, counted with sharp staccatobarks as Joe had trained him. He had it all wrong, the routinetwisted; but night had fallen, the orchestra was playing, andChum was doing his act.

He finished as the music did and stood there before her,awaiting her applause. She saw him through her tears, his oldeyes looking into hers. She reached down and gathered him intoher arms.

"Chum! Chum, you darling! I understand! We're in the same boatnow. We're old—old, and it's youth they want. We'refinished, you and me. Our act's out. And Broadway goes rollingon. Poor Chum! Poor fellow!"

She sat by the window for a long time, holding the little dogin her lap. She and Chum were friends at last.

At nine o'clock, putting the dog on the floor, she rose withdetermination. She dashed cold water into her eyes, put on herhat and went to the door. Chum followed.

"You wait here," she said gently. "You just wait, Chum. Maybewe're not quite finished yet."

She went directly to Tom Kerrigen's hotel. A bell-boydiscovered him lingering over his cigar in the dining-room.Nellie went in to where he sat. He leaped to his feet.

"Nellie, I was just thinking about you. This is fine! Won'tyou eat something?"

"No, thanks, I've had dinner."

"Just a little coffee then?"

"Thanks, Tom. I will have that." She sat in the chair thewaiter held ready. "I'm glad to find you. I thought you mighthave gone to a theater."

He shook his head.

"I don't care much for the plays they have now. Sex stuff, andall that. I like 'em clean, Nellie—I always did. Clean,like Peter Pan." The old gambler closed his eyes. "I saw thattwelve times, and whenever Maude Adams came to the footlights andasked us did we believe in fairies I shouted louder than any kidin the house. I'm afraid I'm too old-fashioned."

The waiter brought her coffee and disappeared.

"Tom," she began, "I've come to make a confession. The otherday I let you think I was well fixed—had money. It's nottrue. I've hardly a penny in the world. I'm down and out.Broadway broke, they call it nowadays."

He nodded solemnly.

"I suspected. And it's a raw deal. You deserve better thanthis."

"It's happened, though." She smiled cheerfully. "And now, Tom,I've come to you for help."

"Everything I've got—it's yours." He leaned across thetable. "I don't want you to think I'm taking advantage,Nellie—but do you remember? That time, before you knewCharlie, when I followed you to Philadelphia. You were playing atthe old Seventh Street Opera House; stopping at that boarding-house that stood where the Bellevue-Stratford is now—whatwas the name?—oh, yes, Petrie's Rest. It was in the parlorthere—I told you—I was crazy about you—"

She laid her hand on his arm.

"Don't, Tom!"

"I must! I'm still—crazy. Take me and you'll never wantfor anything again."

"Dear friend!" His anxious, ruddy face, his keen gray eyes,the absurd old-fashioned diamond stick pin in his tie—shesaw all these through a mist of tears. "It can't be, Tom. That'sfor youth. We're only ghosts. And then—there's Charlie.It's just as though he still lived—with me."

He smiled bravely.

"Right you are, Nellie. It's as you say. But everything I haveis yours, just the same."

"I don't want your money, Tom dear. I want you to do somethingelse for me. I want you to help me get into—thepictures."

"The pictures! Why, Nellie, you said—"

"I know, but that was all wrong. We live too much in the past,Tom—we old people. The world moves, and we've got to movewith it—or go down. And I'm not ready to go down."

"I should hope not!"

"Besides, I've got somebody to take care of now; somebodywho's been taking care of me."

"Yes?"

"A dog. A dog named Chum."

He stared at her in wonder. "I want you to go to Lew Gorman,Tom, and sort of put the idea in his head—"

"Gorman, hell!" Tom cried. "I'll finance a picture myself, andstar you. We'll get a good story—say, what's the matterwith one of Charlie's plays? By heaven, that's the idea! You ownthe rights to all of Charlie's stuff, don't you?"

"I do," she told him. "I've been thinking about thatmyself."

"It's an idea! We'll take one of Charlie's comedies—orbetter still, a melodrama. Lew tells me melodrama is going strongnow. How about The Midnight Flyer? I'll buy the picturerights from you—pay you tenthousand—fifteen—"

She laughed. "Is that an offer? Fifteen thousand?"

"It is—unless you want more."

"That's like you, Tom. But you needn't risk a penny. Keep outof this yourself. All you need do is run into Lew Gorman casuallyand tell him you hear some one is thinking of making a pictureout of The Midnight Flyer. Tell him I've refused fifteen thousandfor the rights. I think that's honest, don't you?"

"Honest? Sure it is! My offer stands. Lew Gorman made afortune out of you and out of Charlie's plays, and he has most ofit yet. It's about time he split a bit with you. But do you thinkhe'll fall?"

"I know he will. If I went to him and said I was broke andwanted to sell that play he wouldn't touch it with a ten-footpole. But once let him hear some one else is after it,and—well, I know managers. He won't sleep till he owns it.You've got your lines down, Tom?"

"I sure have! I'll run into him accidentally early in themorning, and I'll call you before noon."

"You're a dear, Tom."

"And if Lew doesn't come through, my offer still holds good;any one of my offers—or all of them."

She smiled and rose.

"You're the best friend any one ever had," she said.

"Do you think so? Honest, Nellie?"

"I do, Tom." His broad face lightened. "And it's what Charliealways said."

"Oh, yes—Charlie." His smile faded. "Good old Charlie!"said Square Tom Kerrigen a little wistfully.

* * * * *

ANOTHER morning, with Joe cast this time in therole of pessimist. An evening at the Palace, where he saw a lotof acts the popularity of which he was utterly at a loss toexplain, had soured his outlook on life. During breakfast his eyehappened to light on Chum, munching at a bone in the corner

"Guess we'll say good-by to him to-day," Joe announced in alow voice.

"No, Dad—no!" cried young Nellie in alarm.

"Well I can't have him round here eating his head oft.

"Not to-day, Joe," said Nellie Wayne. "Give him anothertwenty-four hours, please."

"What's it to you?"

"It's a lot to me, if you must know."

"Beginning to appreciate what Chum did for you, eh? hesneered. "Maybe you'll thank me next."

"I do thank you, Joe. And Chum and I happen to be good friendsnow. Give him another day."

Joe regarded her curiously.

"You got something on your mind?" he inquired.

Nellie stared at him blankly.

"Not a thing in the world," she said.

But Joe was unconvinced.

"I believe there's something up with Ma, he said later toGracie.

"She does look cheerful," Gracie admitted. "Though how she canfeel that way, with the agent coming to-day for his money?"

"Oh, give us a rest on that!" Joe cried.

"That's all very well for you to say, but it's me has to seehim."

"Well, string him along."

"I've gone the limit now. It's cash to-day or the street."

But Joe had jammed his hat on to his head, and the outer doorslammed behind him. Baby, too, hurried off on some mysteriouserrand Nellie waited, an unaccustomed color in her cheeks. It waspast eleven when a surly hall boy climbed the stairs to tell hershe was wanted at the telephone on the first floor. She gave himthe last coin in her purse—a quarter—and beat himdown.

"Hello, Nellie, that you?" Good old Tom—it was hisvoice. Her heart almost stopped beating with suspense.

"Well, Nellie, I sat round Lew's hotel for two hours thismorning, and oddly enough I happened to run into him. I justcasually mentioned that offer you had for Charlie's play and theshot went home."

"He fell, did he, Tom?"

"Sure did! You must have heard the thud up where you were. Hewants to see you before noon. He's leaving to-night for the West.The lad's all het up. I told him I'd do my best to get you roundthere, though it looked pretty doubtful to me. He's got a desk inShane's office—you know where that is. Now be careful,Nellie. Remember your big offer. And besides, you've got so muchmoney you don't care whether you sell or not."

"Leave him to me," answered Nellie. "I can handle Lew. I knowhim of old."

"All right, Nellie. Let me know what happens. Good luck!"

"Thanks, Tom. God bless you!"

She hurried back to the flat for her hat, but said nothing ofher business to Gracie. The thing might fall through, and in thatcase she would bear the disappointment alone. A few moments latershe was out on the hot street.

Shrewd little Lew was waiting, but greeted her with anassumption of great carelessness. At sight of his placid pokerface she remembered what she was up against, and knew that shewould have need of all her cunning.

"Hello, Nellie! It's great to see you again. Where you beenhiding? Minna was saying only last night, 'Why don't we ever seeNellie no more?'"

"How is Minna?"

"She's fine, thanks. We're going West to-night. Just wanted tosee you before I went—say hello, for old times' sake."

"Well, Lew, I'm glad to drop in. But I've an engagement at theClaremont for lunch—"

"Oh, I won't keep you. Why don't you come out West sometimeand visit us?"

"Thanks, Lew, I'll think about it. But Broadway still lookspretty good to me."

"That so?" He took up a paper knife and toyed aimlessly withit. "Anything on your mind, Nellie?"

"Not a thing."

"Humph! Feeling well, ain't you?"

"Never better."

"That's good." He stared past her out the window.

"Did you want to see me about anything in particular,Lew?"

"Oh, no; no, I guess not."

She rose.

"Well, give my love to Minna—"

He rose, too, stifled a yawn.

"I sure will. Mighty good of you to come in." He followed herto the door; her hand was on the knob. "By the way, I hear you'reselling some of Charlie's stuff to the pictures."

She laughed a little scornfully.

"Oh, I don't know. They're after The Midnight Flyer. They saythere's a wonderful picture in it, but I haven't made up my mind.I don't need the money, you know."

"So? How much do they offer you?"

"Oh, not much—fifteen thousand."

Despite his best efforts an expression of pain crossed Lew'schubby little face.

"They're kidding you," he said warmly. "There ain't that muchmoney in the business any more."

"Well, it doesn't matter," Nellie answered. "I don't believeI'll sell, anyhow. I hear prices will go up later."

"Don't you believe it. Prices have reached the peak andthey're going down every minute we stand here. I know, becauseI've been dabbling a bit in the movies myself."

"That so, Lew? Well, I'll go along." She opened the door.

"Wait a minute, Nellie. Come back here and sit down." Shehesitated, seemed reluctant, but obeyed. She was wishing she hadborrowed Baby's wrist-watch for this encounter. Lew sat downtoo—on the edge of his chair. "Now look here, Nellie," hebegan. "It seems to me that if anybody makes pictures out ofCharlie's stuff it ought to be me. I produced all his plays and Iloved him like a brother. I'd have been down for a slice of thepicture money, only, of course, in those days there was no suchthing."

"Well, I guess that was the only bet you ever overlooked,Lew."

Lew ignored this.

"If Charlie was sitting in that chair now, do you know whathe'd say, Nellie? He'd tell you if you sold to anybody you oughtto sell to me. He'd say, 'Think of all Lew done for us,Nellie.'"

"And made a million doing it."

"A million! How do you figure that? I'm a poor man,Nellie?"

"Maybe I could lend you something, Lew. Was that what youwanted?"

"It was not." He looked her firmly in the eye. "I want therights to The Midnight Flyer. But I'm not paying any fifteenthousand, and don't think for a minute I am."

"Well, then, you're outbid, Lew." Again she stood up. "Ireally must go."

"Come now, Nellie, listen to reason. I tell you somebody'sbeen kidding you. Such prices ain't paid any more. Who made theoffer, anyhow?"

"Tell Minna I'm sorry not to see her—"

She was moving toward the door. He followed at her heels.

"I'll give you ten thousand, Nellie."

"I was always so fond of Minna."

"Twelve thousand—for Minna's sake. You wouldn't robMinna's husband?"

"This engagement of mine is for one o'clock—"

"Nellie, have a heart! For auld lang syne—"

"For auld lang syne you can have it at fifteen. I'll not askyou to go above these other people, though it's hardly fair tothem."

"Nellie! Don't old times mean nothing to you?"

"Not where money is concerned, Lew. I'm like you that way. Nowmake up your mind, for I'm going."

"All right—go! Ungrateful! Nellie, I hate to say it, butyou're ungrateful. Charlie wouldn't like it."

"Charlie wouldn't be so easy." She opened the door. "Good-by,Lew."

"Fourteen thousand dollars!"

"Good luck on the Coast!"

"What do you think you're selling—Ben Hurt"

"I'm not selling. You're trying to buy, that's all. Actinglike a piker too. The Midnight Flyer—the most popular playof its generation!"

"Yeah. And everybody dead that ever heard of it."

"There's a few of us left. You must have heard of it, Lew. Youcleared four hundred thousand on it. My love to Minna,remember."

"Minna—Minna! Minna's heart would break if she heardyou. Fourteen thousand five hundred and not another nickel!"

Nellie came back into the room and closed the door.

"Sold!" she cried.

"I should think so!" wailed Lew. "And me bankrupt!"

"On one condition!"

"What now? Nellie, how you have changed!"

"I play in the picture."

"You—you—in the picture! At your age! What youthinking of, Nellie? We got to get a young girl for yourpart."

"Of course. I'm not insane, Lew. I play the grandmother."

"Oh, the grandmother! Well, that's all right. Only naturallyyou understand we don't pay much for a little part likethat."

"You'll pay me! Think of what my name will mean! Nellie Wayneand The Midnight Flyer billed together again! All over thecountry are millions who will remember—"

"Millions—yes—in the graveyards."

"No, on their feet, going strong, like you—and me."

"Well, you're going strong. I'll admit that, Nellie. Allright, we put it in the contract—the grandmother part. Ahundred and fifty a week."

"Three hundred!"

"Nellie, you robber!"

"Take it or leave it! What say, Lew?" He was muttering tohimself.

"I ain't saying—I'm choking. Maybe I can do it—ifI close my eyes when I sign."

"Nonsense! You'll get it all back, and a lot more. If thatwasn't so I'd be on my way to the Ritz now."

"The Claremont, you said," he reminded her.

"But I'm to pick up some friends at the Ritz."

"All right, Nellie. Sit down. I'll go and dictate acontract."

"You be careful what you dictate. I can still read, Lew."

He left her. She sat erect in her chair, her eyes shining. Shehad not looked so beautiful in years. The joy of battle was inher heart, the thrill of victory. If Charlie knew—butperhaps he did. Perhaps he had been at her elbow, fighting too.Clever Charlie! Dead more than twenty years, but supporting herstill; supporting her by his wit and industry; saving the day forher when all seemed lost. That was the theater—the deartheater. The hits never died.

"How you want the money?" Lew called.

"Give me your check for two thousand now. I'll take the restwhen we get to Hollywood."

He came back to her presently with three copies of thecontract ready for her signature—and the check.

"How soon can you start?" he wanted to know. "Why not go alongwith Minna and me to-night? You can get ready—an oldtrouper like you."

"I'll be there. When and where?"

"The Pennsylvania Station at eight. I'll buy your ticket."

"Thanks."

"And you can pay me on the train," he added hastily. Heblotted the signatures. His spirits appeared to be rising. "I'mgoing to give this thing a whale of a production, and if it goesover I might try one or two more of Charlie's pieces. But I ain'tpaying such prices again."

"We'll discuss that later," she smiled.

"You better settle down out West," he suggested. "I'd havework for you now and then, and you could pick up somethingoccasionally in the other studios. You got a name, Nellie—abig name. I know, because I give it to you."

"Thanks, Lew." She folded the check. "I'll think aboutthat."

"Me and Minna will look for you at the train." He followed herto the door. "Maybe you think I'm close, Nellie; but if I am Igot a reason. All my life something's been hanging overme—a fear—an obsession. I got it watching the othermanagers. One by one I seen them go Broadway broke, and I beenafraid; afraid it would get me too. It wouldn't be any fun,Nellie, being broke and old in this game."

"No, I guess it wouldn't, Lew," she answered gravely. "See youto-night at the train."

She traveled the short distance back to the flat as blithelyas a girl of twenty. Five flights up suited her mood. She pushedopen the door. Something struck her at once—a silence, adisappointment—something gone. Chum! Chum, who friskedabout the feet of all who entered there.

Gracie sat by a window, languidly scanning the department-store advertising in a morning paper.

"Where's Chum?" Nellie demanded.

"Hello, Ma! Chum? Oh, Joe came back and we made up our mindsit was time to part with poor old Chum. So Joe took him down tothe vet—"

Nellie's heart sank.

"What vet? Where?"

"Meyer, I think the name was. Somewhere on TenthStreet—East Tenth—over near the river. Ma, where yougoing?"

"Out!" Nellie was at the head of the stairs.

Gracie followed. "The agent was here," she called. "He'scoming again at three."

"Let him come. It's all right, I'm working," Nellie repliedover her shoulder, and left the dazed Gracie far behind. She ranover to Broadway and signaled the first taxi she saw.

"Never mind the speed laws!" she cried, climbing in. "Matterof life and death!"

"Where to?" inquired the driver, naturally curious on thatpoint.

"East Tenth. I don't know the number. Near the river. We'llfind it somehow. We've got to find it!"

The car started. Nellie was angry now. This was likeJoe—a little opposition and he was off, couldn't wait;wanted to show he took nobody's orders. Well, she had the upperhand now. The check in her purse gave her that. And little Joeywould step round. The taxi crept in and out of the traffic; atevery enforced stop her spirits sank.

On East Tenth luck was with her. She looked out the window ofthe car and saw Joe plodding along—alone. She directed thedriver to draw up to the curb, and before the taxi had quitehalted she leaped to the sidewalk and confronted her son-in-law.

"Where's Chum?"

"Ma, what are you doing here?"

"Where's Chum? Answer me!"

"I left him in there." He pointed over his shoulder. "They'lltake care of Chum."

She ran past him and through the open door of an ancient brickstable. The darkness blinded her for a moment—and then shesaw a thin streak of white coming toward her, heard a familiarbark. Nellie Wayne knelt on the dirty floor and opened herarms.

"All right, Chum. Everything's all right. You're not stayinghere. You're going with me."

Joe came forward, officious.

"Now, see here, Ma, I won't have you butting in. Chum will bebetter off. And I can't afford to have him round eating his headoff."

"Forget it, Joe," she advised. "After this Chum belongs tome."

"To you? That's good! How you going to take care of him?"

She stood up and took a pink bit of paper from her purse."Read that," she said. It was the simplest explanation.

"Two thousand!" Joe gasped. "From Lew Gorman!"

"Yes, and there's a lot more still coming to me."

"What's he going to do—star you?"

She did not reply, but knelt again and took Chum in her arms.An old, unshaven man shuffled out of a smelly office.

"All right, Doc," Joe told him. "We changed our mind about thedog. You can give me back the two dollars." The old man objectedwith surprising vehemence. He was, he said, ready to do hispart.

"Come along, Joe," Nellie called. "You can ride with us if youlike."

Joe hesitated between his two and Nellie's two thousand, butonly for an instant. He followed her and meekly climbed to herside in the taxi.

"I don't get this," he said.

"I sold one of Charlie's old plays to Gorman for a picture,"she explained. "And I'm going out to Hollywood to act in it."

"In the movies! You, in the movies!" Joe threw back his headand laughed loudly. "After all you've said againstthem—"

"Well, I can change my mind, can't I? I see my mistake. It'sup to me to move along with the times. You can't just stand roundmooning about the good old days. If you do you're sunk."

"Now you're talking sense," Joe approved. They rode on insilence for a time. "A fellow was telling me that copper's thething," he went on presently; "a fellow who works in Wall Street.'Just put a few thousand in copper,' he says, 'and'—"

"Listen!" cut in Nellie. "All the money I used to have hatedme, Joe. It left me right away. But this is friendly money. It'sgoing to stick around."

"Well, I was just suggesting—"

"I'll pay the rent and give Gracie five hundred to tide alonguntil you get work. Then I'm going out to California and buy alittle bungalow—a little home for Chum and me; a placewhere he can lie round all day in the sun, or maybe chasebutterflies if he feels ambitious. Do they have butterflies outthere?"

"They got everything," said Joe.

"I'll pick up a bit of work now and then. And what's left overafter buying the house goes into bonds—government bonds. Myhome will always be open to you, Joe—to Nellie andGracie—just the way yours was to me. Only there won't beany agent for the landlord in the cast."

"Well, I done my best," he said.

"That's all right, Joe. You did, and I'm mighty grateful. Andthere'll always be a welcome for you out West."

"Somehow, I can't see you leaving Broadway," said Joe.

"Why not? My Broadway left me long ago."

She stopped the cab at a bank not far from the flat and sentJoe home with Chum. A cashier, who knew her well, translatedLew's hieroglyphics into a magnificent roll of bills. She rode intriumph back to the walk-up apartment.

In the parlor Gracie and young Nellie were bending anxiouslyabove a black silk dress, over which Gracie was waving anuncertain needle. Nellie went to them at once and seized thegarment.

"What's this?" she wanted to know.

"Ma, Joe says you got an engagement."

"Yes; but what's this?"

"It's mine," young Nellie answered. She seemed breathless withexcitement; her big brown eyes were glowing. "I've got a parttoo! Levy's rushing me into his new comedy—a maid role,only a few lines, but a beginning. The girl who had the role wasfired, and we're trying to make her costume over to fit me. Thedress rehearsal's to-night."

Nellie Wayne stood silent, staring at the costume with a sortof contempt.

"Nonsense!" she said suddenly, and tossed it into a waste-basket.

With a little cry young Nellie rescued it. She faced hergrandmother, trembling, flushed, determined.

"How dare you?" she cried. "How dare you interfere? It's mylife, I can live it as I please. I'm going on the stage. You hadyour day, you had your fun; you can't stop me. I'm going on thestage, I tell you! I love it! I want it! I'd die if Ididn't!"

"Baby!" Nellie put her hands on the girl's slim shoulders."Baby, that wasn't bad at all. A little more voice,perhaps—a little more authority—but that will come intime; when you've lived longer—suffered. Going on thestage! Of course you are! But not in that dress. Come with NellieWayne and she'll buy you the best in town."

Young Nellie wilted.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Excuse me! But I thought, after what yousaid—"

"What did I say?"

"About my acting. You said you'd rather see me in my grave;that Broadway was a dreadful place—no gratitude—noheart—"

"What rot, Baby! You're dreaming! I never did!"

"But, Mother," protested Gracie, "I heard you myself!"

"You're crazy, both of you! I may be getting old, my dears, Imay be fifty"—Gracie looked at her—"or thereabouts,but I fancy I know what I said. Would I belittle the professionthat gave me so many happy years? Would I smirch the memoriesI've got by wild talk like that—me, the best Viola of ageneration? I should hope not! Of course, Baby's going to act! Iwant her in the profession—carrying on the torch—butnot in one of Levy's hand-me-downs; not while Nellie has a rollof bills like this." She opened her pocketbook; they saw andgasped. "It's your father, Gracie. It's from him. Dead and gone,but helping us still. Now, Baby, get your hat. If your dressrehearsal's to-night we must rush. Besides, I'm off at eightmyself."

The girl disappeared into her room. Nellie walked the floor,beaming, happy.

"A maid's part! To think of it, Gracie! I had a maid's part myfirst engagement too. What was that line? 'My lady, the curate iswaiting for you in the garden.' Our Baby! She's got the spark,Gracie! Did you see how she flared out at me?"

Gracie put her hand to her head.

"So many things are happening," she complained.

Nellie explored her purse and threw a handful of bills on thetable.

"There—some of it's for the rent man, with NellieWayne's love. Give the janitor ten dollars and tell him to bringmy trunks up from the storeroom. We'll have to spend theafternoon packing." Young Nellie reappeared. "Come, child, I'lltake you to Madame Claire. It's a rush job, but Maggie will do itfor me. And oh, Gracie dear, call up the Walden and engage atable! I'm giving a farewell party to-night. Better say sixo'clock. I mustn't miss my train. And order it, too, will you, sowe shan't be kept waiting."

"What—what shall I order?" asked Gracie.

"Oh, I don't know. Just shut your eyes and spend, Gracie. It'sNellie Wayne's good-by."

* * * * *

THE dinner was over and they emerged from thehotel. Nellie Wayne, erect and blooming—booked again! ThenBaby and Gracie, Joe, carrying a florist's box, Tom Kerrigen withChum in his arms.

"Now, Gracie, I want you and Joe to go with Baby. Her firstdress rehearsal—you've got to be there. Tom will take me tothe train."

"All right, Mother, if you wish it."

"Did you order the taxi, Tom?"

"Here he is, Nellie."

"And he's got the top down. That's good! I'm not going to saythe word, Gracie; such a sad word; just au revoir."

Joe proffered his box.

"So long, Ma. A few roses—from the three of us."

"Oh, Joe, you're too good to me!"

"Your money paid for them," said Joe humbly.

"Your kindness bought them." She took the box. "You and Graciemust visit me—"

"We'll be there," Joe promised. "Fellow in Los Angeles wantedme to go into the real-estate game with him. Maybe you'd betterhold off buying that house— "

She smiled, pressed his hand, turned to her daughter.

"Well, Gracie—what you crying for? You've seen me starton the road a thousand times. Baby"—she put her arm aboutthe girl—"you're in the profession now; the greatestprofession in the world. Respect it, give it your best, no matterwhat's in the box. That's the first rule—the only one."

"I'll never forget," young Nellie said, "what's behindme—you—and grandfather. I'll never forget thisafternoon—buying the dress—my first costume. You'llbe proud of me."

"God bless you, dear. You're on your way. A greatstar—I'm sure of it. How happy Charlie would be to see youtonight!" Her voice broke. "Run along now, please, the three ofyou."

She stood looking after them until them were lost in thethrong on Broadway. Her eyes were wet.

"We'd better start," Tom Kerrigen said gently. "The taxi'swaiting."

She turned to him.

"I wanted this last ride with you, Tom, down our old streettogether. Tell him to drive to the Pennsylvania by way of UnionSquare. I guess there's time." He helped her into the cab anddeposited Chum in her lap. The dog was restless,excited—the lights, the crowd, eight o'clock again. "There,Chum, old fellow," she said, "calm down. We're not showing to-night; we're off for the road; booked solid into thehereafter—and it's a long sleeper jump."

The cab swung into Long Acre, into the dazzling square of theelectric signs. The new Rialto—all glitter and no heart.They crossed Forty-Second Street, and the White Way grew darker.They were moving on into the past.

The Empire was left behind, and then the Knickerbocker. Nomore playhouses, no more in reality; tall loft buildings toweringoverhead—Feinberg & Morris, Ladies' Waists; MaxHirschfield, Artificial Flowers—and then the big grimdepartment stores of Herald Square.

No more playhouses in reality, but a dozen or more in theirdreams. Famous temples of the drama, torn down and forgotten. TheHerald Square, the Bijou, the Standard! Nellie Wayne in CharlieFarren's Latest! Wallack's and Daly's. Nellie Wayne in As YouLike It! Prancing horses at the curb, fine ladies and finegentlemen descending, silk hats gleaming above the crowd. Thecrack of cabbies' whips. Carriages at eleven-thirty sharp! Theywere in Madison Square.

"Did you see what I saw, Tom?"

"Ghosts, Nellie; a thousand ghosts. I'm going hometomorrow."

"We're ghosts, too, Tom. The stage is set for a new piece andhere we are mumbling the old lines, the lines nobody wants tohear."

"Over there at the Hoffman House I saw Charlie that lastnight. He said he wasn't feeling right."

"Tell the driver to turn down Twenty-Second. Never mind UnionSquare. I've seen enough."

"You shouldn't have come this way, Nellie."

"Nonsense, Tom! I came on purpose. It saddens me, but it makesit easier to go—to go and never to come back. There'snothing to come back for."

Into the dark of Twenty-Second the taxi swerved, and Nellielaid a hand on her friend's arm.

"Have him stop just a moment, Tom." The bored driverobeyed.

They had come to a halt before a battered old brick housealmost obliterated by time—a weary old house given over totrade. Alien names decorated its front. Talk of blouses andwhalebone and leather goods. Wholesale only. On the first floor alunchroom, closed for the night.

"Do you remember my garden at the rear? The hollyhocks? Andthe canary in the dining-room window—the canary that usedto wake and sing when we came home after the play?"

"Sometimes I'd get here first, Nellie, and I'd sit on thesteps and wait for the sound of the horse's hoofs. And then theshining news hansom with Reilly on the box passing the gaslighton the corner—and Charlie on the sidewalk, helping youdown?"

Silence for a moment.

"Tell him to go on now, Tom," she said softly.

The rattle of a protesting engine followed, and they movedaway.

"That's all over and done with," Nellie said. "We're just olduseless props cluttering up the scene. It will be different outWest. Thank heaven, I've still got work to do!"

"That's right, Nellie." They rode along. "I—I'll bespending the winters down near you. I'll see you now andthen."

"I'm glad to hear that, Tom. The best friend anybody ever had.Wasn't it strange how clearly we seemed to see him—there infront of the old house? Charlie, I mean. Did you see himtoo?"

"Yes," said Kerrigen, "I saw him."

"His name will be on the billboards again, all over thecountry, just the way it used to be."

"So it will."

She took something from her purse.

"Tom, I want you to look up an old actor—a character mannamed Frank Shore. Give him that and tell him I'm going to findhim a berth out on the Coast."

"I'll do it, Nellie."

They were speeding up Seventh Avenue; the station was closeahead. Nine blocks off the lights of Long Acre were flaming.Nellie Wayne lifted Chum where he could see.

"Take your last look, Chum, old fellow. We're saying good-by."Chum's tired old eyes swept the yellow horizon and he barked arather faint farewell.

"Sorry, Nellie?" Kerrigen asked.

She shook her head.

"Not very sorry. One thought keeps running through my mind.Whatever happens, I'll never be Broadway broke again."

The taxi swung suddenly into the tunneled drive at the southend of the station—the long dim tunnel where the lights ofLong Acre were just another memory.

THE END