The Voice of the City
by O'Henry
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman

by O Henry

THE VOICE OF THE CITY

Twenty-five years ago the school children used
to chant their lessons. The manner of their delivery
was a singsong recitative between the utterance of an
Episcopal minister and the drone of a tired sawmill.
I mean no disrespect. We must have lumber and
sawdust.

I remember one beautiful and instructive little
lyric that emanated from the physiology class. The
most striking line of it was this:

"The shin-bone is the long-est bone in the hu-man
bod-y."

What an inestimable boon it would have been if
all the corporeal and spiritual facts pertaining to
man bad thus been tunefully and logically inculcated
in our youthful minds! But what we gained in
anatomy, music and philosophy was meagre.

The other day I became confused. I needed a
ray of light. I turned back to those school days for
aid. But in all the nasal harmonies we whined forth
from those bard benches I could not recall one that
treated of the voice of agglomerated mankind.

In other words, of the composite vocal message of
massed humanity.

In other words, of the Voice of a Big City.

Now, the individual voice is not lacking. We can
understand the song of the poet, the ripple of the
brook, the meaning of the man who wants $5 until
next Monday, the inscriptions on the tombs of the
Pharaohs, the language of flowers, the "step lively"
of the conductor, and the prelude of the milk cans  at
4 A. M. Certain large-eared ones even assert that
they are wise to the vibrations of the tympanum pro-
need by concussion of the air emanating from Mr.
H. James. But who can comprehend the meaning
of the voice of the city?

I went out for to see.

First, I asked Aurelia. She wore white Swiss and a
bat with flowers on it, and ribbons and ends of things
fluttered here and there.

"Tell me," I said, stammeringly, for I have no
voice of my own, "what does this big - er -
enormous - er - whopping city say? It must have
a voice of some kind. Does it ever speak to you?
How do you interpret its meaning? It is a tremen-
dous mass, but it must have a key:'

"Like a Saratoga trunk?" asked Aurelia.

"No," said I. "Please do not refer to the lid. I
have a fancy that every city has a voice. Each one
has something to say to the one who can hear it.
What does the big one say to you? "

"All cities," said Aurelia, judicially, "say the
same thing. When they get through saying it
there is an echo from Philadelphia. So, they are
unanimous."

"Here are 4,000,000 people," said I, scholastic-
ally, "compressed upon an island, which is mostly
lamb surrounded by Wall Street water. The conjunc-
tion of so many units into so small a space must
result in an identity - or, or rather a homogeneity
that finds its oral expression through a common chan-
nel. It is, as you might say, a consensus of transla-
tion, concentrating in a crystallized, general idea
which reveals itself in what may be termed the Voice
of the City. Can you tell me what it is?

Aurelia smiled wonderfully. She sat on the high
stoop. A spray of insolent ivy bobbed against her
right ear. A ray of impudent moonlight flickered
upon her nose. But I was adamant, nickel-
plated.

"I must go and find out," I said, "what is the
Voice of this city. Other cities have voices. It is an
assignment. I must have it. New York," I con-
tinned, in a rising tone, "had better not hand me a
cigar and say: ' Old man, I can't talk for publication.'
No other city acts in that way. Chicago says, unhes-
itatingly, 'I will;' I Philadelphia says, 'I should;'
New Orleans says, ' I used to;' Louisville says,
'Don't care if I do;' St. Louis says, 'Excuse me;'
Pittsburg says, 'Smoke up.' Now, New York - "

Aurelia smiled.

"Very well," said I, "I must go elsewhere and find
out."

I went into a palace, tile-floored, cherub-ceilinged
and square with the cop. I put my foot on the brass
rail and said to Billy Magnus, the best bartender in
the diocese:

Billy, you've lived in New York a long time
what kind of a song-and-dance does this old town give
you? What I mean is, doesn't the gab of it seem to
kind of bunch up and slide over the bar to you in a
sort of amalgamated tip that bits off the burg in a
kind of an epigram with a dash of bitters and a slice
of - "

"Excuse me a minute," said Billy, "somebody's
punching the button at the side door."

He went away; came back with an empty tin
bucket; again vanished with it full; returned and
said to me:

"That was Mame. She rings twice. She likes a
glass of beer for supper. Her and the kid. If you
ever saw that little skeesicks of mine brace up in his
high chair and take his beer and - But, say, what
was yours? I get kind of excited when I bear them
two rings -was it the baseball score or gin fizz you
asked for?"

"Ginger ale," I answered.

I walked up to Broadway. I saw a cop on the cor-
ner. The cops take kids up, women across, and men
in. I went up to him.

If I'm not exceeding the spiel limit," I said, "let
me ask you. You see New York during its vocative
hours. It is the function of you and your brother
cops to preserve the acoustics of the city. There must
be a civic voice that is intelligible to you. At night
during your lonely rounds you must have beard it.
What is the epitome of its turmoil and shouting?
What does the city say to you?

"Friend," said the policeman, spinning his club,
"it don't say nothing. I get my orders from the
man higher up. Say, I guess you're all right. Stand
here for a few minutes and keep an eye open for the
roundsman."

The cop melted into the darkness of the side street.
In ten minutes be had returned.

"Married last Tuesday," be said, half gruffly.
"You know bow they are. She comes to that corner
at nine every night for a - comes to say ' hello! ' I
generally manage to be there. Say, what was it you
asked me a bit ago - what's doing in the city? Oh,
there's a roof-garden or two just opened, twelve
blocks up."

I crossed a crow's-foot of street-car tracks, and
skirted the edge of an umbrageous park. An
artificial Diana, gilded, heroic, poised, wind-ruled,
on the tower, shimmered in the clear light of her
namesake in the sky. Along came my poet, hurry-
ing, hatted, haired, emitting dactyls, spondees and
dactylis. I seized him.
"Bill," said I (in the magazine he is Cleon), "give
me a lift. I am on an assignment to find out the
Voice of the city. You see, it's a special order. Ordi-
narily a symposium comprising the views of Henry
Clews, John L. Sullivan, Edwin Markham, May Ir-
win and Charles Schwab would be about all. But this
is a different matter. We want a broad, poetic,
mystic vocalization of the city's soul and meaning.
You are the very chap to give me a hint. Some years
ago a man got at the Niagara Falls and gave us its
pitch. The note was about two feet below the lowest
G on the piano. Now, you can't put New York into
a note unless it's better indorsed than that. But give
me an idea of what it would say if it should speak. It
is bound to be a mighty and far-reaching utterance.
To arrive at it we must take the tremendous crash of
the chords of the day's traffic, the laughter and music
of the night, the solemn tones of Dr. Parkhurst, the
rag-time, the weeping, the stealthy bum of cab-wbeels,
the shout of the press agent, the tinkle of fountains
on the roof gardens, the hullabaloo of the strawberry
vender and the covers of Everybody's Magazine, the
whispers of the lovers in the parks - all these sounds,
must go into your Voice - not combined, but mixed,
and of the mixture an essence made; and of the es-
sence an extract - an audible extract, of which one
drop shall form the thing we seek."

"Do you remember," asked the poet, with a
chuckle, "that California girl we met at Stiver's
studio last week? Well, I'm on my way to see her.
She repeated that poem of mine, ' The Tribute of
Spring,' word for word. She's the smartest proposi-
tion in this town just at present. Say, how does this
confounded tie look? I spoiled four before I got one
to set right."

"And the Voice that I asked you about?" I in-
quired.

"Oh, she doesn't sing," said Cleon. "But you
ought to bear her recite my 'Angel of the Inshore
Wind.'"

I passed on. I cornered a newsboy and be flashed
at me prophetic pink papers that outstripped the
news by two revolutions of the clock's longest hand.

"Son," I said, while I pretended to chase coins in
my penny pocket, "doesn't it sometimes seem to you
as if the city ought to be able to talk? All these ups
and downs and funny business and queer things hap-
pening every daywhat would it say, do you think,
if it could speak?

"Quit yer kiddin'," said the boy. "Wot paper yer
want? I got no time to waste. It's Mag's birthday,
and I want thirty cents to git her a present."

Here was no interpreter of the city's mouthpiece.
I bought a paper, and consigned its undeclared
treaties, its premeditated murders and unfought bat-
tles to an ash can.

Again I repaired to the park and sat in the moon
shade. I thought and thought, and wondered why
none could tell me what I asked for.

And then, as swift as light from a fixed star, the
answer came to me. I arose and hurried - hurried
as so many reasoners must, back around my circle.
I knew the answer and I bugged it in my breast as I
flew, fearing lest some one would stop me and demand
my secret.

Aurelia was still on the stoop. The moon was
higher and the ivy shadows were deeper. I sat at her
side and we watched a little cloud tilt at the drifting
moon and go asunder, quite pale and discomfited.

And then, wonder of wonders and delight of de-
lights! our hands somehow touched, and our fingers
closed together and did not part.

After half an hour Aurelia said, with that smile
of hers:

"Do you know, you haven't spoken a word since
you came back! "

"That," said I, nodding wisely, "is the Voice of
the City."  

THE COMPLETE LIFE OF JOHN HOPKINS

There is a saying that no man has tasted the full
flavor of life until he has known poverty, love and
war. The justness of this reflection commends it to
the lover of condensed philosophy. The three condi-
tions embrace about all there is in life worth knowing.
A surface thinker might deem that wealth should be
added to the list. Not so. When a poor man finds a
long-bidden quarter-dollar that has slipped through
a rip into his vest lining, be sounds the pleasure of
life with a deeper plummet than any millionaire can
hope to cast.

It seems that the wise executive power that rules
life has thought best to drill man in these three con-
ditions; and none may escape all three. In rural
places the terms do not mean so much. Poverty is
less pinching; love is temperate; war shrinks to con-
tests about boundary lines and the neighbors' hens.
It is in the cities that our epigram gains in truth and
vigor; and it has remained for one John Hopkins to
crowd the experience into a rather small space of
time.

The Hopkins flat was like a thousand others.
There was a rubber plant in one window; a flea-
bitten terrier sat in the other, wondering when he
was to have his day.

John Hopkins was like a thousand others. He
worked at $20 per week in a nine-story, red-brick
building at either Insurance, Buckle's Hoisting En-
gines, Chiropody, Loans, Pulleys, Boas Renovated,
Waltz Guaranteed in Five Lessons, or Artificial
Limbs. It is not for us to wring Mr. Hopkins's avo-
cation from these outward signs that be.

Mrs. Hopkins was like a thousand others. The
auriferous tooth, the sedentary disposition, the Sun-
day afternoon wanderlust, the draught upon the
delicatessen store for home-made comforts, the
furor for department store marked-down sales, the
feeling of superiority to the lady in the third-floor
front who wore genuine ostrich tips and had two
names over her bell, the mucilaginous hours during
which she remained glued to the window sill, the vigi-
lant avoidance of the instalment man, the tireless
patronage of the acoustics of the dumb-waiter shaft
- all the attributes of the Gotham flat-dweller were
hers.

One moment yet of sententiousness and the story
moves.

In the Big City large and sudden things happen.
You round a corner and thrust the rib of your um-
brella into the eye of your old friend from Kootenai
Falls. You stroll out to pluck a Sweet William in the
park - and lo! bandits attack you - you are am-
bulanced to the hospital - you marry your nurse;
are divorced - get squeezed while short on U. P. S.
and D. 0. W. N. S. - stand in the bread line - marry
an heiress, take out your laundry and pay your club
dues - seemingly all in the wink of an eye. You
travel the streets, and a finger beckons to you, a
handkerchief is dropped for you, a brick is dropped
upon you, the elevator cable or your bank breaks, a
table d'hote or your wife disagrees with you, and Fate
tosses you about like cork crumbs in wine opened by
an un-feed waiter. The City is a sprightly young-
ster, and you are red paint upon its toy, and you get
licked off.

John Hopkins sat, after a compressed dinner, in
his glove-fitting straight-front flat. He sat upon a
hornblende couch and gazed, with satiated eyes, at
Art Brought Home to the People in the shape of
"The Storm " tacked against the wall. Mrs. Hop-
kins discoursed droningly of the dinner smells from
the flat across the ball. The flea-bitten terrier gave
Hopkins a look of disgust, and showed a man-hating
tooth.

Here was neither poverty, love, nor war; but upon
such barren stems may be grafted those essentials of
a complete life.

John Hopkins sought to inject a few raisins of
conversation into the tasteless dough of existence.

"Putting a new elevator in at the office," he said,
discarding the nominative noun, "and the boss has
turned out his whiskers."

"You don't mean it! commented Mrs. Hopkins.

"Mr. Whipples," continued John, "wore his new
spring suit down to-day. I liked it fine It's a gray
with - " He stopped, suddenly stricken by a need
that made itself known to him. "I believe I'll walk
down to the corner and get a five-cent cigar,"he
concluded.

John Hopkins took his bat aid picked his way
down the musty halls and stairs of the flat-house

The evening air was mild, and the streets shrill
with the careless cries of children playing games con-
trolled by mysterious rhythms and phrases. Their
elders held the doorways and steps with leisurely pipe
and gossip. Paradoxically, the fire-escapes sup-
ported lovers in couples who made no attempt to fly
the mounting conflagration they were there to fan.
The corner cigar store aimed at by John Hopkins
was kept by a man named Freshmayer, who looked
upon the earth as a sterile promontory.

Hopkins, unknown in the store, entered and called
genially for his "bunch of spinach, car-fare grade."
This imputation deepened the pessimism of Fresh-
mayer; but be set out a brand that came perilously
near to filling the order. Hopkins bit off the roots of
his purchase, and lighted up at the swinging gas
jet. Feeling in his pockets to make payment, he
found not a penny there.

"Say, my friend," he explained, frankly, "I've
come out without any change. Hand you that nickel
first time I pass."

Joy surged in Freshmayer's heart. Here was cor-
roboration of his belief that the world was rotten and
man a peripatetic evil. Without a word he rounded
the end of his counter and made earnest onslaught
upon his customer. Hopkins was no man to serve as
a punching-bag for a pessimistic tobacconist. He
quickly bestowed upon Freshmayer a Colorado-
maduro eye in return for the ardent kick that be
received from that dealer in goods for cash only.

The impetus of the enemy's attack forced the
Hopkins line back to the sidewalk. There the con-
flict raged; the pacific wooden Indian, with his
carven smile, was overturned, and those of the street
who delighted in carnage pressed round to view the
zealous joust.

But then came the inevitable cop and imminent
convenience for both the attacker and attacked.
John Hopkins was a peaceful citizen, who worked at
rebuses of nights in a flat, but be was not without the
fundamental spirit of resistance that comes with the
battle-rage. He knocked the policeman into a gro-
cer's sidewalk display of goods and gave Freshmayer
a punch that caused him temporarily to regret that
he had not made it a rule to extend a five-cent line
of credit to certain customers. Then Hopkins took
spiritedly to his heels down the sidewalk, closely fol-
lowed by the cigar-dealer and the policeman, whose
uniform testified to the reason in the grocer's sign
that read: "Eggs cheaper than anywhere else in
the city."

As Hopkins ran he became aware of a big, low,
red, racing automobile that kept abreast of him in
the street. This auto steered in to the side of the
sidewalk, and the man guiding it motioned to Hopkins
to jump into it. He did so without slackening his
speed, and fell into the turkey-red upholstered seat
beside the chauffeur. The big machine, with a dimin-
uendo cough, flew away like an albatross down the
avenue into which the street emptied.

The driver of the auto sped his machine without a
word. He was masked beyond guess in the goggles
and diabolic garb of the chauffeur.

"Much obliged, old man," called  Hopkins, grate-
fully. "I guess you've got sporting blood in you,
all right, and don't admire the sight of two men
trying to soak one. Little more and I'd have been
pinched."

The chauffeur made no sign that he had heard.
Hopkins shrugged a shoulder and chewed at his
cigar, to which his teeth had clung grimly through-
out the melee.

Ten minutes and the auto turned into the open
carriage entrance of a noble mansion of brown stone,
and stood still. The chauffeur leaped out, and said:
"Come quick. The lady, she will explain. It is
the great honor you will have, monsieur. Ah, that
milady could call upon Armand to do this thing!
But, no, I am only one chauffeur."

With vehement gestures the chauffeur conducted
Hopkins into the house. He was ushered into a small
but luxurious reception chamber. A lady, young, and
possessing the beauty of visions, rose from a chair.
In her eyes smouldered a becoming anger. Her high-
arched, threadlike brows were ruffled into a delicious
frown.

"Milady," said the chauffeur, bowing low, "I have
the honor to relate to you that I went to the house of
Monsieur Long and found him to be not at home. As
I came back I see this gentleman in combat against
bow you say - greatest odds. He is fighting with
five - ten - thirty men - gendarmes, aussi. Yes,
milady, he what you call 'swat' one - three - eight
policemans. If that Monsieur Long is out I say to
myself this Gentleman be will serve milady so well, and
I bring him here."

"Very well, Armand," said the lady, "you may
go." She turned to Hopkins.

"I sent my chauffeur," she said, "to bring my
cousin, Walter Long. There is a man in this house
who has treated me with insult and abuse. I have
complained to my aunt, and she laughs at me. Ar-
mand says you are brave. In these prosaic days men
who are both brave and chivalrous are few. May I
count upon your assistance?"

John Hopkins thrust the remains of his cigar into
his coat pocket. He looked upon this winning
creature and felt his first thrill of romance. It was a
knightly love, and contained no disloyalty to the flat
with the flea-bitten terrier and the lady of his choice.
He bad married her after a picnic of the Lady Label
Stickers' Union, Lodge No. 2, on a dare and a bet of
new hats and chowder all around with his friend, Billy
McManus. This angel who was begging him to
come to her rescue was something too heavenly for
chowder, and as for hats - golden, jewelled crowns
for her!

"Say," said John Hopkins, "just show me the guy
that you've got the grouch at. I've neglected my
talents as a scrapper heretofore, but this is my busy
night."

"He is in there," said the lady, pointing to a
closed door. "Come. Are you sure that you do not
falter or fear?"

"Me?" said John Hopkins. "Just give me one of
those roses in the bunch you are wearing, will you?"

The lady gave him a red, red rose. John Hopkins
kissed it, stuffed it into his vest pocket, opened the
door and walked into the room. It was a handsome
library, softly but brightly lighted. A young man
was there, reading.

"Books on etiquette is what you want to study,"
said John Hopkins, abruptly. "Get up here, and I'll
give you some lessors. Be rude to a lady, will you?"

The young man looked mildly surprised. Then he
arose languidly, dextrously caught the arms of John
Hopkins and conducted him irresistibly to the front
door of the house.

"Beware, Ralph Branscombe," cried the lady, who
had followed, "what you do to the gallant man who
has tried to protect me."

The young man shoved John Hopkins gently out
the door and then closed it.

"Bess," he said calmly, "I wish you would quit
reading historical novels. How in the world did that
fellow get in here?"

"Armand brought him," said the young lady. "I
think you are awfully mean not to let me have that
St. Bernard. I sent Armand for Walter. I was so
angry with you."

"Be sensible, Bess," said the young man, taking
her arm. "That dog isn't safe. He has bitten two
or three people around the kennels. Come now, let's
go tell auntie we are in good humor again."

Arm in arm, they moved away.

John Hopkins walked to his flat. The janitor's
five-year-old daughter was playing on the steps'
Hopkins gave her a nice, red rose and walked up-
stairs.

Mrs. Hopkins was philandering with curl-papers.

"Get your cigar?" she asked, disinterestedly.

"Sure," said Hopkins, "and I knocked around a
while outside. It's a nice night."

He sat upon the hornblende sofa, took out the
stump of his cigar, lighted it, and gazed at the grace-
ful figures in "The Storm" on the opposite wall.

"I was telling you," said he, "about Mr.
Whipple's suit. It's a gray, with an invisible check,
and it looks fine."

A LICKPENNY LOVER

There, were 3,000 girls in the Biggest Store.
Masie was one of them. She was eighteen and a
selleslady in the gents' gloves. Here she became
versed in two varieties of human beings - the kind of
gents who buy their gloves in department stores and
the kind of women who buy gloves for unfortunate
gents. Besides this wide knowledge of the human
species, Masie had acquired other information. She
had listened to the promulgated wisdom of the 2,999
other girls and had stored it in a brain that was as
secretive and wary as that of a Maltese cat. Per-
haps nature, foreseeing that she would lack wise
counsellors, had mingled the saving ingredient of
shrewdness along with her beauty, as she has endowed
the silver fox of the priceless fur above the other
animals with cunning.

For Masie was beautiful. She was a deep-tinted
blonde, with the calm poise of a lady who cooks butter
cakes in a window. She stood behind her counter in
the Biggest Store; and as you closed your band over
the tape-line for your glove measure you thought
of Hebe; and as you looked again you wondered how
she had come by Minerva's eyes.

When the floorwalker was not looking Masie
chewed tutti frutti; when he was looking she gazed
up as if at the clouds and smiled wistfully.

That is the shopgirl smile, and I enjoin you to
shun it unless you are well fortified with callosity of
the heart, caramels and a congeniality for the capers
of Cupid. This smile belonged to Masie's recreation
hours and not to the store; but the floorwalker must
have his own. He is the Shylock of the stores.
When be comes nosing around the bridge of his nose
is a toll-bridge. It is goo-goo eyes or "git" when
be looks toward a pretty girl. Of course not all floor-
walkers are thus. Only a few days ago the papers
printed news of one over eighty years of age.

One day Irving Carter, painter, millionaire, trav-
eller, poet, automobilist, happened  to enter the Big-
gest Store. It is due to him to add that his visit was
not voluntary. Filial duty took him by the collar and
dragged him inside, while his mother philandered
among the bronze and terra-cotta statuettes.

Carter strolled across to the glove counter in order
to shoot a few minutes on the wing. His need for
gloves was genuine; be had forgotten to bring a pair
with him. But his action hardly calls for apology, be-
cause be had never heard of glove-counter flirtations.

As he neared the vicinity of his fate be hesitated,
suddenly conscious of this unknown phase of Cupid's
less worthy profession.

Three or four cheap fellows, sonorously garbed,
were leaning over the counters, wrestling with the
mediatorial hand-coverings, while giggling girls
played vivacious seconds to their lead upon the
strident string of coquetry. Carter would have re-
treated, but he had gone too far. Masie confronted
him behind her counter with a questioning look in
eyes as coldly, beautifully, warmly blue as the glint
of summer sunshine on an iceberg drifting in Southern
seas.

And then Irving Carter, painter, millionaire, etc.,
felt a warm flush rise to his aristocratically pale face.
But not from diffidence. The blush was intellectual
in origin. He knew in a moment that he stood in the
ranks of the ready-made youths who wooed the gig-
gling girls at other counters. Himself leaned against
the oaken trysting place of a cockney Cupid with a
desire in his heart for the favor of a glove salesgirl.
He was no more than Bill and Jack and Mickey.
And then be felt a sudden tolerance for them, and
an elating, courageous contempt for the conventions
upon which he had fed, and an unhesitating deter-
mination to have this perfect creature for his own.

When the gloves were paid for and wrapped the
Carter lingered for a moment. The dimples at
corners of Masie's damask mouth deepened. All gen-
tlemen who bought gloves lingered in just that way.
She curved an arm, showing like Psyche's through
her shirt-waist sleeve, and rested an elbow upon the
show-case edge.

Carter had never before encountered a situation of
which he had not been perfect master. But now he
stood far more awkward than Bill or Jack or Mickey.
He had no chance of meeting this beautiful girl so-
cially. His mind struggled to recall the nature and
habits of shopgirls as be had read or heard of them.
Somehow be had received the idea that they some-
times did not insist too strictly upon the regular
channels of introduction. His heart beat loudly at
the thought of proposing an unconventional meeting
with this lovely and virginal being. But the tumult
in his heart gave him courage.

After a few friendly and well-received remarks on
general subjects, he laid his card by her hand on the
counter.

"Will you please pardon me," he said, "if I seem
too bold; but I earnestly hope you will allow me the
pleasure of seeing you again. There is my name; I
assure you that it is with the greatest respect that
I ask the favor of becoming one of your --
acquaintances. May I not hope for the privilege?"

Masie knew men - especially men who buy gloves.
Without hesitation she looked him frankly and smil-
ingly in the eyes, and said:

"Sure. I guess you're all right. I don't usually
go out with strange gentlemen, though. It ain't
quite ladylike. When should you want to see me
again?"

"As soon as I may," said Carter. "If you would
allow me to call at your home, I -- "

Masie laughed musically. "Oh, gee, no!" she
said, emphatically. "If you could see our flat once!
There's five of us in three rooms. I'd just like to see
ma's face if I was to bring a gentleman friend
there!"

"Anywhere, then," said the enamored Carter,
"that will be convenient to you."

"Say," suggested Masie, with a bright-idea look
in her peach-blow face; "I guess Thursday night will
about suit me. Suppose you come to the corner of
Eighth Avenue and Forty-eighth Street at 7:30. I
live right near the corner. But I've got to be back
home by eleven. Ma never lets me stay out after
eleven."
Carter promised gratefully to keep the tryst, and
then hastened to his mother, who was looking about
for him to ratify her purchase of a bronze Diana.

A salesgirl, with small eyes and an obtuse nose,
strolled near Masie, with a friendly leer.

"Did you make a hit with his nobs, Mase?" she
asked, familiarly.

"The gentleman asked permission to call." an-
swered Masie, with the grand air, as she slipped Car-
ter's card into the bosom of her waist.

"Permission to call!" echoed small eyes, with a
snigger. "Did he say anything about dinner in the
Waldorf and a spin in his auto afterward?"

"Oh, cheese it!" said Masie, wearily. "You've
been used to swell things, I don't think. You've had
a swelled bead ever since that hose-cart driver took
you out to a chop suey joint. No, be never mentioned
the Waldorf; but there's a Fifth Avenue address on
his card, and if be buys the supper you can bet your
life there won't be no pigtail on the waiter what takes
the order."

As Carter glided away from the Biggest Store
with his mother in his electric runabout, he bit his lip
with a dull pain at his heart. He knew that love had
come to him for the first time in all the twenty-nine
years of his life. And that the object of it should
make so readily an appointment with him at a street
corner, though it was a step toward his desires, tor-
tured him with misgivings.

Carter did not know the shopgirl. He did not
know that her home is often either a scarcely habit-
able tiny room or a domicile filled to overflowing with
kith and kin. The street-corner is her parlor, the
park is her drawing-room; the avenue is her garden
walk; yet for the most part she is as inviolate mis-
tress of herself in them as is my lady inside her
tapestried chamber.

One evening at dusk, two weeks after their first
meeting, Carter and Masie strolled arm-in-arm into a
little, dimly-lit park. They found a bench, tree-
shadowed and secluded, and sat there.

For the first time his arm stole gently around her.
Her golden-bronze head slid restfully against his
shoulder.

"Gee!" sighed Masie, thankfully. "Why didn't
you ever think of that before?"

"Masie," said Carter, earnestly, "you surely
know that I love you. I ask you sincerely to marry
me. You know me well enough by this time to have
no doubts of me. I want you, and I must have you.
I care nothing for the difference in our stations."

"What is the difference?" asked Masie, curi-
ously.

"Well, there isn't any," said Carter, quickly, "ex-
cept in the minds of foolish people. It is in my power
to give you a life of luxury. My social position is be-
yond dispute, and my means are ample."

"They all say that," remarked Masie. "It's the
kid they all give you. I suppose you really work in a
delicatessen or follow the races. I ain't as green as
I look."

"I can furnish you all the proofs you want," said
Carter, gently. "And I want you, Masie. I loved
you the first day I saw you."

"They all do," said Masie, with an amused laugh,
"to hear 'em talk. If I could meet a man that got
stuck on me the third time he'd seen me I think I'd
get mashed on him."

"Please don't say such things," pleaded Carter.
"Listen to me, dear. Ever since I first looked into
your eyes you have been the only woman in the world
for me."

"Oh, ain't you the kidder!" smiled Masie. "How
many other girls did you ever tell that?"

But Carter persisted. And at length be reached
the flimsy, fluttering little soul of the shopgirl that
existed somewhere deep down in her lovely bosom.

His words penetrated the heart whose very lightness
was its safest armor. She looked up at him with eyes
that saw. And a warm glow visited her cool cheeks.
Tremblingly, awfully, her moth wings closed, and
she seemed about to settle upon the flower of love.
Some faint glimmer of life and its possibilities on
the other side of her glove counter dawned upon her.
Carter felt the change and crowded the opportunity.

"Marry me, Masie," be whispered softly, "and we
will go away from this ugly city to beautiful ones.
We will forget work and business, and life will be one
long holiday. I know where I should take you - I
have been there often. Just think of a shore where
summer is eternal, where the waves are always rip-
pling on the lovely beach and the people are happy
and free as children. We will sail to those shores and
remain there as long as you please. In one of those
far-away cities there are grand and lovely palaces
and towers full of beautiful pictures and statues.
The streets of the city are water, and one travels
about in --"

"I know," said Masie, sitting up suddenly.
"Gondolas."

"Yes," smiled Carter.

"I thought so," said Masie.

"And then," continued Carter, "we will travel on
and see whatever we wish in the world. After the
European cities we will visit India and the ancient
cities there, and ride on elephants and see the wonder-
ful temples of the Hindoos and Brahmins and the
Japanese gardens and the camel trains and chariot
races in Persia, and all the queer sights of foreign
countries. Don't you think you would like it, Masie?

Masie rose to her feet.

"I think we had better be going home," she said,
coolly. "It's getting late."

Carter humored her. He had come to know her
varying, thistle-down moods, and that it was useless
to combat them. But he felt a certain happy triumph.
He had held for a moment, though but by a silken
thread, the soul of his wild Psyche, and hope was
stronger within him. Once she had folded her wings
and her cool band bad closed about his own.

At the Biggest Store the next day Masie's chum,
Lulu, waylaid her in an angle of the counter.

"How are you and your swell friend making it?
she asked.

"Oh, him?" said Masie, patting her side curls.
"He ain't in it any more. Say, Lu, what do you
think that fellow wanted me to do?"

"Go on the stage?" guessed Lulu, breathlessly.

"Nit; he's too cheap a guy for that. He wanted
me to marry him and go down to Coney Island for
a wedding tour!"

DOUGHERTY'S EYE-OPENER

Big Jim Dougherty was a sport. He belonged
to that race of men. In Manhattan it is a distinct
race. They are the Caribs of the North -- strong,
artful, self-sufficient, clannish, honorable within the
laws of their race, holding in lenient contempt neigh-
boring tribes who bow to the measure of Society's
tapeline. I refer, of course, to the titled nobility of
sportdom. There is a class which bears as a qualify-
ing adjective the substantive belonging to a wind in-
strument made of a cheap and base metal. But the
tin mines of Cornwall never produced the material
for manufacturing descriptive nomenclature for "Big
Jim" Dougherty.

The habitat of the sport is the lobby or the outside
corner of certain -hotels and combination restaurants
and cafes. They are mostly men of different sizes,
running from small to large; but they are unanimous
in the possession of a recently shaven, blue-black
cheek and chin and dark overcoats (in season) with
black velvet collars.

Of the domestic life of the sport little is known. It
has been said that Cupid and Hymen sometimes take
a band in the game and copper the queen of hearts to
lose. Daring theorists have averred - not content
with simply saying - that a sport often contracts a
spouse, and even incurs descendants. Sometimes he.
sits in the game of politics; and then at chowder
picnics there is a revelation of a Mrs. Sport and
little Sports in glazed hats with tin pails.

But mostly the sport is Oriental. He believes his
women-folk should not be too patent. Somewhere be-
bind grilles or flower-ornamented fire escapes they
await him. There, no doubt, they tread on rugs from
Teheran and are diverted by the bulbul and play
upon the dulcimer and feed upon sweetmeats. But
away from his home the sport is an integer. He does
not, as men of other races in Manhattan do, become
the convoy in his unoccupied hours of fluttering laces
and high heels that tick off delectably the happy
seconds of the evening parade. He herds with his
own race at corners, and delivers a commentary in his
Carib lingo upon the passing show.

"Big Jim" Dougherty had a wife, but be did not
wear a button portrait of her upon his lapel. He bad
a home in one of those brown-stone, iron-railed
streets on the west side that look like a recently ex-
cavated bowling alley of Pompeii.

To this home of his Mr. Dougherty repaired each
night when the hour was so late as to promise no
further diversion in the arch domains of sport. By
that time the occupant of the monogamistic harem
would be in dreamland, the bulbul silenced and the
hour propitious for slumber.

"Big Jim" always arose at twelve, meridian, for
breakfast, and soon afterward he would return to
the rendezvous of his "crowd."

He was always vaguely conscious that there was
a Mrs. Dougherty. He would have received without
denial the charge that the quiet, neat, comfortable
little woman across the table at home was his wife. In
fact, he remembered pretty well that they bad been
married for nearly four years. She would often tell
him about the cute tricks of Spot, the canary, and
the light-haired lady that lived in the window of the
flat across the street.

"Big Jim" Dougherty even listened to this con-
versation of hers sometimes. He knew that she would
have a nice dinner ready for him every evening at
seven when he came for it. She sometimes went to
matinees, and she bad a talking machine with six
dozen records. Once when her Uncle Amos blew in on
a wind from up-state, she went with him to the Eden
Musee. Surely these things were diversions enough
for any woman.

One afternoon Mr. Dougherty finished his break-
fast, put on his bat and got away fairly for the door.
When his hand was on the knob be heard his wife's
voice.

"Jim," she said, firmly, "I wish you would take
me out to dinner this evening. It has been three years
since you have been outside the door with me."

"Big Jim" was astounded. She bad never asked
anything like this before. It had the flavor of a
totally new proposition. But he was a game sport.

"All right," be said. "You be ready when I come
at seven. None of this 'wait two minutes till I primp
an hour or two' kind of business, now, Dele."

"I'll be ready," said his wife, calmly.

At seven she descended the stone steps in the Pom-
peian bowling alley at the side of "Big Jim" Dough-
erty. She wore a dinner gown made of a stuff that
the spiders must have woven, and of a color that a
twilight sky must have contributed. A light coat with
many admirably unnecessary capes and adorably
inutile ribbons floated downward from her shoulders.
Fine feathers do make fine birds; and the only re-
proach in the saying is for the man who refuses to
give up his earnings to the ostrich-tip industry.

"Big Jim" Dougherty was troubled. There was
a being at his side whom be did not know. He
thought of the sober-hued plumage that this bird of
paradise was accustomed to wear in her cage, and
this winged revelation puzzled him. In some way she
reminded him of the Delia Cullen that be had married
four years before. Shyly and rather awkwardly he
stalked at her right band.

"After dinner I'll take you back home, Dele," said
Mr. Dougherty, "and then I'll drop back up to Selt-
zer's with the boys. You can have swell chuck to-
night if you want it. I made a winning on Anaconda
yesterday; so you can go as far as you like."

Mr. Dougherty had intended to make the outing
with his unwonted wife an inconspicuous one. Uxori-
ousness was a weakness that the precepts of the
Caribs did not countenance. If any of his friends of
the track, the billiard cloth or the square circle had
wives they had never complained of the fact in public.
There were a number of table d'hote places on the
cross streets near the broad and shining way; and to
one of these he had purposed to escort her, so that the
bushel might not be removed from the light of his
domesticity.

But while on the way Mr. Dougherty altered those
intentions. He had been casting stealthy glances at
his attractive companion and he was seized with the
conviction that she was no selling plater. He re-
solved to parade with his wife past Seltzer's cafe,
where at this time a number of his tribe would be
gathered to view the daily evening procession. Yes;
and he would take her to dine at Hoogley's, the swell-
est slow-lunch warehouse on the line, he said to
himself.

The congregation of smooth-faced tribal gentle-
men were on watch at Seltzer's. As Mr. Dougherty
and his reorganized Delia passed they stared, mo-
mentarily petrified, and then removed their hats - a
performance as unusual to them as was the astonish-
ing innovation presented to their gaze by "Big Jim".
On the latter gentleman's impassive face there ap-
peared a slight flicker of triumph - a faint flicker,
no more to be observed than the expression called
there by the draft of little casino to a four-card spade
flush.

Hoogley's was animated. Electric lights shone
as, indeed, they were expected to do. And the napery,
the glassware and the flowers also meritoriously per-
formed the spectacular duties required of them. The
guests were numerous, well-dressed and gay.

A waiter - not necessarily obsequious - conducted
"Big Jim" Dougherty and his wife to a table.

"Play that menu straight across for what you like,
Dele," said "Big Jim." "It's you for a trough of
the gilded oats to-night. It strikes me that maybe
we've been sticking too fast to home fodder."

"Big Jim's" wife gave her order. He looked at
her with respect. She had mentioned truffles; and be
bad not known that she knew what truffles were. From
the wine list she designated an appropriate and de-
sirable brand. He looked at her with some admiration.

She was beaming with the innocent excitement that
woman derives from the exercise of her gregarious-
ness. She was talking to him about a hundred things
with animation and delight. And as the meal pro-
gressed her cheeks, colorless from a life indoors, took
on a delicate flush. "Big Jim" looked around the
room and saw that none of the women there had her
charm. And then he thought of the three years she
had suffered immurement, uncomplaining, and a flush
of shame warmed him, for he carried fair play as an
item in his creed.

But when the Honorable Patrick Corrigan, leader
in Dougherty's district and a friend of his, saw them
and came over to the table, matters got to the three-
quarter stretch. The Honorable Patrick was a gal-
lant man, both in deeds and words. As for the Blar-
ney stone, his previous actions toward it must have
been pronounced. Heavy damages for breach of
promise could surely have been obtained had the
Blarney stone seen fit to sue the Honorable Patrick.

"Jimmy, old man!" he called; he clapped Dough-
erty on the back; be shone like a midday sun upon
Delia.

"Honorable Mr. Corrigan - Mrs. Dougherty,"
said "Big Jim."

The Honorable Patrick became a fountain of en-
tertainment and admiration. The waiter had to
fetch a third chair for him; he made another at the
table, and the wineglasses were refilled.

"You selfish old rascal!" he exclaimed, shaking an
arch finger at "Big Jim," "to have kept Mrs.
Dougherty a secret from us."
And then "Big Jim" Dougherty, who was no
talker, sat dumb, and saw the wife who had dined
every evening for three years at home, blossom like
a fairy flower. Quick, witty, charming, full of light
and ready talk, she received the experienced attack
of the Honorable Patrick on the field of repartee and
surprised, vanquished, delighted him. She unfolded
her long-closed petals and around her the room
became a garden. They tried to include "Big
Jim" in the conversation, but he was without a
vocabulary.

And then a stray bunch of politicians and good
fellows who lived for sport came into the room. They
saw "Big Jim" and the leader, and over they came
and were made acquainted with Mrs. Dougherty. And
in a few minutes she was holding a salon. Half a
dozen men surrounded her, courtiers all, and six
found her capable of charming. "Big Jim" sat,
grim, and kept saying to himself: "Three years,
three years!"

The dinner came to an end. The Honorable Pat-
rick reached for Mrs. Dougherty's cloak; but that
was a matter of action instead of words, and Dough-
erty's big band got it first by two seconds.

While the farewells were being said at the door
the Honorable Patrick smote Dougherty mightily
between the shoulders.

"Jimmy, me boy," he declared, in a giant whis-
per, "the madam is a jewel of the first water. Ye're
a lucky dog."

"Big Jim" walked homeward with his wife. She
seemed quite as pleased with the lights and show
windows in the streets as with the admiration of the
men in Hoogley's. As they passed Seltzer's they
heard the sound of many voices in the cafe. The
boys would be starting the drinks around now and
discussing past performances.

At the door of their home Delia paused. The
pleasure of the outing radiated softly from her
countenance. She could not hope for Jim of evenings,
but the glory of this one would Tighten her lonely
hours for a long time.

"Thank you for taking me out, Jim," she said,
gratefully. "You'll be going back up to Seltzer's
now, of course."

"To -- with Seltzer's," said "Big Jim," em-
emphatically. "And d-- Pat Corrigan! Does
he think I haven't got any eyes?

And the door closed behind both of them.

LITTLE SPECK IN GARNERED FRUIT

The honeymoon was at its full. There was a flat
with the reddest of new carpets, tasselled portieres
and six steins with pewter lids arranged on a ledge
above the wainscoting of the dining-room. The won-
der of it was yet upon them. Neither of them had
ever seen a yellow primrose by the river's brim; but if
such a sight had met their eyes at that time it would
have seemed like - well, whatever the poet expected
the right kind of people to see in it besides a prim-
rose.

The bride sat in the rocker with her feet resting
upon the world. She was wrapt in rosy dreams and a
kimono of the same hue. She wondered what the peo-
ple in Greenland and Tasmania and Beloochistan
were saying one to another about her marriage to
Kid McGarry. Not that it made any difference.
There was no welter-weight from London to the
Southern Cross that could stand up four hours - no;
four rounds - with her bridegroom. And he had
been hers for three weeks; and the crook of her little
finger could sway him more than the fist of any 142-
pounder in the world.

Love, when it is ours, is the other name for self-
abnegation and sacrifice. When it belongs to people
across the airshaft it means arrogance and self-con-
ceit.

The bride crossed her oxfords and looked thought-
fully at the distemper Cupids on the ceiling.

"Precious," said she, with the air of Cleopatra
asking Antony for Rome done up in tissue paper and
delivered at residence, "I think I would like a peach."

Kid McGarry arose and put on his coat and hat.
He was serious, shaven, sentimental, and spry.

"All right," said he, as coolly as though be were
only agreeing to sign articles to fight the champion
of England. "I'll step down and cop one out for you
see?"

"Don't be long," said the bride. "I'll be lonesome
without my naughty boy. Get a nice, ripe one."
After a series of farewells that would have befitted
an imminent voyage to foreign parts, the Kid went
down to the street.

Here he not unreasonably hesitated, for the season
was yet early spring, and there seemed small chance
of wresting anywhere from those chill streets and
stores the coveted luscious guerdon of summer's
golden prime.

At the Italian's fruit-stand on the corner be
stopped and cast a contemptuous eye over the dis-
play of papered oranges, highly polished apples and
wan, sun-hungry bananas.

"Gotta da peach?" asked the Kid in the tongue of
Dante, the lover of lovers.

"Ah, no, - " sighed the vender. "Not for one mont
com-a da peach. Too soon. Gotta da nice-a orange.
Like-a da orange?"

Scornful, the Kid  pursued his quest. He entered
the all-night chop-house, cafe, and bowling-alley of
his friend and admirer, Justus O'Callahan. The
O'Callahan was about in his institution, looking for
leaks.

"I want it straight," said the Kid to him. "The
old woman has got a hunch that she wants a peach.
Now, if you've got a peach, Cal, get it out quick. I
want it and others like it if you've got 'em in plural
quantities."

"The house is yours," said O'Callahan. "But
there's no peach in it. It's too soon. I don't sup-
pose you could even find 'em at one of the Broadway
joints. That's too bad. When a lady fixes her
mouth for a certain kind of fruit nothing else won't
do. It's too late now to find any of the first-class
fruiterers open. But if you think the missis would
like some nice oranges I've just got a box of fine ones
in that she might."

"Much obliged, Cal. It's a peach proposition
right from the ring of the gong. I'll try further."

The time was nearly midnight as the Kid walked
down the West-Side avenue. Few stores were open
and such as were practically hooted at the idea of a
peach.

But in her moated flat the bride confidently awaited
her Persian fruit. A champion welter-weight not find
a peach? - not stride triumphantly over the seasons
and the zodiac and the almanac to fetch an Amsden's
June or a Georgia cling to his owny-own?

The Kid's eye caught sight of a window that was
lighted and gorgeous with nature's most entrancing
colors. The light suddenly went out. The Kid
sprinted and caught the fruiterer locking his door.

"Peaches?" said he, with extreme deliberation.

"Well, no, Sir. Not for three or four weeks yet.
I haven't any idea where you might find some. There
may be a few in town from under the glass, but they'd
be bard to locate. Maybe at one of the more expen-
sive hotels - some place where there's plenty of
money to waste. I've got some very fine oranges,
though - from a shipload that came in to-day."

The Kid lingered on the corner for a moment,
and then set out briskly toward a pair of green lights
that flanked the steps of a building down a dark
side street.

"Captain around anywhere?" he asked of the desk
sergeant of the police station.

At that moment the captain came briskly forward
from the rear. He was in plain clothes and had a
busy air.

"Hello, Kid," he said to the pugilist. "Thought
you were bridal-touring?

"Got back yesterday. I'm a solid citizen now.
Think I'll take an interest in municipal doings. How
would it suit you to get into Denver Dick's place to-
night, Cap?

"Past performances," said the captain, twisting his
moustache. "Denver was closed up two months ago."

"Correct," said the  Kid. "Rafferty chased him
out of the Forty-third. He's running in your pre-
cinct now, and his game's bigger than ever. I'm
down on this gambling business. I can put you
against his game."

"In my precinct?" growled the captain. "Are
you sure, Kid? I'll take it as a favor. Have you
got the entree? How is it to be done?"

"Hammers," said the Kid. "They haven't got
any steel on the doors yet. You'll need ten men.
No, they won't let me in the place. Denver has been
trying to do me. He thought I tipped him off for the
other raid. I didn't, though. You want to hurry.
I've got to get back home. The house is only three
blocks from here."

Before ten minutes had sped the captain with a
dozen men stole with their guide into the hallway of
a dark and virtuous-looking building in which many
businesses were conducted by day.

"Third floor, rear," said the Kid, softly. "I'll
lead the way."

Two axemen faced the door that he pointed out to
them.

"It seems all quiet," said the captain, doubtfully.

"Are you sure your tip is straight?"

"Cut away!" said the Kid. "It's on me if it
ain't."

The axes crashed through the as yet unprotected
door. A blaze of light from within poured through
the smashed panels. The door fell, and the raiders
rang into the room with their guns handy.

The big room was furnished with the gaudy mag-
nificence dear to Denver Dick's western ideas. Vari-
ous well-patronized games were in progress. About
fifty men who were in the room rushed upon the police
in a grand break for personal liberty. The plain-
clothes men had to do a little club-swinging. More
than half the patrons escaped.

Denver Dick had graced his game with his own
presence that night. He led the rush that was in-
tended to sweep away the smaller body of raiders,
But when be saw the Kid his manner became personal.
Being in the heavyweight class be cast himself joy-
fully upon his slighter enemy, and they rolled down
a flight of stairs in each others arms. On the land-
ing they separated and arose, and then the Kid was
able to use some of his professional tactics, which had
been useless to him while in the excited clutch of a
200-pound sporting gentleman who was about to lose
$20,000 worth of paraphernalia.

After vanquishing his adversary the Kid hurried
upstairs and through the gambling-room into a
smaller apartment connecting by an arched doorway.

Here was a long table set with choicest chinaware
and silver, and lavishly furnished with food of that
expensive and spectacular sort of which the devotees
of sport are supposed to be fond. Here again was to
be perceived the liberal and florid taste of the gen-
tleman with the urban cognomenal prefix.

A No. 10 patent leather shoe protruded a few of
its inches outside the tablecloth along the floor. The
Kid seized this and plucked forth a black man in a
white tie and the garb of a servitor.

"Get up!" commanded the Kid. "Are you in
charge of this free lunch?"

"Yes, sah, I was. Has they done pinched us ag'in,
boss?"

"Looks that way. Listen to me. Are there any
peaches in this layout? If there ain't I'll have to
throw up the sponge."

"There was three dozen, sah, when the game
opened this evenin'; but I reckon the gentlemen done
eat 'em all up. If you'd like to eat a fust-rate
orange, sah, I kin find you some."

"Get busy," ordered the Kid, sternly, and move
whatever peach crop you've got quick or there'll be
trouble. If anybody oranges me again to-night, I'll
knock his face off."

The raid on Denver Dick's high-priced and prodi-
gal luncheon revealed one lone, last peach that had
escaped the epicurean jaws of the followers of
chance. Into the Kid's pocket it went, and that in-
defatigable forager departed immediately with his
prize. With scarcely a glance at the scene on the
sidewalk below, where the officers were loading their
prisoners into the patrol wagons, be moved homeward
with long, swift strides.

His heart was light as be went. So rode the
knights back to Camelot after perils and high deeds
done for their ladies fair. The Kid's lady had com-
manded him and be had obeyed. True, it was but a
peach that she had craved; but it had been no small
deed to glean a peach at midnight from that wintry
city where yet the February snows lay like iron.
She had asked for a peach; she was his bride; in his
pocket the peach was warming in his band that held it
for fear that it might fall out and be lost.

On the way the Kid turned in at an all-night drug
store and said to the spectacled clerk:

"Say, sport, I wish you'd size up this rib of mine
and see if it's broke. I was in a little scrap and
bumped down a flight or two of stairs."

The druggist made an examination.
"It isn't broken," was his diagnosis, "but you have
a bruise there that looks like you'd fallen off the
Flatiron twice."

"That's all right," said the Kid. "Let's have
your clothesbrush, please."

The bride waited in the rosy glow of the pink lamp
shade. The miracles were not all passed away. By
breathing a desire for some slight thing - a flower,
a pomegranate, a - oh, yes, a peach - she could
send forth her man into the night, into the world
which could not withstand him, and he would do her
bidding.

And now be stood by her chair and laid the peach
in her band.

"Naughty boy!" she said, fondly. "Did I say a
peach? I think I would much rather have had an
orange."

Blest be the bride.

THE HARBINGER

Long before the springtide is felt in the dull bosom
of the yokel does the city man know that the grass-
green goddess is upon her throne. He sits at his
breakfast eggs and toast, begirt by stone walls, opens
his morning paper and sees journalism leave vernal-
ism at the post.

For, whereas, spring's couriers were once the evi-
dence of our finer senses, now the Associated Press
does the trick.

The warble of the first robin in Hackensack, the
stirring of the maple sap in Bennington, the bud-
ding of the pussy willows along Main Street in Syra-
cuse, the first chirp of the bluebird, the swan song
of the Blue Point, the annual tornado in St. Louis,
the plaint of the peach pessimist from Pompton, N.
J., the regular visit of the tame wild goose with a
broken leg to the pond near Bilgewater Junction,
the base attempt of the Drug Trust to boost the
price of quinine foiled in the House by Congressman
Jinks, the first tall poplar struck by lightning and
the usual stunned picknickers who had taken refuge,
the first crack of the ice jam in the Allegheny River,
the finding of a violet in its mossy bed by
the correspondent at Round Corners - these are the
advance signs of the burgeoning season that are wired
into the wise city, while the farmer sees nothing but
winter upon his dreary fields.

But these be mere externals. The true harbinger
is the heart. When Strephon seeks his Chloe and
Mike his Maggie, then only is spring arrived and the
newspaper report of the five-foot rattler killed in
Squire Pettigrew's pasture confirmed.

Ere the first violet blew, Mr. Peters, Mr. Ragsdale
and Mr. Kidd sat together on a bench in Union
Square and conspired. Mr. Peters was the D'Artag-
nan of the loafers there. He was the dingiest, the
laziest, the sorriest brown blot against the green back-
ground of any bench in the park. But just then he
was the most important of the trio.

Mr. Peters had a wife. This had not heretofore
affected his standing with Ragsy and Kidd. But to-
day it invested him with a peculiar interest. His
friends, having escaped matrimony, had shown a
disposition to deride Mr. Peters for his venture on
that troubled sea. But at last they had been forced
to acknowledge that either he had been gifted with
a large foresight or that he was one of Fortune's
lucky sons.

For, Mrs. Peters had a dollar. A whole dollar bill,
good and receivable by the Government for customs,
taxes and all public dues. How to get possession of
that dollar was the question up for discussion by the
three musty musketeers.

"How do you know it was a dollar?" asked Ragsy,
the immensity of the sum inclining him to scepticism.

"The coalman seen her have it," said Mr. Peters.
"She went out and done some washing yesterday.
And look what she give me for breakfast - the heel
of a loaf and a cup of coffee, and her with a dollar!"

"It's fierce," said Ragsy.

"Say we go up and punch 'er and stick a towel
in 'er mouth and cop the coin" suggested Kidd,
Viciously. "Y' ain't afraid of a woman, are you?"

"She might holler and have us pinched," demurred
Ragsy. "I don't believe in slugging no woman in a
houseful of people."

"Gent'men," said Mr. Peters, severely, through
his russet stubble, "remember that you are speaking
of my wife. A man who would lift his hand to a
lady except in the way of -- "

"Maguire," said Ragsy, pointedly, "has got his
bock beer sign out. If we had a dollar we could -- "

"Hush up!" said Mr. Peters, licking his lips.
"We got to get that case note somehow, boys. Ain't
what's a man's wife's his? Leave it to me. I'll go
over to the house and get it. Wait here for me."

"I've seen 'em give up quick, and tell you where
it's hid if you kick 'em in the ribs," said Kidd.

"No man would kick a woman," said Peters, vir-
tuously. "A little choking - just a touch on the
windpipe - that gets away with 'em - and no marks
left. Wait for me. I'll bring back that dollar, boys."

High up in a tenement-house between Second Ave-
nue and the river lived the Peterses in a back room
so gloomy that the landlord blushed to take the rent
for it. Mrs. Peters worked at sundry times, doing
odd jobs of scrubbing and washing. Mr. Peters had
a pure, unbroken record of five years without having
earned a penny. And yet they clung together, shar-
ing each other's hatred and misery, being creatures
of habit. Of habit, the power that keeps the earth
from flying to pieces; though there is some silly
theory of gravitation.

Mrs. Peters reposed her 200 pounds on the safer
of the two chairs and gazed stolidly out the one win-
dow at the brick wall opposite. Her eyes were red
and damp. The furniture could have been carried
away on a pushcart, but no pushcart man would have
removed it as a gift.

The door opened to admit Mr. Peters. His fox-
terrier eyes expressed a wish. His wife's diagnosis
located correctly the seat of it, but misread it hun-
ger instead of thirst.

"You'll get nothing more to eat till night," she
said, looking out of the window again. Take your
hound-dog's face out of the room."

Mr. Peters's eye calculated the distance between
them. By taking her by surprise it might be pos-
sible to spring upon her, overthrow her, and apply
the throttling tactics of which he had boasted to
his waiting comrades. True, it had been only a
boast; never yet had be dared to lay violent bands
upon her; but with the thoughts of the delicious, cool
bock or Culmbacher bracing his nerves, he was near
to upsetting his own theories of the treatment due by
a gentleman to a lady. But, with his loafer's love
for the more artistic and less strenuous way, he chose
diplomacy first, the high card in the game -- the as-
sumed attitude of success already attained.

"You have a dollar," he said, loftily, but signifi-
cantly in the tone that goes with the lighting of a
cigar - when the properties are at hand."

"I have," said Mrs. Peters, producing the bill
from her bosom and crackling it, teasingly.

"I am offered a position in a -- in a tea store,"
said Mr. Peters. "I am to begin work to-morrow.
But it will be necessary for me to buy a pair of --"

"You are a liar," said Mrs. Peters, reinterring
the note. "No tea store, nor no A B C store, nor
no junk shop would have you. I rubbed the skin off
both me hands washin' jumpers and overalls to make
that dollar. Do you think it come out of them suds
to buy the kind you put into you? Skiddoo! Get
your mind off of money."

Evidently the poses of Talleyrand were not worth
one hundred cents on that dollar. But diplomacy is
dexterous. The artistic temperament of Mr. Peters
lifted him by the straps of his congress gaiters and
set him on new ground. He called up a look of des-
perate melancholy to his eyes.

"Clara," he said, hollowly, "to struggle further
is useless. You have always misunderstood me.
Heaven knows I have striven with all my might to
keep my head above the waves of misfortune,
but - "
"Cut out the rainbow of hope and that stuff about
walkin' one by one through the narrow isles of
Spain," said Mrs. Peters, with a sigh. "I've heard
it so often. There's an ounce bottle of carbolic on the
shelf behind the empty coffee can. Drink hearty."

Mr. Peters reflected. What next! The old ex-
pedients had failed. The two musty musketeers were
awaiting him hard by the ruined chateau -- that is
to say, on a park bench with rickety cast-iron legs.
His honor was at stake. He had engaged to storm
the castle single-handed and bring back the treas-
ure that was to furnish them wassail and solace. And
all that stood between him and the coveted dollar
was his wife, once a little girl whom he could -- aha!
-- why not again? Once with soft words he could, as
they say, twist her around his little finger. Why not
again? Not for years had he tried it. Grim poverty
and mutual hatred had killed all that. But Ragsy
and Kidd were waiting for him to bring the dollar!

Mr. Peters took a surreptitiously keen look at his
wife. Her formless bulk overflowed the chair. She
kept her eyes fixed out the window in a strange kind
of trance. Her eyes showed that she had been re-
cently weeping.

"I wonder," said Mr. Peters to himself, "if there'd
be anything in it."

The window was open upon its outlook of brick
walls and drab, barren back yards. Except for the
mildness of the air that entered it might have been
midwinter yet in the city that turns such a frown-
ing face to besieging spring. But spring doesn't
come with the thunder of cannon. She is a sapper
and a miner, and you must capitulate.

"I'll try it," said Mr. Peters to himself, making a
wry face.

He went up to his wife and put his arm across
her shoulders.

"Clara, darling," he said in tones that shouldn't
have fooled a baby seal, "why should we have hard
words? Ain't you my own tootsum wootsums?

"A black mark against you, Mr. Peters, in the sa-
red ledger of Cupid. Charges of attempted graft are
filed against you, and of forgery and utterance of
two of Love's holiest of appellations.

But the miracle of spring was wrought. Into the
back room over the back alley between the black
walls had crept the Harbinger. It was ridiculous,
and yet - Well, it is a rat trap, and you, madam
and sir and all of us, are in it.

Red and fat and crying like Niobe or Niagara,
Mrs. Peters threw her arms around her lord and
dissolved upon him. Mr. Peters would have striven
to extricate the dollar bill from its deposit vault,
but his arms were bound to his sides.

"Do you love me, James?" asked Mrs. Peters.

"Madly," said James, "but -- "

"You are ill! " exclaimed Mrs. Peters. "Why
are you so pale and tired looking?"

"I feel weak," said Mr. Peters. "I -- "

"Oh, wait; I know what it is. Wait, James. I'll
be back in a minutes''

With a parting bug that revived in Mr. Peters
recollections of the Terrible Turk, his wife hurried
out of the room and down the stairs.

Mr. Peters hitched his thumbs under his sus-
penders.

"All right," he confided to the ceiling. "I've got
her going. I hadn't any idea the old girl was soft
any more under the foolish rib. Well, sir; ain't I
the Claude Melnotte of the lower East Side? What?
It's a 100 to 1 shot that I get the dollar. I wonder
what she went out for. I guess she's gone to tell
Mrs. Muldoon on the second floor, that we're recon-
ciled. I'll remember this.  Soft soap! And Ragsy
was talking about slugging her!

Mrs. Peters came back with a bottle of sarsapa-
rilla.

"I'm glad I happened to have that dollar," she
said. "You're all run down, boney."

Mr. Peters had a tablespoonful of the stuff in-
serted into him. Then Mrs. Peters sat on his lap
and murmured:

"Call me tootsum wootsums again, James."

He sat still, held there by his materialized goddess
of spring.

Spring had come.

On the bench in Union Square Mr. Ragsdale and
Mr. Kidd squirmed, tongue-parched, awaiting
D'Artagnan and his dollar.

"I wish I had choked her at first," said Mr. Peters
to himself.

WHILE THE AUTO WAITS

Promptly at the beginning of twilight, came
again to that quiet corner of that quiet, small park
the girl in gray. She sat upon a bench and read a
book, for there was yet to come a half hour in which
print could be accomplished.

To repeat: Her dress was gray, and plain enough
to mask its impeccancy of style and fit. A large-
meshed veil imprisoned her turban hat and a face
that shone through it with a calm and unconscious
beauty. She had come there at the same hour on the
day previous, and on the day before that; and there
was one who knew it.

The young man who knew it hovered near, relying
upon burnt sacrifices to the great joss, Luck. His
piety was rewarded, for, in turning a page, her book
slipped from her fingers and bounded from the bench
a full yard away.

The young man pounced upon it with instant avid-
ity, returning it to its owner with that air that seems
to flourish in parks and public places - a compound
of gallantry and hope, tempered with respect for the
policeman on the beat. In a pleasant voice, be risked
an inconsequent remark upon the weather that in-
troductory topic responsible for so much of the
world's unhappiness-and stood poised for a mo-
ment, awaiting his fate.

The girl looked him over leisurely; at his ordinary,
neat dress and his features distinguished by nothing
particular in the way of expression.

"You may sit down, if you like," she said, in a
full, deliberate contralto. "Really, I would like to
have you do so. The light is too bad for reading.
I would prefer to talk."

The vassal of Luck slid upon the seat by her side
with complaisance.

"Do you know," be said, speaking the formula
with which park chairmen open their meetings, "that
you are quite the stunningest girl I have seen in a
long time? I had my eye on you yesterday.
Didn't know somebody was bowled over by those
pretty lamps of yours, did you, honeysuckle?"

"Whoever you are," said the girl, in icy tones,
"you must remember that I am a lady. I will excuse
the remark you have just made because the mistake
was, doubtless, not an unnatural one -- in your circle.
I asked you to sit down; if the invitation must con-
stitute me your honeysuckle, consider it with-
drawn."

"I earnestly beg your pardon," pleaded the young
ran. His expression of satisfaction had changed to
one of penitence and humility. It was my fault,
you know -I mean, there are girls in parks, you
know - that is, of course, you don't know, but -- "

"Abandon the subject, if you please. Of course
I know. Now, tell me about these people passing
and crowding, each way, along these paths. Where
are they going? Why do they hurry so? Are they
happy?"

The young man had promptly abandoned his air
of coquetry. His cue was now for a waiting part;
he could not guess the role be would be expected to
play.

"It is interesting to watch them," he replied, pos-
tulating her mood. "It is the wonderful drama of
life. Some are going to supper and some to -- er --
other places. One wonders what their histories are."

"I do not," said the girl; "I am not so inquisi-
tive. I come here to sit because here, only, can I be
tear the great, common, throbbing heart of hu-
manity. My part in life is cast where its beats are
never felt. Can you surmise why I spoke to you,
Mr. -- ?"

"Parkenstacker," supplied the young man. Then
be looked eager and hopeful.

"No," said the girl, holding up a slender finger,
and smiling slightly. "You would recognize it im-
mediately. It is impossible to keep one's name out of
print. Or even one's portrait. This veil and this
hat of my maid furnish me with an incog. You
should have seen the chauffeur stare at it when he
thought I did not see. Candidly, there are five or six
names that belong in the holy of holies, and mine, by
the accident of birth, is one of them. I spoke to you,
Mr. Stackenpot -- "

"Parkenstacker," corrected the young man, mod-
estly.

" -- Mr. Parkenstacker, because I wanted to talk,
for once, with a natural man -- one unspoiled by the
despicable gloss of wealth and supposed social su-
periority. Oh! you do not know how weary I am of
it -- money, money, money! And of the men who
surround me, dancing like little marionettes all cut by
the same pattern. I am sick of pleasure, of jewels,
of travel, of society, of luxuries of all kinds."

"I always had an idea," ventured the young man,
hesitatingly, "that money must be a pretty good
thing."

"A competence is to be desired. But when you
leave so many millions that -- !" She concluded
the sentence with a gesture of despair. "It is the mo-
otony of it" she continued, "that palls. Drives,
dinners, theatres, balls, suppers, with the gilding of
superfluous wealth over it all. Sometimes the very
tinkle of the ice in my champagne glass nearly drives
me mad."

Mr. Parkenstacker looked ingenuously interested.

"I have always liked," he said, "to read and hear
about the ways of wealthy and fashionable folks. I
suppose I am a bit of a snob. But I like to have my
information accurate. Now, I had formed the opin-
ion that champagne is cooled in the bottle and not by
placing ice in the glass."

The girl gave a musical laugh of genuine amuse-
ment.

"You should know," she explained, in an indul-
gent tone, "that we of the non-useful class depend
for our amusement upon departure from precedent.
Just now it is a fad to put ice in champagne. The
idea was originated by a visiting Prince of Tartary
while dining at the Waldorf. It will soon give way
to some other whim. Just as at a dinner party this
week on Madison Avenue a green kid glove was laid
by the plate of each guest to be put on and used while
eating olives."

"I see," admitted the young man, humbly.

"These special diversions of the inner circle do not
become familiar to the common public."

"Sometimes," continued the girl, acknowledging
his confession of error by a slight bow, "I have
thought that if I ever should love a man it would be
one of lowly station. One who is a worker and not a
drone. But, doubtless, the claims of caste and wealth
will prove stronger than my inclination. Just now
I am besieged by two. One is a Grand Duke of a
German principality. I think he has, or has bad, a
wife, somewhere, driven mad by his intemperance and
cruelty. The other is an English Marquis, so cold
and mercenary that I even prefer the diabolism of the
Duke. What is it that impels me to tell you these
things, Mr. Packenstacker?

"Parkenstacker," breathed the young man. "In-
deed, you cannot know how much I appreciate your
confidences."

The girl contemplated him with the calm, imper-
sonal regard that befitted the difference in their sta-
tions.

"What is your line of business, Mr. Parken-
stacker?" she asked.

"A very humble one. But I hope to rise in the
world. Were you really in earnest when you said
that you could love a man of lowly position?"

"Indeed I was. But I said 'might.' There is the
Grand Duke and the Marquis, you know. Yes; no
calling could be too humble were the man what I
would wish him to be."

"I work," declared Mr. Parkenstacker, "in a res-
taurant."

The girl shrank slightly.

"Not as a waiter?" she said, a little imploringly.
"Labor is noble, but personal attendance, you
know -- valets and -- "

"I am not a waiter. I am cashier in" -- on the
street they faced that bounded the opposite side of
the park was the brilliant electric sign "RESTAU-
RANT" -- "I am cashier in that restaurant you am
there."

The girl consulted a tiny watch set in a bracelet of
rich design upon her left wrist, and rose, hurriedly.
She thrust her book into a glittering reticule sus-
pended from her waist, for which, however, the book
was too large.

"Why are you not at work?" she asked.

"I am on the night turn," said the young man;
it is yet an hour before my period begins. May I
not hope to see you again?"

"I do not know. Perhaps - but the whim may
not seize me again. I must go quickly now. There
is a dinner, and a box at the play -- and, oh! the
same old round. Perhaps you noticed an automobile
at the upper corner of the park as you came. One
with a white body

"And red running gear?" asked the young man,
knitting his brows reflectively.

"Yes. I always come in that. Pierre waits for
me there. He supposes me to be shopping in the de-
partment store across the square. Conceive of the
bondage of the life wherein we must deceive even our
chauffeurs. Good-night."

"But it is dark now," said Mr. Parkenstacker,
"and the park is full of rude men. May I not
walk -- "

"If you have the slightest regard for my wishes,"
said the girl, firmly, "you will remain at this bench
for ten minutes after I have left. I do not mean to
accuse you, but you are probably aware that autos
generally bear the monogram of their owner. Again,
good-night"

Swift and stately she moved away through the
dusk. The young man watched her graceful form
as she reached the pavement at the park's edge, and
turned up along it toward the corner where stood the
automobile. Then he treacherously and unhesitat-
ingly began to dodge and skim among the park trees
and shrubbery in a course parallel to her route, keep-
ing her well in sight

When she reached the corner she turned her head
to glance at the motor car, and then passed it, con
tinuing on across the street. Sheltered behind a con-
venient standing cab, the young man followed her
movements closely with his eyes. Passing down the
sidewalk of the street opposite the park, she entered
the restaurant with the blazing sign. The place was
one of those frankly glaring establishments, all white,
paint and glass, where one may dine cheaply and
conspicuously. The girl penetrated the restaurant to
some retreat at its rear, whence she quickly emerged
without her bat and veil.

The cashier's desk was well to the front. A red-
head girl an the stool climbed down, glancing
pointedly at the clock as she did so. The girl in
gray mounted in her place.

The young man thrust his hands into his pockets
and walked slowly back along the sidewalk. At the
corner his foot struck a small, paper-covered volume
lying there, sending it sliding to the edge of the
turf. By its picturesque cover he recognized it as
the book the girl had been reading. He picked it up
carelessly, and saw that its title was "New Arabian
Nights," the author being of the name of Stevenson.
He dropped it again upon the grass, and lounged,
irresolute, for a minute. Then he stepped into the
automobile, reclined upon the cushions, and said two
words to the chauffeur:

"Club, Henri."

A COMEDY IN RUBBER

One may hope, in spite of the metaphorists, to
avoid the breath of the deadly upas tree; one may, by
great good fortune, succeed in blacking the eye of the
basilisk; one might even dodge the attentions of Cer-
berus and Argus, but no man, alive or dead, can es-
cape the gaze of the Rubberer.

New York is the Caoutchouc City. There are
many, of course, who go their ways, making money,
without turning to the right or the left, but there is a
tribe abroad wonderfully composed, like the Martians,
solely of eyes and means of locomotion.

These devotees of curiosity swarm, like flies, in a
moment in a struggling, breathless circle about the
scene of an unusual occurrence. If a workman opens
a manhole, if a street car runs over a man from
North Tarrytown, if a little boy drops an egg on
his way home from the grocery, if a casual house or
two drops into the subway, if a lady loses a nickel
through a hole in the lisle thread, if the police drag
a telephone and a racing chart forth from an Ibsen
Society reading-room, if Senator Depew or Mr.
Chuck Connors walks out to take the air - if any of
these incidents or accidents takes place, you will see
the mad, irresistible rush of the "rubber" tribe to
the spot.

The importance of the event does not count. They
gaze with equal interest and absorption at a cho-
rus girl or at a man painting a liver pill sign. They
will form as deep a cordon around a man with a club-
foot as they will around a balked automobile. They
have the furor rubberendi. They are optical glut-
tons, feasting and fattening on the misfortunes of
their fellow beings. They gloat and pore and glare
and squint and stare with their fishy eyes like goggle-
eyed perch at the book baited with calamity.

It would seem that Cupid would find these ocular
vampires too cold game for his calorific shafts, but
have we not yet to discover an immune even among
the Protozoa? Yes, beautiful Romance descended
upon two of this tribe, and love came into their
hearts as they crowded about the prostrate form
of a man who had been run over by a brewery wagon.

William Pry was the first on the spot. He was an
expert at such gatherings. With an expression of in-
tense happiness on his features, be stood over the vic-
tim of the accident, listening to his groans as if to
the sweetest music. When the crowd of spectators
had swelled to a closely packed circle William saw a
violent commotion in the crowd opposite him. Men
were hurled aside like ninepins by the impact of some
moving body that clove them like the rush of a tor-
nado. With elbows, umbrella, hat-pin, tongue, and
fingernails doing their duty, Violet Seymour forced
her way through the mob of onlookers to the first row.
Strong men who even had been able to secure a seat
on the 5.30 Harlem express staggered back like chil-
dren as she bucked centre. Two large lady spectators
who bad seen the Duke of Roxburgh married and
had often blocked traffic on Twenty-third Street
fell back into the second row with ripped shirtwaists
when Violet had finished with them. William Pry
loved her at first sight.

The ambulance removed the unconscious agent of
Cupid. William and Violet remained after the crowd
had dispersed. They were true Rubberers. People
who leave the scene of an accident with the ambulance
have not genuine caoutchouc in the cosmogony of
their necks. The delicate, fine flavor of the affair is
to be bad only in the after-taste - in gloating over
the spot, in gazing fixedly at the houses opposite, in
hovering there in a dream more exquisite than the
opium-eater's ecstasy. William Pry and Violet Sey-
mour were connoisseurs in casualties. They knew bow
to extract full enjoyment from every incident.

Presently they looked at each other. Violet had a
brown birthmark on her neck as large as a silver
half-dollar. William fixed his eyes upon it. William
Pry had inordinately bowed legs. Violet allowed her
gaze to linger unswervingly upon them. Face to face
they stood thus for moments, each staring at the
other. Etiquette would not allow them to speak; but
in the Caoutchouc City it is permitted to gaze with-
out stint at the trees in the parks and at the physi-
cal blemishes of a fellow creature.
At length with a sigh they parted. But Cupid had
been the driver of the brewery wagon, and the wheel
that broke a leg united two fond hearts.

The next meeting of the hero and heroine was in
front of a board fence near Broadway. The day had
been a disappointing one. There had been no fights
on the street, children had kept from under the wheels
of the street cars, cripples and fat men in negligee
shirts were scarce; nobody seemed to be inclined to
slip on banana peels or fall down with heart disease.
Even the sport from Kokomo, Ind., who claims to
be a cousin of ex-Mayor Low and scatters nickels
from a cab window, had not put in his appearance.
There was nothing to stare at, and William Pry had
premonitions of ennui.

But he saw a large crowd scrambling and pushing
excitedly in front of a billboard. Sprinting for it,
he knocked down an old woman and a child carrying
a bottle of milk, and fought his way like a demon into
the mass of spectators. Already in the inner line
stood Violet Seymour with one sleeve and two gold fill-
ings gone, a corset steel puncture and a sprained
wrist, but happy. She was looking at what there
was to see.  A man was painting upon the fence:

"Eat Bricklets - They Fill Your Face."

Violet blushed when she saw William Pry. William
jabbed a lady in a black silk raglan in the ribs, kicked
a boy in the shin, bit an old gentleman on the left ear
and managed to crowd nearer to Violet. They stood
for an hour looking at the man paint the letters.
Then William's love could be repressed no longer.
He touched her on the arm.

"Come with me," he said. "I know where there
is a bootblack without an Adam's apple."

She looked up at him shyly, yet with unmistakable
love transfiguring her countenance.

"And you have saved it for me?" she asked,
trembling with the first dim ecstasy of a woman be-
loved.

Together they hurried to the bootblack's stand.
An hour they spent there gazing at the malformed
youth.

A window-cleaner fell from the fifth story to the
sidewalk beside them. As the ambulance came clang-
ing up William pressed her hand joyously. "Four
ribs at least and a compound fracture," he whispered,
swiftly. "You are not sorry that you met me, are
you, dearest?

"Me?" said Violet, returning the pressure. "Sure
not. I could stand all day rubbering with you."

The climax of the romance occurred a few days
later. Perhaps the reader will remember the intense
excitement into which the city was thrown when Eliza
Jane, a colored woman, was served with a subpoena.
The Rubber Tribe encamped on the spot. With his
own hands William Pry placed a board upon two beer
kegs in the street opposite Eliza Jane's residence.
He and Violet sat there for three days and nights.
Then it occurred to a detective to open the door and
serve the subpoena. He sent for a kinetoscope and
did so.

Two souls with such congenial tastes could not long
remain apart. As a policeman drove them away with
his night stick that evening they plighted their troth.
The seeds of love bad been well sown, and had grown
up, hardy and vigorous, into a - let us call it a rub-
ber plant.

The wedding of William Pry and Violet Seymour
was set for June 10. The Big Church in the Middle
of the Block was banked high with flowers. The
populous tribe of Rubberers the world over is ram-
pant over weddings. They are the pessimists of the
pews. They are the guyers of the groom and the
banterers of the bride. They come to laugh at your
marriage, and should you escape from Hymen's
tower on the back of death's pale steed they will
come to the funeral and sit in the same pew and cry
over your luck. Rubber will stretch.

The church was lighted. A grosgrain carpet lay
over the asphalt to the edge of the sidewalk. Brides-
maids were patting one another's sashes awry and
speaking of the Bride's freckles. Coachmen tied
white ribbons on their whips and bewailed the space
of time between drinks. The minister was musing
over his possible fee, essaying conjecture whether it
would suffice to purchase a new broadcloth suit for
himself and a photograph of Laura Jane Libbey for
his wife. Yea, Cupid was in the air.

And outside the church, oh, my brothers, surged
and heaved the rank and file of the tribe of Rubberers.
in two bodies they were, with the grosgrain carpet
and cops with clubs between. They crowded like
cattle, they fought, they pressed and surged and
swayed and trampled one another to see a bit of a
girl in a white veil acquire license to go through a
man's pockets while be sleeps.
But the hour for the wedding came and went, and
the bride and bridegroom came not. And impatience
gave way to alarm and alarm brought about search,
and they were not found. And then two big police-
men took a band and dragged out of the furious mob
of onlookers a crushed and trampled thing, with a
wedding ring in its vest pocket and a shredded and
hysterical woman beating her way to the carpet's
edge, ragged, bruised and obstreperous.

William Pry and Violet Seymour, creatures of
habit, had joined in the seething game of the specta-
tors, unable to resist the overwhelming desire to gaze
upon themselves entering, as bride and bridegroom,
the rose-decked church.

Rubber will out.

ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS

"One thousand dollars,"  repeated Lawyer Tolman,
solemnly and severely, "and here is the money."

Young Gillian gave a decidedly amused laugh as
he fingered the thin package of new fifty-dollar notes.

"It's such a confoundedly awkward amount," he
explained, genially, to the lawyer. "If it had been
ten thousand a fellow might wind up with a lot of
fireworks and do himself credit. Even fifty dollars
would have been less trouble."

"You heard the reading of your uncle's will," con-
tinued Lawyer Tolman, professionally dry in his
tones. "I do not know if you paid much attention
to its details. I must remind you of one. You are
required to render to us an account of the manner of
expenditure of this $1,000 as soon as you have dis-
posed of it. The will stipulates that. I trust that
you will so far comply with the late Mr. Gillian's
wishes."

"You may depend upon it," said the young man.%
politely, "in spite of the extra expense it will entail.
I may have to engage a secretary. I was never good
at accounts."

Gillian went to his club. There be hunted out one
whom he called Old Bryson.

Old Bryson was calm and forty and sequestered.
He was in a corner reading a book, and when he saw
Gillian approaching he sighed, laid down his book
and took off his glasses.

"Old Bryson, wake up," said Gillian. "I've a
funny story to tell you."

" I wish you would tell it to some one in the billiard
room," said Old Bryson. "You know how I hate
your stories."

" This is a better one than usual," said Gillian,
rolling a cigarette; " and I'm glad to tell it to you.
It's too sad and funny to go with the rattling of
billiard bars. I've just come from my late uncle's
firm of legal corsairs. He leaves me an even thou-
sand dollars. Now, what can a man possibly do with
a thousand dollars? "

"I thought," said Old Bryson, showing as much
interest as a bee shows in a vinegar cruet, "that the
late Septimus Gillian was worth something like half
a million."

" He was," assented Gillian, joyously, " and that's
where the joke comes in. He's left his whole cargo of
doubloons to a microbe. That is, part of it goes to
the man who invents a new bacillus and the rest to es-
tablish a hospital for doing away with it again.

There are one or two trifling bequests on the side.
- the butler and the housekeeper get a seal ring and
$10 each. His nephew gets $1,000."

"You've always had plenty of money to spend,"
observed Old Bryson.

"Tons,"  said Gillian. "Uncle was the fairygod-
mother as far as an allowance was concerned."

"Any other heirs? " asked Old Bryson.

"None." Gillian frowned at his cigarette and
kicked the upholstered leather of a divan uneasily.

There is a Miss Hayden, a ward of my uncle, who
lived in his house. She's a quiet thing - musical -
the daughter of somebody who was unlucky enough to
be his friend. I forgot to say that she was in on the
seal ring and $10 joke, too. I wish I had been.
Then I could have had two bottles of brut, tipped the
waiter with the ring and had the whole business off
my bands. Don't be superior and insulting, Old Bry-
son - tell me what a fellow can do with a thousand
dollars."
Old Bryson rubbed his glasses and smiled. And
when Old Bryson smiled, Gillian knew that be in-
tended to be more offensive than ever.

"A thousand dollars," lie said, "means much or
little. One man may buy a happy home with it and
laugh at Rockefeller. Another could send his wife
South with it and save her life. A thousand dollars
would buy pure milk for one hundred babies during
June, July, and August and save fifty of their lives.
You could count upon a half hour's diversion with it
at faro in one of the fortified art galleries. It would
furnish an education to an ambitious boy. I am told
that a genuine Corot was secured for that amount in
an auction room yesterday. You could move to a
New Hampshire town and live respectably two
years on it. You could rent Madison Square Garden
for one evening with it, and lecture your audience, if
you should have one, on the precariousness of the pro-
fession of heir presumptive."

"People might like you, Old Bryson," said Gillian,
always unruffled, "if you wouldn't moralize. I asked
you to tell me what I could do with a thousand
dollars."

"You?" said Bryson, with a gentle laugh.
"Why, Bobby Gillian, there's only one logical thing
you could do. You can go buy Miss Lotta Lauriere
a diamond pendant with the money, and then take
yourself off to Idaho and inflict, your presence upon a
ranch. I advise a sheep ranch, as I have a particular
dislike for sheep."

"Thanks," said Gillian, rising, "I thought I
could depend upon you, Old Bryson. You've hit on
the very scheme. I wanted to chuck the money in a
lump, for I've got to turn in an account for it, and
I hate itemizing."

Gillian phoned for a cab and said to the driver:
"The stage entrance of the Columbine Theatre."-
Miss Lotta Lauriere was assisting nature with a
powder puff, almost ready for her call at a crowded
Matinee, when her dresser mentioned the name of Mr.
Gillian.

"Let it in," said Miss Lauriere. " Now, what is
it, Bobby? I'm going on in two minutes."

"Rabbit-foot your right ear a little," suggested
Gillian, critically. " That's better. It won't take
two minutes for me. What do you say to a little
thing in the pendant line? I can stand three ciphers
with a figure one in front of 'em."

"Oh, just as you say," carolled Miss Lauriere.
my right glove, Adams. Say, Bobby, did you see
that necklace Della Stacey had on the other night?
Twenty-two hundred dollars it cost at Tiffany's.
But, of course -pull my sash a little to the left,
Adams."

"Miss Lauriere for the opening chorus!"  cried the
call boy without.

Gillian strolled out to where his cab was waiting.

"What would you do with a thousand dollars if
you had it?" be asked the driver.

"Open a s'loon," said the cabby, promptly and
huskily. " I know a place I could take money in with
both hands. It's a four-story brick on a corner.
I've got it figured out. Second story - Chinks and
chop suey; third floor -manicures and foreign mis-
sions; fourth floor -poolroom. If you was think-
of putting up the capital.

"Oh, no," said Gillian,  I merely asked from cu-
riosity. I take you by the hour. Drive 'til I tell you
to stop."

Eight blocks down Broadway Gillian poked up
the trap with his cane and got out. A blind man sat
upon a stool on the sidewalk selling pencils. Gillian
went out and stood before him.

"Excuse me," he said, " but would you mind tell-
ing me what you would do if you bad a thousand
dollars?"

"You got out of that cab that just drove up,
didn't you? " asked the blind man.

"I did," said Gillian.

" guess you are all right," said the pencil dealer,
"to ride in a cab by daylight. Take a look at that,
if you like."

He drew a small book from his coat pocket and
held it out. Gillian opened it and saw that it was a
bank deposit book. It showed a balance of $1,785 to
the blind man's credit.

Gillian returned the book and got into the cab.

"I forgot something," be said. "You may drive
to the law offices of Tolman & Sharp, at - Broad-
way."
Lawyer Tolman looked at him hostilely and in-
quiringly through his gold-rimmed glasses.

" I beg your pardon," said Gillian, cheerfully,
"but may I ask you a question? It is not an im-
pertinent one, I hope. Was Miss Hayden left any-
thing by my uncle's will besides the ring and the
$10?"

" Nothing," said Mr. Tolman.

" I thank you very much, sir," said Gillian, and
on he went to his cab. He gave the driver the ad-
dress of his late uncle's home.

Miss Hayden was writing letters in the library.
She was small and slender and clothed in black. But
you would have noticed her eyes. Gillian drifted
in with his air of regarding the world as inconse-
quent.

I've just come from old Tolman's," he explained.
They've been going over the papers down there.
They found a - Gillian searched his memory for a
legal term - they found an amendment or a post-
script or something to the will. It seemed that the
old boy loosened up a little on second thoughts and
willed you a thousand dollars. I was driving up this
way and Tolman asked me to bring you the money.
Here it is. You'd better count it to see if it's right."

Gillian laid the money beside her hand on the desk.
Miss Hayden turned white. "Oh! " she said, and
again "Oh !"

Gillian half turned and looked out the window.
"I suppose, of course," be said, in a low voice,
that you know I love you."

"I am