Part 10

"Well, I might as well explain now; it's too good to keep a moment longer," chuckled "Solitaire" Bill, as he ordered the driver of the taxi waiting in front of the church to drive to the Liverpool House.

"We are assuredly anxious to learn what you and Mr. Smith are laughing about," chorused Lieut. Douglas MacGillis and his wife in unison. The mate, Mr. Smith, was obviously uncomfortable in what he termed his "moonlight clothes," nevertheless he laughed immoderately as he indulged in retrospection.

"I've always been a fiend for solitaire," said Captain Billy, "and after getting your cable I was in a quandary, and sought solace in a game with myself. I wanted to get to this wedding more than anything else, but I couldn't get here without a crew to work the ship, and sailormen were about as plentiful as hen's teeth in Kingston. But the cards gave me an inspiration. I shipped a crew of niggers who did not know one rope from another on a square-rigged ship--but they all knew how to play cards. I fastened a playing card to each of the principal ropes and sails, and those niggers were like cats aloft.

"When I shouted, 'Clew up your ace of spades,' they were after that mizzen-royal in a jiffy. Mr. Smith, the cook, and myself took turns at the wheel. 'Double reef your deuce of diamonds,' and they made snug the fores'l to a nicety. All's well that ends well. I never had a smarter lot of sailors. I know the men all called me 'Solitaire' Bill behind my back, but henceforth and hereafter, every fo'c'sle hand and the cook calls me 'Solitaire,' or they don't sign articles on the trimmest brig that sails the Atlantic."

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JUST A PAL

By Elsie D. Knisely

Jim Doyle--sent to Sing Sing last year--is innocent. I done the job he was sent up for. I was broke and out of work and Mary, my wife, had consumption and needed food and warm clothes and medicine. I held up a guy with more than he needed that didn't come by it any honester than I done when I cracked him over the head and took it out of his belt. Then Jim cooked up a scheme to own he done it and take my medicine as long as Mary lived, so she wouldn't know and so's I could be with her and look after her. She died to-day. There's one hundred and fifty dollars under the mattress along with the proof that I'm the guilty guy. Bury my wife decent and give the rest to Jim to get on his feet after you turn him loose. Get a kind-hearted parson to say a prayer over me and then plant me in Potter's Field. I'm going the gas route. Jim's no kin of mine--just a pal. He allowed no one would care a darn if he was in the pen or not. He loved a girl once, but she turned out bad and spoiled Jim's life. Tell him "God bless him."

P. S.--I'm sorry I killed that guy, but I just had to have money for Mary. Mebbe I can square it with him where I'm going.

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WHEN "KULTUR" WAS BEATEN

By Lieutenant X

Knee deep in the mud, the French "Alpines," the "Blue Devils," as the Germans called them, were watching the shelling of the enemy's positions. Huge columns of black smoke crowned the white line of trenches below the thicket of spruce, and at each of the terrific explosions chunks of dirt, sand-bags, and armour plates flew high in the air.

In the expectation of the rush the "Blue Devils" stood leaning on the rifles, some of them laughing and joking, while others, grave and stern, read once more the last letters of the beloved ones.

Corporal Dupin sat down, looking at the photograph of the wife and baby. When hell broke loose Dupin was quietly living in Canada, and he had come as a man of honour to join the colours, leaving his little family on the safer side of the ocean. The morning mail had just brought him news that wife and baby had sailed on the _Lusitania_, to be nearer to him.... How his heart beat hard!

... Surely he would come safe out of this struggle, though he would bear himself as gallantly as usual, and perhaps be fortunate enough to get twenty-four hours' leave and meet the wife and baby somewhere, perhaps in Belfast or in Nancy. He could already imagine that meeting. He was happy. How heartily he went to his duty to-day!...

He caught the voice of the lieutenant.

"Here, boys!" was the brief command. "You've always done your duty. To-day you have to do it doubly, for Germany has added a new crime to the list. One of her submarines has sunk the _Lusitania_. There are innocent victims to avenge."

The _Lusitania_! Greet her! Eagerly Dupin tore the paper from the officer's hands. He read and reread the list of rescued. Two seconds later there was no more room for doubt, and he knew that all he loved in the world had gone down.

Oh, kill! Kill the murderers and avenge!... Kill and torture!... How long would the shelling last? When would the signal of the storm come?...

Ah! the welcome starlike rocket! The French guns lengthened their shots, shelled the upper line of trenches.... A loud shout and a mad rush.... The "Blue Devils" were in action.

Ta, ta, ta, ta.... The German machine-guns. Sh! Cirr! Shrapnel burst with a quick flame and little yellow clouds.... Dead men fell.

But the remainder kept on running and bouncing until they reached the German works. The "75s" shells had made a mess of the entanglements, and the main trench was a ruin, spotted with corpses.... Bullets whistled, grenades exploded, injured men shrieked.

From a black aperture a bullet missed Corporal Dupin as he passed, bayonet forward, after a flying man. He gave that prey off, threw a bomb in the den, and as soon as it had exploded he rushed in.

Covered with blood, a German officer lay down. He menaced Dupin with his empty pistol, when, realizing that everything was over for him, he threw the gun, with a wild laugh, and defiantly and haughtily looked at Dupin. The cold, blue eyes of the Teuton did not mistake Dupin's sentiment. To the corporal's dark, glancing eyes they returned hatred for hatred. Dupin thought that the submarine's commander must have had the same likeness. Yes, this man would pay dearly for the cold-blooded murderer's debt. The hour of vengeance had come.

Dupin did not strike yet. He found sweet to contemplate the agony of his enemy.... He thought of torturing the man.... The fellow must suffer....

From loss of blood the German officer suddenly fainted, and Dupin found himself kneeling over the enemy, bathing his wounds, stopping his blood, nursing him as a brother....

Again shrapnel burst. The German artillery was already shelling the conquered trenches. Ready for a new fight, Dupin, before he left the wounded officer, wrapped him in a blanket, left him his own water bottle. A last time he looked at him with a sad but proud smile and said:

"No, we are not the same race. We cannot do the same things."

And they were his last words, for a bullet went through his heart, and, still smiling, but this time very sweetly, Dupin went to meet the beloved ones.

* * * * *

The above story was accompanied by the following letter:

Dear Mr. Editor:

Just fancy the shelling of the trenches and a little French officer trying to keep up the morale (excellent, I should say) of his men, to teach them the contempt of death, or, rather, to show that he is not in that respect inferior to them.

Fancy that same officer reading your Vive La France Number of _Life_ and translating it to his men, then looking at your contest proposition, and finding very funny to fill his fountain pen and write on the first scraps of paper he can procure a very short story.

The author has not the boldness to say that his story is very interesting. He knows, too, that as a Frenchman he does not speak nor write very correct English; but he has sent it to you rather because of the originality of the thing and to show you that the French soldiers appreciate the friendship of America.

At any rate, it is a genuine story of the trenches and a souvenir of the war.

Yours most sincerely, M. Constance.

From the Trenches, June 15, 1915.

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PRESUMPTION OF INNOCENCE

By Lyman Bryson

Into the judge's empty office came the attorney for the defense, followed by his client. The attorney for the defense wore belligerent hair and spectacles. His manner was more upright and simple than his speech, which was full of guile. His client was heavy, of the ugly fatness often characteristic of ward politicians, porcine, grossly genial. They had come to escape the gaping crowd. The attorney was recovering from his four-hour address to the jury. Sweat stood under his upstanding hair, and he wiped his wrists with a limp handkerchief.

"Honest John" looked at his lawyer with dull admiration. "Tom, that was a great speech." Then, as if this might be too humble praise for a politician to give his hireling, he added: "Best you ever made."

Tom Jenison made no reply. When he was tired there was a quality of frankness in his eyes as if cleverness had been assumed for business purposes.

"How long will they be out?" asked Honest John, thinking of the twelve who were debating in a nearby room on sending him to the penitentiary for stealing public money.

"How should I know?" Jenison spoke petulantly.

The politician sat quietly, his fat hands folded above the top of his trousers on his negligee shirt. He was thinking that generous public sentiment might avail little with the twelve men now busy with his destiny. He sighed tremulously.

"You're not worried, are you?"

"No--guess not. I'm all right."

The composure of the politician began to desert him. He flushed and sighed and slapped at flies. His jaw relaxed and slid down. His hands trembled.

"Tom," he began, "what are the chances?"

"I don't know. Scared?"

"I'm a little nervous. That's all."

Jenison had loved the fight for its own sake. Spectators supposed he defended Honest John only to earn his huge hire, but that had not been all his motive. It had not occurred to him before that his client was not as courageous as himself. He supported the "presumption of innocence" and pitted himself against machinery of prosecutor and court. But if his client was a coward his fight seemed suddenly unworthy.

Honest John's puffy eyes filled with tears. "You've been a good friend to me, Tom."

"Oh, cut that."

"Yes, you have. I appreciate it."

Jenison, looking at him, wondered that he could ever have thought this man a friend or worth an effort to save. The wretched face sickened him.

"You're the only man who knows how I feel." His client was trying to explain his collapse. "I can't face guilty. I know you'd keep up the fight as long as I kept up the money"--his attorney winced--"but I couldn't stand another trial. I'm ready for 'em."

"Ready? How?"

"I've got it here." Honest John tapped his chest, then drew out a narrow pill box.

Contempt came back into Jenison's eyes. "What are you telling me for? Go tell some one who'd care."

"I don't know what you mean, Tom."

"Oh, yes, you do. You'd never take that stuff. You haven't the nerve. You're stalling for sympathy."

The politician turned to an ice-water stand and dropped two tablets into a glass of water. He said with tremulous bravado, "All right--here goes."

"You might as well drink it," answered the attorney. "God knows you're guilty. You'll pay for it some time."

The glass went halfway to Honest John's lips and then back to the stand. "I think--I'll wait."

"I thought so. You'll wait until you're behind bars, and then you'll wish you'd taken your medicine." Jenison spoke as if it had been his professional advice to his client to drink the potion. "It takes a man to quit when the game's up. I suppose in a way I'm as dishonest as you, but there's a chance for me to clean up, because I'm not afraid. If I thought the name helping you has given me would stick, I'd be glad to take your poison."

They heard a shuffling of feet in the courtroom.

"There's an officer announcing that they've reached a verdict," said Jenison. He looked his client in the eyes and added, "I hope it's guilty!"

"Why--I don't--what's the matter? I'll pay you."

Jenison blazed. "Yes, you'll pay! It's all money to you! Do you think if I'd known you for a coward I'd have made this fight? I hate myself now to think I ever took your money!"

His client looked at him in stupid silence.

"And let me tell you something else. You're the last thief I'll work for. I'm done with keeping your kind out of jail." Huge self-disgust overwhelmed him. "I'll never take another cent of crook's money as long as I live, so help me God!"

They heard the slow procession of the jury filing into the court to deliver the speedy verdict. Jenison felt his soul crawling with shame. A convulsive sigh made him turn. Honest John had raised the glass to his lips. His eyes bulged with fear, and he spilled half the liquid on his shirt. Before Jenison could reach him he had swallowed it. Horror held the attorney for an instant, then he burst through the doorway into the courtroom.

A lank man in the jury box smiled as he entered. That meant "Not guilty." Without noticing the attorney's ghastly excitement the judge said, "If the respondent will return the verdict will be delivered."

Jenison controlled himself and stood straight.

"If your honour please," he said, "if your honour please"--he could only point through the doorway at Honest John's body straddled in a chair--"the respondent has delivered his own verdict."

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A MEXICAN VIVANDIÈRE

By H. C. Washburn

Night had fallen on the third day at Vera Cruz, and from navy headquarters the commanding officer, his orders snapping like wireless, was directing the clean-up of snipers.

"Lawrence," he said, "you'll find six machine-guns--buried in boxes--backyard of No. 17 Avenida Cortes."

As Lieutenant Lawrence left headquarters with his squad Ensign McHenry came in and reported.

"McHenry, you're next. This is Gonzales, who knows where you can round up Fernando Diaz. Get Diaz to-night."

McHenry started at once with Gonzales, listening to his flood of directions. The Mexican smiled in spite of himself at the American's burst of speed, but kept up with him easily. They turned corners into filthy by-streets leading to the market space.

At the entrance to a dark alley Gonzales stepped aside.

"After you, _señor_."

When the white uniform entered the shadow of an awning "Gonzales" whipped out his revolver and fired pointblank into the officer's back. Flinging away his weapon, he ran to No. 17 Calle de Zamora and whistled.

"Pava, Pava, _ven aca_! I have shot an American officer! The marines are hunting for our machine-guns. I said 'Avenida Cortes,' but that dog, Vicente, who betrayed us, will lead the Americans here."

"Let them come," said La Pava. She bolted the door as he stepped in. "What name did you give?"

"Emilio Gonzales."

"Listen, Fernando. Don't stay a minute. Let me think. What if I cut your head, a very little, so?" He winced under the knife, and she kissed him. "See, it bleeds enough on this bandage, which will hide your face. Quick! To the Military Hospital! Sleep there, safe among hundreds of our wounded. Go!"

Meanwhile Vicente, the informer, had followed Diaz. Hearing the shot and finding McHenry wounded, he scurried to headquarters. The news went to Lawrence, who took his squad "on the double" to Calle de Zamora. Rifle butts shattered the door, and Lawrence, automatic in hand, led the men in with fixed bayonets.

La Pava, the beautiful _Azteca_, stood facing the bright steel, a thin wisp of smoke drifting from her cigarette.

"_Buenas noches, señor?_"

"You have six machine-guns. Where are they?" Lawrence looked at his wrist watch. "I give you three minutes to answer."

La Pava had faced death before. A crack shot, riding in advance of Villa's army, she had drawn the enemy's fire, had stolen plans, food, money. She had sold herself to the opposing general and learned his strategy. She was a scout, a spy, a harlot--a patriot. Now she gazed innocently, admiringly, at the young lieutenant. His men, fascinated, unconsciously lowered their rifles.

"_Señor_," she pleaded, "you will do me a great wrong if you shoot, for I have no guns. Some one has lied. Search and you will see."

The marines turned the place inside out.

When Lawrence asked La Pava to take him into the courtyard she showed no hesitation, and his flashlight told him the ground had not been disturbed.

Stooping over, he caught the gleam of a knife, and in the same breath twisted it out of her fingers.

"You are quick, _señor_. But some day I will get you--you who would not take my word."

The sergeant returned and reported, "I can find nothing, sir." Then, seeing the knife, he added, "Put her in irons, sir?"

Lawrence knew her breed; she would be flattered by handcuffs and would consider him a weakling.

"No, sergeant. The lady will walk with me."

Through the streets to prison, wafting a powerful scent of perfumed powder, she walked at Lawrence's side, using her eyes with that dazzling effect known only to women of the tropics.

He would confront her with Vicente, Lawrence thought, but as the battlements of Ulloa Castle came in sight, the "Place of Executions" suggested another idea.

"Halt!" He formed a firing platoon and blind-folded the prisoner. Thinking of Vicente's story of the guns, he asserted, as if he meant it, "With my own eyes, during the fighting, I saw your gun boxes taken from the arsenal. Where are they now?"

La Pava gave no answer. She folded her arms and held her head proudly.

"Ready!... Aim!..." Lawrence raised the muzzle of the sergeant's gun; the men, following this lead, aimed high.

"_Squad_----"

It was too much even for La Pava. She dropped to her knees.

"Wait, _señor_! I will tell all, on one so small condition--that you spare the life of Emilio Gonzales. If not--you can kill me. On your word as an officer save him, and let me see him, and by the Blessed Virgin I will tell you the truth."

"Where is this man?"

"He is in the Military Hospital."

"I will do all I can for Gonzales--I'll take you to him. Now, where are the guns?"

"They are buried in the patio--in _front_ of my house."

Even then she smiled.

"Remember," he warned, removing the blindfold, "if you have lied, you will be shot. Sergeant, look for them; report to me at the hospital."

As the men marched off Vicente, the ubiquitous, who had trailed La Pava, emerged from the shadow of a doorway. La Pava, whom nothing seemed to startle, sneered at him. Lawrence gripped his automatic, recognized Vicente, and thereupon wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"_Señor_," whined the beast, "her lover's name is not Gonzales, but Diaz, the traitor." La Pava glared at him murderously. "It was Diaz," Vicente added with unction, "who shot the officer in the back."

"You gave me your word----" she began, turning to Lawrence.

"To save 'Emilio Gonzales,'" he reminded her.

"True, my captain, alas!" Her black lashes drooped over a message of love. "But you will set me free?"

"When I see the guns."

Furious, she sprang at Vicente, who stepped back. Haughtily she faced him and spoke shrilly in an Indian dialect. Despite this, her manner reassured Lawrence. Apparently, she was in a mad rage. In reality, she was telling Vicente to take the underground passage from Ulloa Castle to the hospital and warn Diaz. "Do this," she was saying, "and I'll see no more of Fernando. You will have me--you alone--for life."

She ended with what seemed a torrent of invective. Vicente played his part--with his heart afire, he seemed to Lawrence merely scornful.

"_Hasta la vista, señor._" Vicente, triumphant, sauntered toward the castle.

"Ugh!" said La Pava, with deep loathing. "He is but carrion. Because I do not give myself to him he would destroy his rival." She shrugged her shoulders. "Will you take me to the hospital?"

"We are going there now."

"I am very tired," she sighed, leaning against him. "I grow faint."

They walked slowly, Lawrence giving her the support of his arm. Finally, nearing the hospital, they turned into a plaza where the street lamp had been shot down.

In a flash La Pava swung under his arm, drew his pistol, wrenched herself away, and covered him.

"Ah! You are not so quick this time. Don't move! You Americans say you will shoot, and you do not shoot." She fired twice, rapidly, over his head. "But I have still four shots, and I am a _Mexican_."

A mounted figure, leading a second horse, whirled up and reined in with a jolt. Fernando Diaz showed his white teeth, smiling cordially, as he took the automatic from his mistress and levelled it at Lawrence.

"What say you, _querida_? I finished Vicente. Shall I do away with this _gringo_?"

La Pava mounted as Diaz spoke.

"Let him live," she said, "for he is a brave man."

"_Adios, señor!_ The machine-guns are safe through the lines. Take my advice, _teniente_, and never trust a woman----"

Diaz's spurs dug deep, and sparks flew from the cobbles.

"--unless," La Pava laughed back through the darkness, "unless, _señor_, she loves you."

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MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY PRESENT

By Carrie Seever

Lizzie was sitting in a corner counting her money. "Thirty-five, Kitty, thirty-five cents." When Lizzie's mother was away, washing, she made her kitten her confidant. "Talk about mamma'll be s'prised when she gits this birthday present, My-i! Third one I'm givin' her--when I was five I gave her peanut candy; only she didn't come home till the peanuts were picked out. Second time I gave her a blue hair ribbon; blue looks nice on my red hair. Now I'm seven--twice seven an' I won't have these freckles an' long skirt'll cover my skinny legs, an'," she continued, getting up and trying to stand dignifiedly, "my name'll be Elizabeth. Then I'll give mamma a' album! S'long, Kitty."

Out of the door she skipped, and down the alley toward the market. She forgot about the market when she reached the corner of the alley, for there stood a cart loaded with clocks, vases, jewellery, everything to satisfy one's birthday wish--even an album.

Lizzie joined the crowd that had gathered to hear what the owner of these articles had to say. She listened a moment and then danced for joy--the man, who seemed to be all stomach and voice, was actually inviting them to take a twenty-five dollar watch for five cents.