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# Short stories from Life: The 81 prize stories in "Life's" Shortest Story Contest ### By Unknown

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Short Stories From "Life"

The 81 Prize Stories in "Life's" Shortest Story Contest

With an Introduction by Thomas L. Masson

Managing Editor of "Life"

Garden City--New York

Doubleday, Page & Company

1916

Doubleday, Page & Company

CONTENTS

Introduction By Thomas L. Masson

Thicker Than Water By Ralph Henry Barbour and George Randolph Osborne

The Answer By Harry Stillwell Edwards

Her Memory By Dwight M. Wiley

Business and Ethics By Redfield Ingalls

N. B. By Joseph Hall

The Clearest Call By Brevard Mays Connor

Greater Love Hath No Man By Selwyn Grattan

The Gretchen Plan By William Johnston

The Glory of War By M. B. Levick

The Aviator By Hornell Hart

Loyalty By Clarence Herbert New

Moses Comes to Burning Bush By W. T. Larned

North of Fifty-three By Mary Woodbury Caswell

The Old Things By Jessie Anderson Chase

The Forced March By Hornell Hart

Approximating the Ultimate with Aunt Sarah By Charles Earl Gaymon

The Horse Heaver By Lyman Bryson

The Ego of the Metropolis By Thomas T. Hoyne

The Gay Deceiver By Howard P. Stephenson

In Cold Blood By Joseph Hall

Housework--and the Man By Freeman Tilden

His Journey's End By Ruth Sterry

Food for Thought By Harriet Lummis Smith

Hope By Edward Thomas Noonan

Collusion By Lincoln Steffens

Faithful to the End By Clair W. Perry

Arletta By Margaret Ade

Which? By Joseph Hall

What the Vandals Leave By Herbert Riley Howe

Ben. T. Allen, Atty., vs. Himself By William H. Hamby

The Joke on Preston By Lewis Allen

The Idyl By Joseph F. Whelan

Withheld By Ella B. Argo

Up and Down By Bertha Lowry Gwynne

Patches By Francis E. Norris

The Arm at Gravelotte By William Almon Wolff

The Bad Man By Harry C. Goodwin

Nemesis By Mary Clark

The Black Door By Gordon Seagrove

The Man Who Told By John Cutler

The Unanswered Call By Thomas T. Hayne

The Women in the Case By Mary Sams Cooke

The Cat That Came Back By Virginia West

"Solitaire" Bill By Arthur Felix McEachern

Just a Pal By Elsie D. Knisely

When "Kultur" Was Beaten By Lieutenant X

Presumption of Innocence By Lyman Bryson

A Mexican Vivandière By H. C. Washburn

Mother's Birthday Present By Carrie Seever

Red Blood or Blue By E. Montgomery

Impulsive Mr. Jiggs By Roger Brown

Tomaso and Me By Graham Clark

The Old Grove Crossing By Albert H. Coggins

Lost and Found By John Kendrick Bangs

You Never Can Tell By "B. MacArthur"

The Escape By A. Leslie Goodwin

Two Letters, a Telegram, and a Finale By H. S. Haskins

The Intruder By Reginald Barlow

Molten Metal By Hornell Hart

The Winner's Loss By Elliott Flower

The Recoil of the Gun By Marian Parker

"Man May Love" By Robert Sharp

One Way--and Another By Noble May

The Black Patch By Randolph Hartley

A Shipboard Romance By Lewis Allen

The Coward By Philip Francis Cook

The Heart of a Burglar By Jane Dahl

The Reward By Herbert Heron

The First Girl By Louise Pond Jewell

A Sophistry of Art By Eugene Smith

The Message in the Air By B. R. Stevens

In a Garden By Catherine Runscomb

A Clever Catch By Lloyd F. Loux

Strictly Business By Lincoln Steffens

The Advent of the Majority By Stella Wynne Herron

The Night Nurse By Will S. Gidley

Why the Trench Was Lost By Charles F. Pietsch

The King of the Pledgers By H. R. R. Hertzberg

A Po-lice-man By Lincoln Steffens

The Quest of the V. C. By A. Byers Fletcher

Somewhere in Belgium By Percy Godfrey Savage

INTRODUCTION

By Thomas L. Masson

Managing Editor of _Life_

It was at a luncheon party that the idea of _Life's_ Short Story Contest was first suggested by Mr. Lincoln Steffens. He propounded this interesting query:

"How short can a short story be and still be a short story?"

It was thereupon determined to discover, if possible, a practical answer to this interesting question. The columns of _Life_ were thrown open to contributors for many months, prizes aggregating $1,750 were offered and eighty-one short stories were published. This book contains these stories, including the four prize winners.

The contest cost in round numbers a little less than $12,000. Over thirty thousand manuscripts were received. They came from all over the world--from sufferers on hospital cots, from literary toilers in the Philippines, from Europe, Asia, and Africa, and from every State in the Union. One manuscript was sent from a trench at the French battle front, where the story had been written between hand grenades. Every kind of story was represented, the war story and the love story being the leaders. Every kind of writing was represented, from the short compound of trite banalities to the terse, dramatic, carefully wrought out climax. Back of many of these efforts the spectral forms of Guy de Maupassant and O. Henry hovered in sardonic triumph. Tragedy predominated. The light touch was few and far between. But it was still there, as the stories published show.

Here let me pay a just tribute to the readers who, with almost superhuman courage, struggled through these thirty thousand manuscripts. In the beginning they were a noble band of highly intelligent and cultivated men and women, with strong constitutions, ready and willing to face literature in any form. I understand that many of them survived the contest. This speaks well for the virility of our American stock. Theirs was a noble and enduring toil, and theirs will be a noble and enduring fame. Without them this book now might contain twenty-nine thousand nine hundred and eleven poor stories instead of eighty-one good ones. To those among them who still live, a long life and, let us hope, an ultimate recovery!

Naturally, in the method of securing the stories, there had to be some way of getting the contributors to make them as short as possible. Mr. Steffens' ingenious suggestion admirably attained this end. First, a limit of fifteen hundred words was placed upon all stories submitted, no story longer than this being admitted to the contest. For each story accepted the contributor was paid, not for what he wrote, but for what he did not write. That is to say, he was paid at the rate of ten cents a word for the difference between what he wrote and fifteen hundred words. If his story, for example, happened to be 1,500 words in length, he got nothing. If it was 1,490 words he got one dollar. If there had been a story only ten words long, the author would have received $149. To be accurate, the longest story actually accepted for the contest was 1,495 words, for which the author received fifty cents, and the shortest was 76 words, for which the author received $142.40. The interested reader will be able to discover the identity of these two stories by examining the stories in the book. At the original luncheon party a large part of the warm discussion that took place turned on how short a story could be made and still come within the definition of a short story. It was really a question as to when is a story not a story, but only an anecdote. When a story is a story, is it a combination of plot, character, and setting or is it determined by only one of these three elements? Must it end when you have ended it or must it suggest something beyond the reading? I shall not attempt to answer these questions. The definition of the short story should be relegated to the realm of "What is Humor?" "Who is the mother of the chickens?" and "How Old is Ann?" If you really wish to vary the monotony of your intellectual life and get it away from "Who Wrote Shakespeare?" or "Who killed Jack Robinson?" start a discussion as to what a short story is. It has long been my private opinion that the best short story in the world is the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, but I have no doubt that, should I venture this assertion in the company of others, there would be one to ask: "What has that to do with the price of oil now?"

But in order that the reader may have some idea of the method adopted in judging the stories which were finally selected, it may be well to give what I may term a composite definition of what a short story is, gathered from the various opinions offered when the contest was originally under discussion by the judges. This definition is not intended to be complete or final. It is not the cohesive opinion of one individual, but only a number of rather off-hand opinions which are of undoubted psychological interest as bearing upon the final decisions.

A short story must contain at least two characters, for otherwise there would be no contrast or struggle. A situation must be depicted in which there are two opposing forces.

A short story must be a picture out of real life which gives the reader a definite sensation, such as he gets upon looking at a masterpiece of painting. While it must be complete in itself, the art of it lies in what it suggests to the reader beyond its own limits. That is to say, it must convey an idea much larger than itself. This is the open sesame to the golden principle. (This is well illustrated in the story that took the first prize.)

Every short story must of necessity deal with human beings, either directly or indirectly. It must reveal in the briefest manner possible--as it were, like a lightning flash--a situation that carries the reader beyond it. It is, therefore, inevitable that the supreme test of the short story lies in its climax. The climax must gather up everything that has gone before, and perhaps by only one word epitomize the whole situation in such a way as to produce in the reader a sense of revelation--just as if he were the sole spectator of a supremely interesting human mystery now suddenly made plain.

The technique of the short story should be such that no word in its vocabulary will suggest triteness or the fatal thought that the author is dependent upon others for his phrasing. When, for example, we read "With a glad cry she threw her arms about him" "A hoarse shout went up from the vast throng" "He flicked the ashes," we know at once that the author is only dealing in echoes.

These were some of the general considerations which governed the readers and judges, but it would be unfair to say that there were not other considerations which came up later on. In a number of instances, manuscripts which were interesting and well written, and even longer than others that were accepted for the contest, were rejected because it was felt that they were not really stories, but more in the nature of descriptive sketches.

So far as the practical method pursued was concerned, it will not be amiss to state briefly how the work was carried on.

It was deemed best, on general principles, to let the authors of the stories have a hand in the matter, the editors feeling frankly that they preferred a disinterested method which would relieve them in a measure from the fullest responsibility. The conditions were therefore made to read that:

"The editors of 'Life' will first select out of all the stories published, the twelve which are, in their judgment, the best. The authors of these twelve stories will then be asked to become judges of the whole contest, which will then include all the stories published. These twelve authors will decide which are the best three stories, in the order of their merit, to be awarded the prizes. In case for any reason any one or more of these twelve authors should be unable to act as a judge, then the contest will be decided by the rest.

"Each of these twelve judges will, of course, if he so wishes, vote for his own story first, so that the final result may probably be determined by the combined second, third, and fourth choices of all the judges. This, however, will not affect the result. In case of a division among the judges, the Editors of 'Life' will cast the deciding vote."

This method worked well and was fully justified by the final result. As the manuscripts were received they were registered according to a careful clerical system and turned over to the readers, who were from five to seven in number, including three women. The rule was that each story should be read independently by at least two readers, their verdicts separately recorded. If they were unanimous in rejecting a story, it was returned. If they were agreed upon its merits, or if they were at all doubtful, it was then passed up to the five members of _Life's_ editorial staff. It was read and reread by them, and the individual comments of each editor recorded independently. By this sifting process, each story was subjected to a final process of discussion and elimination. The stories, as accepted, were paid for on the basis of ten cents a word for all the words under 1,500 which the story did not contain and were published in _Life_. From the authors of the eighty-one stories published, the editors selected the following twelve judges, each one of whom consented to serve:

Herbert Heron, Carmel, Cal. J. H. Ranxom, Houston, Texas. Ralph Henry Barbour, Manchester, Mass. Clarence Herbert New, Brooklyn, N. Y. William Johnston, New York City. Graham Clark, New York City. Mrs. Elsie D. Knisely, Everett, Wash. Mrs. Jane Dahl, San Francisco, Cal. Selwyn Grattan, New York City. E. L. Smith, Ft. Worth, Texas. Herbert Riley Howe, Sioux Falls, S. Dak. Miss Ruth Sterry, Los Angeles, Cal.

These judges, independently of each other, sent in their opinions, several of them not voting for their own stories as the first prize, although this was allowable under the rules. There was no difficulty on their part in awarding the first prize of one thousand dollars and the second prize of five hundred dollars. In the case of the third prize there was such a division of opinion that the editors, under the rule of the competition that gave them the final decision, determined that it would be fair to divide the third prize between two competitors who had received the same number of the judges' votes.

The prize winners were as follows:

FIRST PRIZE

Ralph Henry Barbour of Manchester, Mass., and George Randolph Osborne of Cambridge, Mass., joint authors of "Thicker Than Water."

SECOND PRIZE

Harry Stillwell Edwards of Macon, Georgia, author of "The Answer."

THIRD PRIZE

Dwight M. Wiley of Princeton, Ill., author of "Her Memory," and Redfield Ingalls of New York City, author of "Business and Ethics." This prize was divided.

This book is now offered to the public in the confident hope and the firm belief that it will be found a valuable contribution to the literature of short fiction, in addition to the interest it also merits because of the stories themselves.

One final point should be emphasized. This book is not, in the very nature of the case, a book of uniform literary style; it is not the polished expression of the highest literary art. It is the best of thirty thousand attempts to write a short story, by all sorts and conditions of minds--a fair proportion of them amateurs, a fair proportion writers of considerable experience, and a small proportion excellently skilled craftsmen. In their final selection of these stories, the readers and judges were governed, not so much by the question "Is this superfine literary art?" as they were by the question "Is this interesting?" By this touchstone the book certainly justifies its existence.

T. L. M.

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N. B.

By Joseph Hall

Lieutenant Ludwig Kreusler glanced hurriedly through the mail that had accumulated during the month that the X-8 had been away from base. At the bottom of the pile he found the letter he had been seeking and his eyes brightened. It was a fat letter, addressed in feminine handwriting, and its original postmark was Washington, D. C., U. S. A.

"His Excellency will see you, sir." The orderly had entered quietly and stood at attention.

With a slightly impatient shrug the Lieutenant shoved the letters into his pocket and left the room.

He found Admiral Von Herpitz, the wizard of the sea, at his desk. As the young man entered the old Admiral rose and came forward. This unusual mark of favour somewhat embarrassed the young officer until the old man, placing both huge hands upon his shoulders, looked into his eyes.

"Excellent."

The one word conveyed a volume of praise, gratification. The old sea dog was known as a silent man. Censure was more frequent from him than applause.

The Lieutenant could find no word. The situation was for him embarrassing in the extreme. He, like Herpitz, was a man of actions, and words confused him.

"These English," the old Admiral spoke grimly, "we will teach them. Have you seen the reports? They are having quite a little panic in America also over the _Seronica_. Two hundred of the passengers lost were American."

A file of papers lay on the table. Kreusler ran through them hurriedly. The Berlin journals gave the sinking of the _Seronica_ great headlines followed by columns of sheer joy. The London and Paris and some of the New York sheets called the exploit a crime and its perpetrators pirates. But they all gave it utter and undivided thought. The X-8 had become the horror craft of the world. Berlin figuratively carried her young commander on her shoulders. He found himself the hero of the hour.

"You have done well for the Fatherland," Von Herpitz repeated as the Lieutenant was going out.

In his own cabin Kreusler forgot the _Seronica_ and the X-8. The fat letter with the Washington postmark absorbed him.

Two years, ending with the outbreak of the great war, Kreusler had been naval attaché to the German embassy at Washington. He had been popular in the society of the American capital. He was highly educated, a profound scientist, an original thinker, and an adaptable and interesting dinner guest. Dorothy Washburn, the youngest daughter of the Senator from Oregon, had made her début in Washington during the second winter of Kreusler's presence there. The two had met. They were exact opposites; he tall, severe, blond, thoughtfully serious; she, small, dark, vivacious, bubbling with the joy of life. Love was inevitable.

The fat letter was engrossing. It breathed in every line and word and syllable the fine love this wonder woman gave him. One paragraph was most astounding. It read:

"To be near thee, loved one, I have arranged, through the gracious kindness of our friends, to come to Berlin as a nurse. Just when is as yet uncertain, but come I will, fear not, as quickly as may be. Dost long for me, to see me, dearest heart, as I for thee? Well, soon perhaps that may not be so far away. Couldst not thou arrange to be wounded--only slightly, of course, my love--so that I might attend thee?"

The letter ended with tender love messages and assurances of devotion. The last sheet bore a single word, "Over," and on the reverse side a woman's most important news, a postscript. This read:

"P. S. Arrangements have been completed. Everything is settled. Even my father has consented, knowing of my great love. I sail next week."

And then:

"N. B. The ship on which I sail is the _Seronica_."

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THE CLEAREST CALL

By Brevard Mays Connor

"Don't worry," said the great surgeon. "She will pull through. She has a fine constitution."

"She will pull through because _you_ are handling the case," the nurse murmured, with an admiring glance.

"She will pull through," agreed the Reverend Paul Templeton, "because I shall pray."

He did not see the ironical glance which passed between nurse and doctor, materialists both. He had stooped and kissed his wife, who lay on the wheeled table that was to carry her to the operating room. She was asleep, for the narcotic had taken immediate effect.

For a moment he hung over her and then he moved aside. When the door of the operating room had closed on the wheeled table with its sheeted burden he stepped out on the little upper balcony beneath the stars, knelt, and earnestly addressed himself to his Maker.

A distant clock struck eight. The operation would take an hour....

Humbly he prayed, but with superb confidence. He had lived a blameless life, and his efforts were in behalf of a life equally blameless. It was inconceivable that he who had given all and asked nothing should be refused this, his first request. It was even more inconceivable that his wife, who was so worthy of pardon, should be condemned. Humbly he prayed, but not without assurance of a friendly Auditor.

It was a sweet May night, satin-soft, blossom-scented. The south wind was whispering confidences to the elms; the stars were unutterably benign. Surely God was in His heaven, thought the Reverend Paul Templeton.

Then up from the darkness beneath the trees came the low, thrilling laugh of a girl. He lifted his face from his hands and stared, scarce breathing, into the night, while his ears still held every note of that low, thrilling laugh, which spoke of youth in love in the springtime.

The black bulk of the hospital behind him faded into obscurity as swiftly as a scene struck on a darkened stage. He was no longer on a little upper porch, but in an old-fashioned summer-house, hidden from the tactless moon by a mesh of honeysuckle in bloom. He was no longer on his knees before his Maker, but sitting beside the girl who had been Ellen McCartney.

She was dressed in white. She was so close he could feel the warmth of her. Somehow, in that darkness, their hands met and clung, shoulder touched shoulder--the fragrance of her hair in his nostrils. The soft, womanly yielding of her body.

Now her palms were resting against his cheeks, drawing his head down; now, as lightly as a butterfly upon a flower, her lips brushed his one closed eye and then the other; now she laughed, a low, thrilling laugh, which spoke of youth in love in the springtime.

Prayer had gone dry at its source, choked by the luxuriant vegetation of memory. He remembered other kisses and thrilled in sympathy with the delight of other time....

The distant clock struck nine, but he did not hear it. The shriek of a woman in pain sliced through the silence but could not penetrate the walls of his dream. The girl who had been Ellen McCartney lay in his arms, her lips to his.

Then a hand fell upon his shoulder.

"Come," said the nurse, and slipped back into the room.

The Reverend Paul Templeton came back with a wrench to consciousness of the time and place, and horror surged through his veins like a burning poison. It was over--and he had not prayed! And worse! When his whole being should have been prostrate in humble supplication he had allowed it to walk brazenly erect among memories that at the best were frivolous and at the worst--carnal! He seemed to hear a voice saying:

"I am the Lord of Vengeance. Heavy is mine hand against them that slight Me!"