Part 11

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said the stomach and voice, "any article on this counter for five cents--every piece o' chewing gum wins something. You want to try, mister? Now, folks, watch him read the name o' one o' these handsome presents from the slip o' paper 'round that gum. Gold-handled umbreller? Here you are. Who's goner win the other one? Nothin' faky. That's right, try your luck"--to a man who was edging to the front. "Diamond stud? You're lucky--only a few more diamond studs left. Next! Any one else? Don't stop 'cause you won a' umbreller. That's it. Watcher got now? Gold bracelet? Five rubies and four emeralds in it, ladies and gents."

Lizzie began to realize that she wasn't dreaming--three prizes gone already!

"Lady, don't you want this linen tablecloth? Fifteen dollars retail. Or this album that plays music when you're lookin' at your loved ones?"

Lizzie gasped--there was only one album. "I want to win the album," she shouted.

"Come right up with your nickel. Here's a gal knows a good thing even if she did swallow two teeth."

Had this remark been made about Lizzie's teeth at another time she would have fired a red-headed retort, but now she thought of only the album.

She exchanged her five pennies for the gum, and with trembling fingers unrolled the tissue paper and let the stomach and voice read the name from the slip of paper--"Lead pencil," was announced.

Poor Lizzie's heart sank, and the stomach and voice was telling the crowd that there were a few pencils in the lot, and showed them a box containing five pencils.

At this Lizzie cheered up--she decided that if no one else won those pencils and she was unlucky five more times she would still have five cents left with which to win the album.

She won five more pencils, had given a last look at the last five pennies, unrolled the slip of paper and given it to her nearest neighbour to read--"lead pencil," was read.

"Since they ain't no more pencils I'll take the album," announced Lizzie triumphantly.

"Got more, sissy," said the stomach and voice, taking a few from his pocket and placing them in the box, handing one to Lizzie.

The crowd jeered and left. Lizzie was too dazed to go, and, sitting on a soapbox in the alley, stared at the album. She heard the shrill whistle the stomach and voice gave, and a few minutes later saw the winners appear, returning the articles they had won. She wondered why they did this, and, as a new crowd was coming, drew closer to the cart.

She listened again to the same harangue and saw the umbrella winner take another chance. She gave a start when he thundered "umbrella"--she saw through the performance, and her cheeks glowed with indignation.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she screamed, "this is a fake business--that man won a' umbreller an' brought it back, an' so did the other man." By this time she was out of reach of the stomach and voice, who threatened to knock two more teeth down her throat. But Lizzie's voice was not out of reach, and the crowd could hear her yelling, "Everybody else wins penny lead pencils." The crowd laughed and left.

Lizzie waited for the next crowd, and, coming from her hiding-place, gave them the same information.

After the crowd had gone the stomach and voice caught Lizzie, who, while trying to free herself from his grasp, bumped her lip, and the blood oozed from her tender gum.

"P'liceman, p'liceman, help!" she screamed.

Seeing the people in the neighbourhood coming to Lizzie's rescue, the stomach and voice promised to return her money if she would keep quiet.

"I'm goner tell 'em all you knocked my teeth out 'less you gi' me the album," snapped Lizzie.

"A' right," meekly answered the stomach and voice, who had been collared by this time, but was released when the men received Lizzie's invitation to come up the alley and see her album.

"Good-bye, mister--thanks awfully for the gum an' pencils, too," and away she ran, the album in her arms.

When in the room, she locked the door for fear the album would be taken away.

"Kitty, look! A' album, and me on'y seven. They'll just have to call me Elizabeth, freckles an' legs an' all."

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RED BLOOD OR BLUE

By E. Montgomery

Dear Lou:

"This is the last letter I shall write to you, for to-morrow I begin the final stage of my transition. At four o'clock I shall become a lady. To be sure, you and I will know that I am only an imitation, but with an eighteen-carat setting every one else will take me for the real thing.

"Lou, I've been wondering how many generations it will take to make a real lady. My daughter perhaps will be one, and if not, then her daughter; but I will always be an imitation.

"My grandmother did day's work to give my mother a schooling, and my mother helped in the shop so that I could have dancing lessons before I was six. I can't disappoint them, and I can't shirk my duty toward my children yet to be born. They stretch out their hands to me, asking I know not what, so to-morrow I give them a gentleman father. Yes, Lou, he is a little man, not much higher than my shoulder, and he is fat and jaded and old; but he has a name which can unlock the holy of holies in New York, and I may enter it with him, for I shall be his wife.

"They tell me I should be proud of my conquest, and I am, for it is not my gold alone which has ensnared him, but myself; and I am beautiful, Lou. It is three years since you have seen me, and I grow lovelier every day.

"I am tall, divinely tall; slender of hip and full of bosom, with all the promise of ripening womanhood. And to-morrow my maidenhood is to be sacrificed on the altar of holy (?) matrimony, and the metamorphosis will be complete. I shall be a lady.

"Oh, Lou, why wasn't your father a gentleman? He might have been a rake, a roué, a gambler--anything, so long as he was a gentleman. But he is only my father's boyhood friend, and still a village carpenter.

"You had to work your way through college, and my father rolled me through on the almighty dollar.

"And yet I think for all my education there is something radically wrong with me. I am that hybrid thing, 'a lady in the making, an imitation lady.' And what troubles me most is the thought that perhaps I am only an imitation woman also.

"My ancestors had red blood in their veins, and my descendants' blood will be blue; but in my veins there is nothing but water.

"Listen, Lou; to-day I shut myself in my room and scrubbed the floor of my private bath. Down on my knees I went with soap and brush and scrubbed for all there was in me, and when I finished my back ached horribly, and still the floor was far from clean; and I the granddaughter of a woman who has scrubbed acres of floors, and could do it yet, though she is almost eighty.

"Oh, Lou, Lou, I wish I had dared to run away with you that last night three years ago. Do you remember--the moon, the gate that creaked, the smell of the dew on the grass, the chirping of the insects--a heavenly midsummer night, made for love--as we were made for love?

"I had to stand on tiptoe when you kissed me. And your dear eyes were filled with anguish when we parted. You told me I would find you there when I needed you. And, oh! I need you now!

"How many generations of our children's children would it take to make a lady, Lou?

"Everything is wrong with the world to-night. My head hurts and I can't think.

"See! Here on my desk I have a time-table, a brave blue time-table, which tells me that I am only four short hours away from you, and that I still have ample time to pack and catch the midnight train.

"If I join you, you need never see this letter--and if I do not, then you _must_ not see it. I will burn it.

"This is my hour, my future is in my own hands. It is all a question of courage: my ancestors had it, my descendants will have it; but have I?

"Your unhappy "Ruth."

The wedding of a steel king's daughter into one of New York's oldest families is worth a column on the front page of any paper. Pictures of the happy couple stared out of every edition.

The weary housemaid spread one on the floor as she cleaned the disordered room her young mistress had left behind.

She gathered a little pile of ashes from the hearth and dumped them on the paper. They completely covered the smiling faces of the bride and groom--not that it mattered, for the ashes were cold.

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THE IMPULSIVE MR. JIGGS

By Roger Brown

Marathon Jiggs approached the day-clerk.

"Is Mr. George Jones here?" he inquired.

"He is registered here, but he's out at present," replied the clerk. "Would you like to leave any message?"

"Thank you, I believe I will," said Jiggs, reaching for the hotel stationery. He hastily scribbled a note, left it, sans envelope, at the desk, and took his departure.

About an hour later a large, overbearing woman of the superdreadnought type steamed majestically to the desk, a small and timid-looking individual in her wake. After taking the mail that had accumulated in the box she stalked imposingly to the elevator, accompanied by the timid person, who, by his conduct, appeared to be her husband.

When the couple got to their room Mrs. George Jones sat down and scanned the family mail. As she read, the colour flooded her expansive face like a sunset, then receded, leaving her chalky white with rage. Her unfortunate spouse cowered in a corner.

Rising to her feet in all the majesty of her five-feet-eleven, she thrust a note into Jones's hand. "Read that!" she commanded hoarsely.

With amazement and fear alternately expressed in his weak countenance, Jones read the following:

"Dear George:

Why don't you let me know when you get to town? I expected you yesterday. Call me up, the same old number, and we will have a time to-night.

"Yours as ever, "Mary."

"You roué!" stormed Mrs. Jones. "I shall institute divorce proceedings immediately. To think _you_ have been leading a double life! You may expect a visit from my lawyer!" The door slammed behind her as Jones sank dazedly into a chair.

As she flounced out the door of the hotel Marathon Jiggs again came to the desk. "Did Mr. Jones get my note?" he asked.

"No, but his wife did," replied the clerk.

"His wife?" came in gasp from Jiggs. "_His wife?_ Who--let me see the register, please."

He hastily scanned the list of guests until he came to Jones's name. "'Mr. George K. Jones and wife, Chicago, Illinois,'" he read incredulously, "and I thought it was George H. Jones of Pittsburg. What if his wife--I must see him immediately," and he hurried to the elevator.

As Jones sat in his room, bewildered at the events of the past hour, a knock startled him out of his reverie. "Come in!" he called uneasily, expecting his wife's lawyer to appear. The sight of the homely but benevolent face of Jiggs was a distinct relief.

"My name is Jiggs," stated the caller--"Marathon Jiggs, nicknamed 'Mary' at the university. I left a note for a friend of mine whom I thought was staying here, named George H. Jones. I understand that your wife got it by mistake. It is quite possible that she read it and misunderstand the matter; therefore I have come to clear it up, if such is the case, and exonerate you."

Jones drew up a chair. "Sit down," he said, "and we will talk this over. My wife has just gone out to see a lawyer about a divorce. You have already done me a favour; now what," taking out a checkbook, "will you take to keep quiet about the facts?"

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TOMASO AND ME

By Graham Clark

I can't talk good American way. In the carpet factory where I worked the Polacks, Sheenies, and Wops talked any old way, and I learnt to say American like them. But maybe I talk good enough to tell about Tomaso and me.

Tomaso comed from Italy. For that the peoples in this country calls him a Wop. I comed from Albania. Never did my father lets a Wop come to our house, for most Albanese hates the Wops. But first day I seen Tomaso I stopped hating _all_ the Wops. He comed to work in the factory, setting patterns like me. His eyes looked big and soft like our little dog's. His voice was like the big strings on my father's harp when he pulls his fingers over them gentle like. He was like American fellas--tall with a nice head. His neck, where the hair comed down black and shiny, was like a young girl's.

When I first seen Tomaso he was nineteen. But some ways I was an old woman, for the hunger that pulls your waist in tight and the cold that makes your blood black comed many times too many times to my bunch, for in our house was many kids, and my father couldn't makes enough money to buy plenty of food. So I went to work in the factory before the law lets me. The superintendent fixed it so I got the job all right. I said I was older than I was.

Always I thought about the bunch at home, till I seen Tomaso. Then I thought in my mind of him--and me. One day, soon after Tomaso comed to the factory, my mother said to me: "Maria, you're big enough to marry. In the old country you would have a husband. Your father will go to Brooklyn and tell your aunts to gets you a husband. In Brooklyn there's plenty of Albanese. You will marry one of your own peoples."

I said no word back. In my mind I was thinking I would marry only Tomaso. On Sunday my father went to Brooklyn to speak with my aunt for a husband for me. We lived in New Jersey, in an old shack like a pig's. Dirt and bad smell was everywhere. Always I wanted to live American way; but how could we gets clean with nanny-goats and chickens coming in the house like peoples?

Two weeks, and my aunt comed from Brooklyn with a guy. He looked like a rat. His hair was thin like lace, and you could see the yellow skin in spots, greasy like. He was just as high as my little brother Stephano, fourteen. And he was twenty-five!

"Here's Dimiter," my aunt said. "He's a nice fella. He drives a team for Brooklyn and gets good money. His father has a house in the old country. Each year he'll send Dimiter wine and oil."

My father gived Dimiter his hand to kiss. My mother said he was better than us, Albanese way. I said no word. At dinner my father said: "Maria, you are engage to Dimiter. He will be my son. I'll give him one hundred dollars and kill the old nanny-goat for the wedding. All the Albanese and some of the Wops and Polacks will come and make presents."

In my mind I was asking, "Where will you gets the hundred dollars?" I looked at Dimiter. He showed all crooked teeth when he laughed. In my mind I was thinking I would likes to spit in his face. To my mother I said: "I am too young to marry. Wait a year."

"A year!" My mother hollered and hit the table. "A fella don't wants a girl if she's old. You'll marry Dimiter now."

Something inside me got hard like a stone. I hated my mother. The whole bunch. Why should I marry the rat? Why shouldn't I pick my own fella, American way?

"When will I come to marry?" Dimiter asked my father.

My father said: "Sunday we'll speak to the priest. Next Sunday will be the wedding."

Up I jumps. Two weeks and me married to the rat? What about Tomaso? Two days ago he had walked with me from the factory. At the bridge we stopped. "You're my little sweetheart," Tomaso said, soft like. His eyes was shiny like dew. I got red as a pepper and runned away. But in my mind I was thinking I loved Tomaso. Sure, I would not tell my father, for the Albanese hates the Wops.

So I remembered Tomaso's eyes and voice. And I said: "I won't marry this guy." My father's shoulders went up high. My mother got mad like diavolo. The rat was yellow like sick. My aunt said: "Maria's just a young girl. Give her time for thinking over."

"No thinking over," my father hollered. "I give Dimiter my daughter. Two weeks will be the wedding."

My mother laughed with her tongue out, Albanese way. More than ever she looked like our old nanny-goat. I stood higher than her and said to her face: "If I am a little girl I will stay home with the other kids and my father to feed me. If I am a woman and works for the bunch I will find my own fella, American way."

My father made to hit me, but I runned upstairs and shut the door hard. My aunt and the rat went away. All day I put nothing in my mouth. I said no word.

Next day I set the patterns wrong. The boss sweared. In the evening Tomaso walked with me. "Why are you to cry?" he asked. His voice was like all his peoples was dead. I told him about the rat. He put his head high and his eyes looked like two pieces of fire in the dark. His lips got tight over his teeth and I seen him make hard fists.

Then he comed close. His arm was by my arm. In my mind I said I would like to put my head on his shoulder and my lips to his lips. But Albanese girls don't do that way till they're married.

"I hates Albanese! I hates Italians! I hates the old country!" said Tomaso. His voice was like a knife. "They makes their girls to marry any old guy. I likes American way--a fella and a girl to love and then marry, and other peoples stay out of it."

"I will do American way," I said. Tomaso's hair rubbed my cheek; I got warm and happy. Only Tomaso and me. Just us in the world.

"And _I_ will do American way," Tomaso said in my hair. It was dark, but I seen his face, warm like the sunshine. Before I knowed, Tomaso's lips held mine tight. Sure, it was wicked. Don't the priest tell you so? But how could I help it? Tomaso was so strong--and we loved together.

"We'll get married American way," Tomaso said, soft like. His face was like fur on my face. "I have two hundred dollars from my last job. My father is not a poor man, and I am his only child. Shall it be that way, my sweetheart?"

Sure, there was a big scrap at our shack next day when I runned off with a Wop. But Tomaso and me should worry! We got married American way. I stopped the factory and made my house nice. One month married, and comed my father and mother to see me.

"Ta, like Americanos!" my mother said. But she didn't laugh with her tongue out. She wanted to be good. I was her first child. My father gived his hand for me to kiss. "Bless my daughter," he said. Then he gived his hand for Tomaso to kiss, and made tears to run out of his eyes. Then he borrowed ten dollars from Tomaso and everything got all right.

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THICKER THAN WATER

By Ralph Henry Barbour and George Randolph Osborne

Doctor Burroughs, summoned from the operating room, greeted his friend from the doorway: "Sorry, Harry, but you'll have to go on without me. I've got a case on the table that I can't leave. Make my excuses, will you?"

"There's still an hour," replied the visitor. "I'm early and can wait."

"Then come in with me." Markham followed to the operating room, white-walled, immaculate, odorous of stale ether and antiseptics. On the table lay the sheeted form of a young girl. Only the upper portion of the body was visible, and about the neck wet, red-stained bandages were bound. "A queer case," said the surgeon. "Brought here from a sweat-shop two hours ago. A stove-pipe fell and gashed an artery in her neck. She's bleeding to death. Blood's supposed to be thicker than water, but hers isn't, poor girl. If it would clot she might pull through. Or I could save her by transfusion, but we can't find any relatives, and there's mighty little time."

The attending nurse entered. "The patient's brother is here," she announced, "and is asking to see her."

"Her brother!" The surgeon's face lighted. "What's he like?"

"About twenty, Doctor; looks strong and healthy."

"See him, Nurse. Tell him the facts. Say his sister will die unless he'll give some blood to her. Or wait!" He turned to Markham. "Harry, you do it! Persuasion's your line. Make believe he's a jury. But put it strong, old man! And hurry! Every minute counts!"

The boy was standing stolidly in the waiting-room, only the pallor of his healthy skin and the anxiety of his clear eyes hinting the strain. Markham explained swiftly, concisely.

"Doctor Burroughs says it's her one chance," he ended.

The boy drew in his breath and paled visibly.

"You mean Nell'll die if some one don't swap his blood for hers?"

"Unless the blood she has lost is replaced----"

"Well, quit beefin'," interrupted the other roughly. "I'm here, ain't I?"

When he entered the operating room the boy gave a low cry of pain, bent over the form on the table, and pressed his lips to the white forehead. When he looked up his eyes were filled with tears. He nodded to the surgeon.

Doggedly, almost defiantly, he submitted himself, but when the artery had been severed and the blood was pulsing from his veins to the inanimate form beside him his expression changed to that of abject resignation. Several times he sighed audibly, but as if from mental rather than bodily anguish. The silence became oppressive. To Markham it seemed hours before the surgeon looked up from his vigil and nodded to the nurse. Then:

"You're a brave lad," he said cheerfully to the boy. "Your sacrifice has won!"

The boy, pale and weak, tried to smile. "Thank God!" he muttered. Then, with twitching mouth: "Say, Doc, how soon do I croak?"

"Why, not for a good many years, I hope." The surgeon turned frowningly to Markham. "Didn't you explain that there was no danger to him?"

"God! I'm afraid I didn't!" stammered Markham. "I was so keen to get his consent. Do you mean that he thought----"

The surgeon nodded pityingly and turned to the lad. "You're not going to die," he said gently. "You'll be all right to-morrow. But I'm deeply sorry you've suffered as you must have suffered the past hour. You were braver than any of us suspected!"