CHAPTER VI

And so the day was won; the Shamrocks basted the Shantytowns by the score of 15 to 2. As for Marty O'Malley, his score stood:

Ab. R. H. Po. A. E.

O'Malley, c,....4 4 4 10 14 0

No such record had ever been made on the grounds. With four times at bat, Marty O'Malley did so well, withal, that he scored a base hit, two three-baggers and a home-run.

That night Marty O'Malley wedded the rich and beautiful Gwendolin O'Toole. Jack, the faithful bar-boy of the Fielders' Rest, officiated as groomsman. Godfrey O'Toole, haughty and proud, was yet a square sport, and gave the bride away.

The rich notes of the wedding bells, welling and swelling, drifted into the open windows of the Charity Hospital, and smote on the ears of Dennis Mulcahey, where he lay with his face.

“Curse 'em!” he moaned.

Then came a horrible rattle in his throat, and the guilty spirit of Dennis Mulcahey passed away.

Death caught him off his base.

POLITICS

(Annals of The Bend)

Nixie! I ain't did nothin', but all de same I'm feelin' like a mut, see!”

Chucky was displeased with some chapter in his recent past. I could tell as much by the shifty, deprecatory way in which he twiddled and fiddled with his beer-stein.

“This is d' way it all happens,” exclaimed Chucky. “Over be Washin'ton Square there's an old soak, an' he's out to go into pol'tics--wants to hold office; Congress, I t'inks, is what this gezeybo is after. Anyhow he's nutty to hold office.

“Of course, I figgers that a guy who wants to hold office is a sucker; for meself, I'd sooner hold a baby. Still, when some such duck comes chasin' into pol'tics, I'm out for his dough like all d' rest of d' gang.

“So I goes an' gets nex' to this mucker an' jollies his game. I tells him all he's got to do is to fix his lamps on d' perch that pleases him, blow in his stuff an' me push'll toin loose, an' we'll win out d' whole box of tricks in a walk, see!

“That's all right; d' Washin'ton Square duck is of d' same views. An' some of it ain't no foolish talk at that. I'm dead strong wit' d' Dagoes, an' d' push about d' Bend, an' me old chum--if he starts--is goin' to get a run for his money.

“It ain t this, however, what wilts me d' way you sees to-night. It's that I'm 'shamed, see! In d' foist place, I'm bashful. That's straight stuff; I'm so bashful that if I'm in some other geezer's joint--par-tic'ler if he's a high roller an' t'rowin' on social lugs, like this Washin'ton Square party--I feels like creep-in' under d' door mat.

“D' other night this can'date for office says, says he, 'Chucky, I'm goin to begin my money-boinin' be givin' a dinner over be me house, an' youse are in it, see! in it wit' bot' feet.*

“'Be I comin' to chew at your joint?' I asts; 'is that d' bright idee?'

“'That's d' stuff,' he says; 'youse are comin' to eat wit' me an' me friends. An' you can gamble your socks me friends is a flossy bunch at that.'

“I says I'll assemble wit' 'em.

“Nit, I ain't stuck on d' play. I'd sooner eat be meself. But if I'm goin' to catch up wit' his Whiskers an' sep'rate him from some of d' long green, I've got to stay dost to his game, see!

“It's at d' table me troubles begins. I does d' social double-shuffle in d' hall all right. D' crush parts to let me t'rough, an' I woiks me way up to me can'date--who, of course, is d' main hobo, bein' he's d' architect of d' blowout--an' gives him d' joyful mit; what you calls d' glad hand.

“'Glad to see youse, Chucky,' says d' old mark. 'Tummas, steer Chucky to his stool be d' table.'

“It's at d' table I'm rattled, wit' all d' glasses an' dishes an 'd' lights overhead. But I'm cooney all d' same. I ain't onto d' graft meself, but I puts it up on d' quiet I'll pick out some student who knows d' ropes an' string me bets wit' his.

“As I sets there, I flashes me lamps along d' line, an' sort o' stacks up d' blokes, for to pick out d' fly guys from d' lobsters, see!

“Over'cross'd table I lights on an old stiff who looks like he could teach d' game. T'inks I to meself, 'There's a mut who's been t'rough d' mill many a time an' oft. All I got to do now is to pipe his play an' never let him out o' me sight. If I follows his smoke, I'll finish in d' front somewheres, an' none of these mugs 'll tumble to me ignorance.'

“Say! on d' level! there was no flies on that for a scheme, was there? An' it would have been all right, me system would; only this old galoot I goes nex' to don't have no more sense than me. Why! he was d' ass of d' evening! d' prize pig of d' play, he was! Let me tell youse.

“D' foist move, he spreads a little table clot' across his legs. I ain't missin' no tricks, so I gets me hooks on me own little table clot' and spreads it over me legs also.

“'This is good enough for a dog, I t'inks, an' easy money! Be keepin' me eye on Mr. Goodplayer over there I can do this stunt all right.'

“An' so I does. I never lets him lose me onct.

“'How be youse makin' it, Chucky?' shouts me can'date from up be d' end of d' room.

“'Out o' sight!' I says. 'I'm winner from d' jump; I'm on velvet.'

“'Play ball!' me can'date shouts back to encourage me, I suppose because he's dead on I ain't no Foxy Quiller at d' racket we're at; 'play ball, Chucky, an' don't let 'em fan youse out. When you can't bat d' ball, bunt it,' says me can'date.

“Of course gettin 'd' gay face that way from d' boss gives me confidence, an' as a result it ain't two seconts before I'm all but caught off me base. It's in d' soup innin's an 'd' flunk slams down d' consomme in a tea cup. It's a new one on me for fair! I don't at d' time have me lamps on d' mark 'cross d' way, who I'm understudyin', bein' busy, as I says, slingin 'd' bit of guff I tells of wit' me can'date. An' bein' off me guard, I takes d' soup for tea or some such dope, an' is layin' out to sugar it.

“'Stan' your hand!' says a dub who's organised be me right elbow, an' who's feedin' his face wit' both mits; 'set a brake!' he says. 'That's soup. Did youse t'ink it was booze?'

“After that I fastens to d' old skate across d' table to note where he's at wit' his game. He's doin' his toin on d' consomme wit' a spoon, so I gets a spoon in me hooks, goes to mixin' it up wit 'd' soup as fast as ever, an' follows him out.

“An' say! I'm feelin' dead grateful to this snoozer, see! He was d' ugliest mug I ever meets, at that. Say! he was d' limit for looks, an' don't youse doubt it. As I sizes him up I was t'inking to meself, what a wonder he is! Honest! if I was a lion an' that old party comes into me cage, do youse know what I'd do? Nit; you don't. Well, I'll tip it to youse straight. If any such lookin' monster showed up in me cage, if d' door was open, I'd get out. That's on d' square, I'd simply give him d' cage an' go an' board in d' woods. An' if d' door was locked an' I couldn't get out, I'd t'row a fit from d' scare. Oh! he was a dream! He's one of them t'ings a mark sees after he's been hittin' it up wit 'd' lush for a mont'.

“'But simply because he looks like a murderer,' I reflects, 'that's no reason why he ain't wise. He knows his way t'rough this dinner like a p'liceman does his beat, an' I'll go wit' him.'

“It's a go! When he plays a fork, I plays a fork; when he boards a shave, I'm only a neck behint him. When he shifts his brush an' tucks his little table clot' over his t'ree-sheet, I'm wit' him. I plays nex' to him from soda to hock.

“An' every secont I'm gettin' more confidence in this gezebo, an' more an' more stuck on meself. On d' dead! I was farmer enough to t'ink I'd t'ank him for bein' me guide before I shook d' push an' quit. Say! he'd be a nice old dub for me to be t'ankin 'd' way it toins out. I was a good t'ing to follow him, I don't t'ink.

“If I was onto it early that me old friend across d' table had w'eels an' was wrong in his cocoa, I wouldn't have felt so bad, see! But I'd been playin' him to win, an' followin' his lead for two hours. An' I was so sure I was trottin' in front, that all d' time I was jollyin' meself, an' pattin' meself on d' back, an' tellin' meself I was a corker to be gettin' an even run wit 'd' 400 d' way I was, d' foist time I enter s'ciety. An' of course, lettin' me nut swell that way makes it all d' harder when I gets d' jolt.

“It's at d' finish. I'd gone down d' line wit' this sucker, when one of them waiter touts, who's cappin' d' play for d' kitchen, shoves a bowl of water in front of him. Now, what do youse t'ink he does? Drink it? Nit; that's what he ought to have done. I'm Dutch if he don't up an' sink his hooks in it. An' then he swabs off his mits wit' d' little table clot'. Say! an' to t'ink I'd been takin' his steer t'rough d' whole racket! It makes me tired to tell it!

“'W'at th' 'ell!' I says to meself; 'I've been on a dead one from d' start. This stiff is a bigger mut than I be.'

“It let me out. Me heart was broke, an' I ain't had d' gall to hunt up me can'date since. Nit; I don't stay to say no 'good-byes.' I'm too bashful, as I tells you at d' beginnin'. As it is, I cops a sneak on d' door, side-steps d' outfit, an' screws me nut. The can'date sees me oozin' out, however, an' sends a chaser after me in d' shape of one of his flunks. He wants me to come back. He says me can'date wants to present me to his friends. I couldn't stan' for it d' way I felt, an' as d' flunk shows fight an' is goin' to take me back be force, I soaks him one an' comes away. On d' dead! I feels as'shamed of d' entire racket as if some sucker had pushed in me face.”

ESSLEIN GAMES

For generations the Essleins have been fanciers of game chickens. The name “Esslein” for a century and a half has had honourable place among Virginians. In his day, they, the Essleins, were as well known as Thomas Jefferson. As this is written they have equal Old Dominion fame with either the Conways, the Fairfaxes, the McCarthys or the Lees. And all because of the purity and staunch worth of the “Esslein Games.”

It was the broad Esslein boast that no man had chickens of such feather or strain. And this was accepted popularly as truth. The Essleins never loaned, sold, nor gave away egg or chicken. No one could produce the counterpart of the Esslein chickens for looks or warlike heart; no one ever won a main from the Essleins. So at last it was agreed generally, that no one save the Essleins did have the “Esslein Games;” and this belief went unchallenged while years added themselves to years.

But there came a day when a certain one named Smith, who dwelt in the region round about the Essleins, and who also had note for his fighting cocks, whispered to a neighbour that he, as well as the Essleins, had the “Esslein Games.” The whisper spread into talk, and the talk into general clamour; everywhere one heard that the long monopoly was broken, and that Smith had the “Esslein Games.”

This startling story had half confirmation by visitors to the Smith walks. Undoubtedly Smith had chickens, feather for feather, twins of the famous Essleins. That much at least was true. The rest of the question might have evidence pro or con some day, should Smith and the Essleins make a main.

But this great day seemed slow, uncertain of approach. Smith would not divulge the genesis of his fowls, nor tell how he came to be possessed of the Esslein chickens. Smith confined himself to the bluff claim:

“I've got 'em, and there they be.”

Beyond this Smith wouldn't go. On' their parts, the Essleins, at first maintained themselves in silent dignity. They said nothing; treating the Smith claim as beneath contempt.

As man after man, however, went over to the Smith side, the Essleins so far unbent from their pose of tongue-tied hauteur as to call Smith “a liar!”

Still this failed of full effect; the talk went on, the subject was in mighty dispute, and the Essleins at last, to settle discussion, defied Smith to a main.

But Smith refused to fight his chickens against the Essleins. Smith said it was conscience, but failed to go into details. This was damaging. Meanwhile, however, as Smith challenged the world of fighting cocks, and, moreover, won every match he ever made, and barred only the Essleins in his campaigning, there arose, in spite of his steady objection to fighting the Essleins, many who believed Smith and stood forth for it that Smith did have the far-famed “Esslein Games.” It is to the credit of the Essleins that they did all that was in their power to bring Smith and his chickens to the battlefield. They offered him every inducement known in chicken war, and tendered him a duel for his cocks to be fought for anything from love to money.

Firm to the last, Smith wouldn't have it; and so, discouraged, the Essleins, failing action, nailed as it were their gauntlet to Smith's hen-coop door, and thus the business stood for months.

It came about one day that a stranger from Baltimore accepted Smith's standing challenge to fight anybody save the Essleins. The stranger proposed and made a match with Smith to fight him nine battles, $500 on each couple and $2,500 on the general main. And then the news went 'round.

There was high excitement in chicken circles. The day came and the sides of the pit were crowded. Smith was in his corner with his handler, getting the first of his champions ready for the struggle. As Smith was holding the chicken for the handler to fasten on the gaffs--drop-socket, they were, and keen as little scimetars--he chanced to glance across the pit.

There stood John, chief of the Essleins.

Smith saw it in a moment; he had been trapped. But it was too late. The match was made and the money was up; there was no chance to retrace, even if Smith had wanted. As a fact to his glory, however, he had no desire so to do.

“We're up against the Essleins, Bill,” Smith said to his trainer; “and it's all right. I didn't want to make a match with them, because I got their chickens queer. And if I'd fought them and won, I'd felt like I'd got their money queer; and that I couldn't stand. But this is different. We'll fight the Essleins now they're here, and 'if they can win over me, they're welcome.”

Then the main began. The first battle was short, sharp, deadly; and glorious for Smith. The Esslein chicken got a stab in the heart the first buckle. Smith smiled as his handler pulled his chicken's gaff out of its dead victim, and set it free.

The Smith entries won the second and third battle. Triumph rode on the glance of Smith, while the Esslein brows were bleak and dark.

“Smith's got the 'Esslein Games,' sure!” was whispered about the pit.

In the fourth and fifth battles the tide ran the other way, the Esslein chickens killing their rivals. Each battle, for that matter, had so far been to the death.

The sixth battle went to Smith and the seventh to the Essleins. Thus it stood four for Smith to three for the Essleins, just before the eighth battle. It didn't look as if Smith could lose.

It was at this juncture so hopeful for the coops of Smith, that Smith did a foolish thing. Yielding to the appeals of his trainer, Smith let that worthy man put up a chicken of his own to face the Esslein entry for the eighth duel. It was a gorgeous shawl-neck that Smith's trainer produced; eye bright as a diamond, and beak like some arrow-head of jet. His legs looked as strong as a hod-carrier's. It was a horse to a hen, so everybody said, that the Esslein chicken,--which was but a small, indifferent bird,--would lose its life, the battle, and the main at one and the same time.

Popular conjecture was wrong, as popular conjecture often is. The Esslein chicken locked both gaffs through the shawl-neck's brain in the second buckle.

“That teaches me a lesson,” said Smith. “Hereafter should an angel come down from heaven and beg me to let him fight a chicken in a main of mine, I'll turn him down!”

It was the ninth battle and the score stood four for Smith and four for the Essleins. As the slim gaffs, grey and cruelly sharp, were being placed on the feathered gladiators for the last deadly joust, Smith called across the pit to John Esslein:

“Esslein,” he said, “no matter how this last battle may fall, I reckon I've convinced you and everybody looking on, that, just as I said, I've got the 'Esslein Games.' To show you that I know I have, and give you a chance for revenge as well, I'll make this last fight for $10,000 a cock. The main so far has been an even break, and neither of us has won or lost. The last battle decides the tie and wins or loses me $3,000. To make it interesting, I'll raise the risk both ways, if you're willing, just $7,000, and call the bundle ten. And,” concluded Smith, as he glanced around the pit, “there isn't a sport here but will believe in his heart, when I, a poor man, offer to make this last battle one for $20,000, that I know that, even if I'm against, I'm at least behind an 'Esslein Game.'”

“Make it for $10,000 a cock, then!” said John Esslein bitterly. “Whether I win or lose main and money too, I've already lost much more than both to-day.”

Then the fight began. The chickens were big and strong and quick and as dauntlessly savage as ospreys. And feather and size, eye, and beak and leg, they were the absolute counterparts of each other.

For ten minutes the battle raged. Either the spurred fencers had more of luck or more of caution than the others. Buckle after buckle occurred, and after ten minutes' fighting the two enemies still faced each other with angry, bead-like eyes, and without so much as a drop of blood spilled.

[Illustration: 0127]

They fronted each other balefully while one might count seven. Their beaks travelled up and down as evenly as if moved by the same impulse. Then they clashed together.

This time,-as they drew apart, Smith's chicken fell upon its side, its right leg cut and broken well up toward the hip, with the bone pushing upward and outward through the slash of the gaff.

“Get your chicken and wring its neck, Smith,” said someone. “It's all over!”

“Let them fight!” responded Smith. “It's not 'all over!' That chicken of Esslein's has a long row to hoe to kill that bird of mine.”

Hardly were the words uttered when a strange chance befell. Smith's prostrate cripple reached up as its foe approached, seized it with its beak, and struggled to its one good foot. In the buckle that followed, the one gaff by some sleight of the cripple slashed the Esslein chicken over the eyes and blinded it. The muscles closed down and covered the eyes. Otherwise the Esslein cock was unhurt.

Then began a long, fierce, yet feeble fight. One chicken couldn't stand and the other couldn't see. The Smith chicken would lie on its side and watch its rival with eyes blazing hate, while the Esslein chicken, blind as a bat, would grope for him. When he came within reach of Smith's chicken, that indomitable bird would seize him with his bill; there would be some weak, aimless clashing, and again they'd be separated, the blind one to grope, the cripple to lie and wait.

The war limped on in this fashion for almost two hours. But the end came. As the Esslein chicken strayed blindly within reach, its enemy got a strong, sudden grip, and in the collision that was the sequel, the Esslein chicken had its head half slashed from its body. It staggered a step with blood spurting, tottered and fell dead.

Smith said never a word, but from first to last his face had been cold and grimly indifferent. His heart was fire, but no one could see it in his face. Evidently the man was as clean-strain as his chickens.

That's all there is to the story. What became of the victor with the broken leg? Smith looked him over, decided it was “no use,” and wrung his dauntless neck. The great main was over. Smith had won, everybody knew, as Smith went home that night, that he wras $10,000 better off, and that fast and sure, beyond denial or doubt, Smith had the “Esslein Games.”

THE PAINFUL ERROR

This is a tale of school life. Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton are scholars in the same school. The name of this seminary is withheld by particular request. Suffice it that all three of these youths come and go and have their bright young beings within the neighbourhood of Newark. The age of each is thirteen years. Thirteen is a sinister number. They are all jocund, merry-hearted boys, and put in many hours each day thinking up a good time.

One day during the noon hour the school building was all but deserted. Charles Roy, Fred Avery and Benjamin Clayton, however, were there. They had formed plans for their entertainment which demanded the desertion of the school building as chronicled. The coast being fairly clear, the conspiring three proceeded to one of the upper recitation rooms of the building. This room did not appertain to the particular school favoured by the attendance of Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton as scholars. This, however, only added zest to the adventure.

The room to which our heroes repaired was the recitation stamping ground of a high school class in physiology. The better to know anatomy, the class was furnished with the skeleton of some dead gentleman, all nicely hung and arranged with wires so as to look as much like former days as possible. During class hours the framework of the dead person stood in a corner of the room, and the students learned things from it that were useful to know. When off duty it reposed in a box.

Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton had heard of deceased. Their purpose this noon was to call on him. They gained entrance to the room by the burglarious method of picking the lock. Once within they took the skeleton from its box home and stood it in the window where the public might revel in the spectacle. To take off any grimness of effect they fixed a cob pipe in its bony jaws and clothed the skull in a bad hat, pulled much over the left eye, the whole conferring upon the remains a highly gala, joyous air indeed.

Then Charles Roy, Fred Avery and Benjamin Clayton withdrew from the scene.

The skeleton in the window was very popular. Countless folk had assembled to gaze upon it at the end of the first ten minutes, and armies were on their way.

The principal of the school as he came from lunch saw it and was much vexed. He put the skeleton back in its box, and the hydra-headed public slowly dispersed.

Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton secretly gloated over the transaction in detail and entirety. But the principal began to make inquiries; the avenger was on the track of the criminal three. Some big girls had witnessed the felonious entrance of the guilty ones into the den of the skeleton. The big girls imparted their knowledge to the principal, hunting these felons of the school. But the big girls slipped a cog on one important point. They did not know the recreant Benjamin Clayton. After arguing it all over they decided that “the third boy” was a very innocent young person named Albert Weed, and so gave in the names of the guerillas as:

“Charles Roy, Fred Avery and Albert Weed!” That afternoon the indignant principal demanded that Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Albert Weed attend him to the study. They were there charged with the atrocity of the skeleton in the window. Charles Roy and Fred Avery confessed and asked for mercy. Albert Weed denied having art, part or lot in the outrage. The principal was much shocked at his prompt depravity in trying to lie himself clear. The principal, in order to be exactly just, and evenly fair, craved to know of Charles Roy and Fred Avery:

“Was Albert Weed with you?”

“Please, sir, we would rather be excused from answering,” they said, hanging down their heads.

Then the principal knew that Albert Weed was guilty. Fred Avery and Charles Roy were forgiven, and were complimented on their straightforward, manly course in refusing to tell a lie to shield themselves.

“As for you, Albert,” observed the principal, as he seized Albert Weed by the top of his head, “as for you, Albert, I do not punish you for being roguish with the skeleton, but for telling me a lie.”

* * * * *

The principal thereupon lambasted the daylights out of Albert Weed.

THE RAT

(Annals of The Bend)

Be d' cops at d' Central office fly?” Chucky buried his face in his tankard in a polite effort to hide his contempt for the question. “Be dey fly! Say! make no mistake! d' Central Office mugs is as soon a set of geezers as ever looked over d' hill. Dey're d' swiftest ever. On d' level! I t'ink t'ree out of every four of them gezebos could loin to play d' pianny in one lesson.

“Just to put youse onto how quick dey be, an' to give you some idee of their curves, let me tell you what dey does to Billy d' Rat.

“Youse never chases up on d' Rat? Nit! Well, Cully, you don't miss much. Yes, d' Rat's a crook all right. He's a nipper, but a dead queer one, see! He always woiks alone, an' his lay is diamonds.

“'I don't want no pals or stalls in mine,” says d' Rat. “I can toin all needful tricks be me lonesome. Stalls is a give-away, see! Let some sucker holler, an' let one of your mob get pinched, an' what then? Why, about d' time he's stood up an' given d' secont degree be Mc-Clusky, he coughs. That's it! he squeals, an' d' nex' dash out o' d' box youse don't get a t'ing but d' collar. Nine out o' ten of d' good people doin' time to-day, was t'rown into soak be some pal knockin'. I passes all that up! I goes it alone! If I nips a rock it's mine; I don't split out no bits for no snoozer, see! I'm d' entire woiks, an' if I stumbles an' falls be d' wayside, it's me's to blame. Which last makes it easier to stan' for.'

“That's d' way d' Rat lays out d' ground for me one day,” continued Chucky, “an' he ain't slingin' no guff at that. It's d' way he always woiked.

“But to skin back to d' Central Office cops an' how flydey be: One of d' Rat's favourite stunts is dampin' a diamond. What's that? Youse'll catch on as me tale unfolds, as d' nov'lists puts it.

“Here's how d' Rat would graft. Foist he'd rub up his two lamps wit' pepper till dey looks red an', out of line. When he'd got t'rough doin' d' pepper act to 'em, d' Rat's peeps, for fair! would do to understudy two fried eggs.

“Then d' Rat would pull on a w'ite wig, like he's some old stuff; an' wit' that an' some black goggles over his peeps, his own Rag wouldn't have known him. To t'row 'em down for sure, d' Rat would wear a cork-sole shoe,--one of these 6-inch soles,--like he's got a game trilby. Then when he's all made up in black togs, d' Rat is ready.

“Bein' organised, d' Rat hobbles into a cab an' drives to a diamond shop. D' racket is this: Of course it takes a bit of dough, but that's no drawback, for d' Rat is always on velvet an' dead strong. As I say, d' play is this: D' Rat being well dressed an' fitted up wit' his cork-soles, his goggles an' his wig, comes hobblin' into d' diamond joint an' gives d' impression he's some rich old mark who ain't got a t'ing but money, an' that he's out to boin a small bundle be way of matchin' a spark which he has wit' him in his mit. D' Rat fills d' diamond man up wit' a yarn, how he's goin' to saw a brace of ear-rings off on his daughter an' needs d' secont rock, see! Of course it's a dead case of string. D' Rat ain't got no kid, an' would be d' last bloke to go festoonin' her wit' diamonds if he had.

“Naturally, d' mut who owns d' store is out an' eager to do business. D' Rat won't let d' diamond man do d' matchin'; not on your life! he's goin' to mate them sparks himself. So he gives d' stiff wit' d' store d' tip to spread a handful of stones, say about d' size of d' one he's holdin' in his hooks--which mebby is a 2-carat--on some black velvet for him to pick from. D' diamond party ain't lookin' for no t'row down from an old sore-eyed, cork-sole hobo like d' Rat, so he lays out a sprinklin' of stones. D' Rat, who all this time is starring his bum lamps, an' tellin' how bad an' weak dey be, an' how he can hardly see, gets his map down dost to d' lay-out of sparks, so as he can get onto em an' make d' match.

“It's now d' touch comes in. When d' Rat's got his smeller right among d' diamonds, he sticks out his tongue, quick like a toad for a honey-bee, an' nails a gem. That's what dey calls 'dampin' a diamond.' Yes, mebby if there's so many of 'em laid out, he t'inks d' mark behint d' show case will stan' for it wit'out missin' 'em, d' Rat gets two. Then d' Rat goes on jollyin' an' chinnin' wit' d' sparks in his face; an' mebby for a finish an' to put a cover on d' play, he buys one an' screws his nut.

“Wit' his cab, as I says, d' Rat is miles away, an' has time to shed his wig an' goggles an' cork-sole before d' guy wit' d' diamonds tumbles to it he's been done. That's how d' Rat gets in his woik. Now I'll tell youse how d' Central Office people t'run d' harpoon into him.

“One day d' Rat makes a play an' gets two butes. He tucks 'em away in back of his teet', an' is just raisin' his nut to say somethin', when d' store duck grabs him an' raises a roar. Two or t'ree cloiks an' a cop off d' street comes sprintin' up, an' away goes d' Rat to d' coop.

“Wit 'd' foist yell of d' sucker who makes d' front for d' store--naw, he ain't d' owner, he's one of d' cloiks--d' Rat goes clean outside of d' sparks at a gulp; swallows 'em; that's what he does. There bein' no diamond toined up, an' no one at headquarters bein' onto him--for he's always laid low an' kept out of sight of d' p'lice--d' Rat makes sure dey'll have to t'run him loose.

“But d' boss cop is pretty cooney. He figgers it all out, how d' Rat's a crook, an' how he's eat d' diamonds, just as I says. So he cons d' Rat an' t'rows a dream into him. He tells him there'll be no trouble, but he'll have to keep him for an hour or two until his 'sooperior off'cer,' as he calls him, gets there. He's d' main squeeze, this p'lice dub dey're waitin' for, an' as soon as he shows up an' goes over d' play, d' Rat can screw out.

“That's d' sort of song an' dance d' high cop gives d' Rat; an' say! I'm a lobster if d' Rat don't fall to it, at that. On d' dead! this p'lice duck is so smooth an' flossy d' Rat believes him.

“Just for appearances d' Rat registers a big kick; an' then--for dey don't lock him up at all--he plants himself in a easy chair to do a toin of wait. D' Rat couldn't have broke an' run for it, even if he'd took d' scare, for d' cops is all over d' place. But he ain't lookin' for d' woist of it nohow. He t'inks it's all as d' boss cop has told him; he'll wait there an hour or two for d' main guy an' then dey'll cut him free.

“After a half hour d' boss cop says: 'It's no use you bein' hungry, me frien', an' as I'm goin' to chew, come wit' me an' feed your face. D' treat's on me, anyhow, bein' obliged to detain a respect'ble old mucker like you. So come along.'

“Wit' that d' Rat goes along wit 'd' boss cop, an' all d' time he's t'inkin' what a Stoughton bottle d' cop is.

“It's nex' door, d' chop-house is. D' cop an 'd' Rat sets down an' breasts up to d' table. Dey gives d' orders all right, all right. But say! d' grub never gets to 'em. D' nex' move after d' orders, d' Rat, who's got a t'irst on from d' worry of bein' lagged, takes a drink out of a glass.

“'I'm poisoned!' yells d' Rat as he slams down d' tumbler; 'somebody's doped me!' an' wit' that d' Rat toins in, t'rows a fit, an' is seasick to d' limit.

“That's what that boss cop does. He sends over an' doctors a glass while d' Rat is settin' in his office waitin', an' then gives him a bluff about chewin' an' steers d' Rat ag'inst it. Say! it was a dandy play. D' dope or whatever it was, toins me poor friend d' Rat inside out, like an old woman's pocket.

“An' them sparks is recovered.

“Yes, d' Rat does a stretch. As d' judge sentences him, d' Rat gives d' cop who downs him his mit. 'You're a wonder,' says d' Rat to d' cop; 'there's no flies baskin' in d' sun on you. When I reflects on d' way you sneaks d' chaser after them sparks, an' lands 'em, I'm bound to say d' Central Office mugs are onto their job.'”

CHEYENNE BILL

(Wolfville)

Cheyenne Bill is out of luck. Ordinarily his vagaries are not regarded in Wolfville. His occasional appearance in its single street in a voluntary of nice feats of horsemanship, coupled with an exhibition of pistol shooting, in which old tomato cans and passé beer bottles perform as targets, has hitherto excited no more baleful sentiment in the Wolfville bosom than disgust.

“Shootin' up the town a whole lot!” is the name for this engaging pastime, as given by Cheyenne Bill, and up to date the exercise has passed unchallenged.

But to-day it is different. Camps like individuals have moods, now light, now dark; and so it is with Wolfville. At this time Wolfville is experiencing a wave of virtue. This may have come spontaneously from those seeds of order which, after all, dwell sturdily in the Wolfville breast. It may have been excited by the presence of a pale party of Eastern tourists, just now abiding at the O. K. Hotel; persons whom the rather sanguine sentiment of Wolfville credits with meditating an investment of treasure in her rocks and rills. But whatever the reason, Wolfville virtue is aroused; a condition of the public mind which makes it a bad day for Cheyenne Bill.

The angry sun smites hotly in the deserted causeway of Wolfville. The public is within doors. The Red Light Saloon is thriving mightily. Those games which generally engross public thought are drowsy enough; but the counter whereat the citizen of Wolfville gathers with his peers in absorption of the incautious compounds of the place, is fairly sloppy from excess of trade. Notwithstanding the torrid heat this need not sound strangely; Wolfville leaning is strongly homoeopathic. “_Similia similibus curantur_,” says Wolfville; and when it is blazing hot, drinks whiskey.

But to-day there is further reason for this consumption. Wolfville is excited, and this provokes a thirst. Cheyenne Bill, rendering himself prisoner to Jack Moore, rescue or no rescue, has by order of that sagacious body been conveyed by his captor before the vigilance committee, and is about to be tried for his life.

What was Cheyenne Bill's immediate crime? Certainly not a grave one. Ten days before it would have hardly earned a comment. But now in its spasm of virtue, and sensitive in its memories of the erratic courses of Cheyenne Bill aforetime, Wolfville has grimly taken possession of that volatile gentleman for punishment. He has killed a Chinaman. Here is the story:

“Yere comes that prairie dog, Cheyenne Bill, all spraddled out,” says Dave Tutt.

Dave Tutt is peering from the window of the Red Light, to which lattice he has been carried by the noise of hoofs. There is a sense of injury disclosed in Dave Tutt's tone, born of the awakened virtue of Wolfville.

“It looks like this camp never can assoome no airs,” remarks Cherokee Hall in a distempered way, “but this yere miser'ble Cheyenne comes chargin' up to queer it.”

[Illustration: 0141]

As he speaks, that offending personage, unconscious of the great change in Wolf ville morals, sweeps up the street, expressing gladsome and ecstatic whoops, and whirling his pistol on his forefinger like a thing of light. One of the tourists stands in the door of the hotel smoking a pipe in short, brief puffs of astonishment, and reviews the amazing performance. Cheyenne Bill at once and abruptly halts. Gazing for a disgruntled moment on the man from the East, he takes the pipe from its owner's amazed mouth and places it in his own “smokin' of pipes,” he vouchsafes in condemnatory explanation, “is onelegant an' degradin'; an' don't you do it no more in my presence. I'm mighty sensitive that a-way about pipes, an' I don't aim to tolerate 'em none whatever.”

This solution of his motives seems satisfactory to Cheyenne Bill. He sits puffing and gazing at the tourist, while the latter stands dumbly staring, with a morsel of the ravished meerschaum still between his lips.

What further might have followed in the way of oratory or overt acts cannot be stated, for the thoughts of the guileless Cheyenne suddenly receive a new direction. A Chinaman, voluminously robed, emerges from the New York store, whither he has been drawn by dint of soap.

“Whatever is this Mongol doin' in camp, I'd like for to know?” inquires Cheyenne Bill disdainfully. “I shore leaves orders when I'm yere last, for the immejit removal of all sech. I wouldn't mind it, but with strangers visitin' Wolf ville this a-way, it plumb mortifies me to death.”

“Oh well!” he continues in tones of weary, bitter reflection, “I'm the only public-sperited gent in this yere outfit, so all reforms falls nacheral to me. Still, I plays my hand! I'm simply a pore, lonely white, but jest the same, I makes an example of this speciment of a sudsmonger to let 'em know whatever a white man is, anyhow.”

Then comes the short, emphatic utterance of a six-shooter. A puff of smoke lifts and vanishes in the hot air, and the next census will be short one Asiatic.

In a moment arrives a brief order from Enright, the chief of the vigilance committee, to Jack Moore. The last-named official proffers a Winchester and a request to surrender simultaneously, and Cheyenne Bill, realizing fate, at once accedes.

“Of course, gents,” says Enright, apologetically, as he convenes the committee in the Red Light bar; “I don't say this Cheyenne is held for beefin' the Chinaman sole an' alone. The fact is, he's been havin' a mighty sight too gay a time of late, an' so I thinks it's a good, safe play, bein' as it's a hot day an' we has the time, to sorter call the committee together an' ask its views, whether we better hang this yere Cheyenne yet or not?”

“Mr. Pres'dent,” responds Dave Tutt, “if I'm in order, an' to get the feelin' of the meetin' to flowin' smooth, I moves we takes this Cheyenne an' proceeds with his immolation. I ain't basin' it on nothin' in

## partic'lar, but lettin' her slide as fulfillin' a long-felt want.”

“Do I note any remarks?” asks Enright. “If not, I takes Mr. Tutt's very excellent motion as the census of this meetin', an' it's hang she is.”

“Not intendin' of no interruption,” remarks Texas Thompson, “I wants to say this: I'm a quiet gent my-se'f, an' nacheral aims to keep Wolfville a quiet place likewise. For which-all I shorely favours a-hangin' of Cheyenne. He's given us a heap of trouble. Like Tutt I don't make no p'int on the Chinaman; we spares the Chink too easy. But this Cheyenne is allers a-ridin', an' a-yellin', an' a-shootin' up this camp till I'm plumb tired out. So I says let's hang him, an' su'gests as a eligible, as well as usual nook tharfore, the windmill back of the dance hall.”

“Yes,” says Enright, “the windmill is, as experience has showed, amply upholstered for sech plays; an' as delays is aggravatin', the committee might as well go wanderin' over now, an' get this yere ceremony off its mind.”

“See yere, Mr. Pres'dent!” interrupts Cheyenne Bill in tones of one ill-used, “what for a deal is this I rises to ask?”

“You can gamble this is a squar' game,” replies Enright confidently. “You're entitled to your say when the committee is done. Jest figure out what kyards you needs, an' we deals to you in a minute.”

“I solely wants to know if my voice is to be regarded in this yere play, that's all,” retorts Cheyenne Bill.

“Gents,” says Doc Peets, who has been silently listening. “I'm with you on this hangin'. These Eastern sharps is here in our midst. It'll impress 'em that Wolfville means business, an' it's a good, safe, quiet place. They'll carry reports East as will do us credit, an' thar you be. As to the propriety of stringin' Cheyenne, little need be said. If the Chinaman ain't enough, if assaultin' of an innocent tenderfoot ain't enough, you can bet he's done plenty besides as merits a lariat. He wouldn't deny it himse'f if you asks him.”

There is a silence succeeding the rather spirited address of Doc Peets, on whose judgment Wolfville has been taught to lean. At last Enright breaks it by inquiring of Cheyenne Bill if he has anything to offer.

“I reckons it's your play now, Cheyenne,” he says, “so come a-runnin.'”

“Why!” urges Cheyenne Bill, disgustedly, “these proceedin's is ornery an' makes me sick. I shore objects to this hangin'; an' all for a measly Chinaman too! This yere Wolfville outfit is gettin' a mighty sight too stylish for me. It's growin' that per-dad-binged-'tic'lar it can't take its reg'lar drinks, an'----”

“Stop right thar!” says Enright, with dignity, rapping a shoe-box with his six-shooter; “don't you cuss the chair none, 'cause the chair won't have it. It's parliamentary law, if any gent cusses the chair he's out of order, same as it's law that all chips on the floor goes to the house. When a gent's out of order once, that settles it. He can't talk no more that meetin'. Seein' we're aimin' to eliminate you, we won't claim nothin' on you this time. But be careful how you come trackin' 'round ag'in, an' don't fret us! _Sabe?_ Don't you-all go an' fret us none!”

“I ain't allowin' to fret you,” retorts Cheyenne Bill. “I don't have to fret you. What I says is this: I s'pose, I sees fifty gents stretched by one passel of Stranglers or another between yere an' The Dalis, an' I never does know a party who's roped yet on account of no Chinaman. An' I offers a side bet of a blue stack, it ain't law to hang people on account of downin' no Chinaman. But you-alls seems sot on this, an' so I tells you what I'll do. I'm a plain gent an' thar's no filigree work on me. If it's all congenial to the boys yere assembled--not puttin' it on the grounds of no miser'ble hop slave, but jest to meet public sentiment half way--I'll gamble my life, hang or no hang, on the first ace turned from the box, Cherokee deal. Does it go?”

Wolfville tastes are bizarre. A proposition original and new finds in its very novelty an argument for Wolfville favour. It befalls, therefore, that the unusual offer of Cheyenne Bill to stake his neck on a turn at faro is approvingly criticised. The general disposition agrees to it; even the resolute Enright sees no reason to object.

“Cheyenne,” says Enright, “we don't have to take this chance, an' it's a-makin' of a bad preceedent which the same may tangle us yereafter; but Wolfville goes you this time, an' may Heaven have mercy on your soul. Cherokee, turn the kyards for the ace.”

“Turn squar', Cherokee!” remarks Cheyenne Bill with an air of interest. “You wouldn't go to sand no deck, nor deal two kyards at a clatter, ag'in perishin' flesh an' blood?”

“I should say, no!” replies Cherokee. “I wouldn't turn queer for money, an' you can gamble! I don't do it none when the epeesode comes more onder the head of reelaxation.”

“Which the same bein' satisfact'ry,” says Cheyenne Bill, “roll your game. I'm eager for action; also, I plays it open.”

“I dunno!” observes Dan Boggs, meditatively caressing his chin; “I'm thinkin' I'd a-coppered;--that's whatever!”

The deal proceeds in silence, and as may happen in that interesting sport called faro, a split falls out. Two aces appear in succession.

“Ace lose, ace win!” says Cherokee, pausing. “Whatever be we goin' to do now, I'd like to know?” There is a pause.

“Gents,” announces Enright, with dignity, “a split like this yere creates a doubt; an' all doubts goes to the pris'ner, same as a maverick goes to the first rider as ties it down, an' runs his brand onto it. This camp of Wolfville abides by law, an' blow though it be, this yere Cheyenne Bill, temp'rarily at least, goes free. However, he should remember this yere graze an' restrain his methods yereafter. Some of them ways of his is onhealthful, an' if he's wise he'll shorely alter his system from now on.”

“Which the camp really lose! an' this person Bill goes free!” says Jack Moore, dejectedly. “I allers was ag'in faro as a game. Where we-all misses it egreegious, is we don't play him freeze-out.”

“Do you know, Cherokee,” whispers Faro Nell, as her eyes turn softly to that personage of the deal box, “I don't like killin's none! I'd sooner Cheyenne goes loose, than two bonnets from Tucson!”

At this Cherokee Hall pinches the cheek of Faro Nell with a delicate accuracy born of his profession, and smiles approval.

BLIGHTED

(By the Office Boy)

Is it hauteur, or is it a maiden's coyness which causes you to turn away your head, love?”

George D'Orsey stood with his arm about the willowy form of Imogene O'Sullivan. The scene was the ancestral halls of the O'Sullivans in the fashionable north-west quarter of Harlem. George D'Orsey had asked Imogene O'Sullivan to be his bride. That was prior to the remark which opened our story. And the dear girl softly promised. The lovers stood there in the gloaming, drinking that sweet intoxication which never comes but once.

“It isn't hauteur, George,” replied Imogene O'Sullivan, in tones like far-off church bells. “But, George!--don't spurn me--I have eaten of the common onion of commerce, and my breath, it is so freighted with that trenchant vegetable, it would take the nap from your collar like a lawn mower. It is to spare the man she loves, George, which causes your Imogene to hold her head aloof.”

“Look up, darling!” and George D'Orsey's tones held a glad note of sympathy, “I, too, have battened upon onions.”

The lovers clung to each other like bats in a steeple.

“But we'll have to put toe-weights on pa, George; he'll step high and lively when he hears of this!”

The lovers were seated on the sofa, now; the prudent Imogene was taking a look ahead.

“Doesn't your father love me, pet?”

“I don't think he does,” replied the fair girl tenderly. “I begged him to ask you to dinner, once, George; that was on your last trip. He said he would sooner dine with a wet dog, George, and refused. From that I infer his opposition to our union.”

“We'll make a monkey of him yet!” and George D'Orsey hissed the words through his set teeth.

“And my brother?”

“As for him,” said George D'Orsey (and at this he began pacing the room like a lion), “as for your brother! If he so much as looks slant-eyed at our happiness, he goes into the soup! From your father I would bear much; but when the balance of the family gets in on the game, they will pay for their chips in advance.”

“Can we not leave them, George; leave them, and fly together?”

“Your father is rich, Imogene; that is a sufficient answer.” There was a touch of sternness in George D'Orsey's tones, and the subject of flying was dropped.

George D'Orsey lived in the far-off hamlet of Hoboken. He returned to his home. In three months he was to wed Imogene O'Sullivan. Benton O'Sullivan had a fit when it was first mentioned to him. At last he gave his sullen consent.

“I had planned a title for you, Imogene.” That was all he said.

Three months have elapsed. It was dark when the ferryboat came to a panting pause in its slip. George D'Orsey picked his way through the crowd with quick, nervous steps. It was to be his wedding-night. He wondered if Imogene would meet him at the ferry. At that moment he beheld her dear form walking just ahead.

“To-night, dearest, you are mine forever!” whispered George D'Orsey tenderly, seizing the sweet young creature by her arm.

The shrieks which emanated from the young woman could have defied the best efforts of a steam siren.

It was not Imogene O'Sullivan!

The police bore away George D'Orsey. They turned a deaf ear to his explanations.

“You make me weary!” remarked the brutal turnkey, to whom George D'Orsey told his tale.

The cell door slammed; the lock clanked; the cruel key grated as it turned. George D'Orsey was a prisoner. The charge the blotter bore against him was: “Insulting women on the street.”

When George D'Orsey was once more alone, he cursed his fate as if his heart would break. At last he was calm.

“Oh, woman, in our hour of ease,

Uncertain, coy, and hard to please;

But, seen too oft, familiar with her face;

We first endure, then pity, then embrace!”

The Chateau O'Sullivan was a flare and a glare of lights. The rooms were jungles of palms and tropical plants. Flowers were everywhere, while the air tottered and fainted under the burden of their perfume. Imogene O'Sullivan never looked more beautiful.

But George D'Orsey did not come.

Hour followed hour into the past. The guests moved uneasily from room to room. The preacher notified Benton O'Sullivan that he was ready.

And still George D'Orsey came not.

“The villain has laid down on us, me child!” whispered Benton O'Sullivan to the weeping Imogene; “but may me hopes of heaven die of heart failure if I have not me revenge! No man shall insult the proud house of. O'Sullivan and get away with it; not without blood!”

The guests cheerfully dispersed, talking the most scandalous things in whispers.

Imogene O'Sullivan's dream was over.

It was the next night. George D'Orsey stood on the O'Sullivan porch, ringing the bell. His eye and his pocket and his stomach were alike wildly vacant.

“Sic him, Bull! Sic him!” said Benton O'Sullivan, bitterly.

Bull tore several specimens from the quivering frame of George D'Orsey, who vanished in the darkness with a hoarse cry.

Years afterward George D'Orsey and Imogene O'Sullivan met, but they gave each other a cold, meaningless stare.

THE SURETHING

(By the Office Boy)

John Sparrowhawk was a sporting man of the tribe of “Surethings.” He was fond of what has Cherry Hill description as a “cinch.” He never let any lame, slow trick get away. John Sparrowhawk's specialty was racing; and he always referred to this diversion with horses as his “long suit.” He kept several rather abrupt animals himself, and whenever he found a man whose horse wasn't as sudden as some horse he owned, John Sparrowhawk would lay plots for that man, and ultimately race equines with him, and become master of such sums as the man would bet. John Sparrowhawk wandered through life in his “surething” way and amassed wealth. He was rich, and was wont to boast to very intimate friends:

“I never spent a dollar which I honestly earned.” This gave John Sparrowhawk a vast deal of vogue, and he was looked up to and revered by a circle which is always impressed by the genius of one who can rob his fellow-worms, and do it according to law.

It befell one day that the Brooklyn Jockey Club offered a purse for a running race, but demanded five entries. In no time at all, three horses were entered. Their names and capacities were well known to the sagacious John Sparrowhawk. He had a horse that could beat them all.

“He would run by them like they was tied to a post!” remarked John Sparrowhawk, in a chant of ungrammatical exultation.

It burst upon him that the time was ripe to pillage somebody. His latest larceny was ten days old, and John Sparrowhawk oft quoted the Bowery poet where he said:

“Count that day lost whose low, descending sun

Sees at thy hands no worthy sucker done.”

And John Sparrowhawk did business that way. If he might only get another horse entered, and then complete the quintet with his own, John Sparrowhawk would possess “a snap.” Which last may be defined as a condition of affairs much famed for its excellence.

At this juncture John Sparrowhawk had the idea of his career. The idea made “a great hit” with him. He had a friend who had a horse, which, while not so swiftly elusive as “Tenbroeck” and “Spokane” in their palmy days, could defeat such things as district messenger boys, Fifth avenue stages, and many other enterprises which do not attain meteoric speed. John Sparrowhawk's horse could beat it, he was sure. He would explain the situation to his friend, and cause his snail of a horse to be entered. This would fill the race, and then John Sparrowhawk's horse would win “hands down,” and thereby empty everybody's pockets in favour of John Sparrowhawk's, which was a very glutton of a pocket, and never got enough.

John Sparrowhawk's friend was lying ill at the Hoffman. John Sparrowhawk went into that hostelry and climbed the stairs, softly humming that optimistic ballad, which begins: “There's a farmer born every second!”

The sick friend took little interest in the deadfall proposed by John Sparrowhawk. He was suffering from a mass-meeting on the part of divers boils, which had selected a trysting place on his person, where their influence would be felt.

Locked, as it were, in conflict with his afflictions, John Sparrowhawk's friend was indifferent to his horse. He cared not what traps were set with him.

John Sparrowhawk entered the friend's horse and paid the entrance money--$150. Then he lavished $15 on a “jock” to ride him. The field was full, the conditions of the purse complied with, and the race a “go.” Of course, John Sparrowhawk's horse would win; and, acting on it as the chance of his life, John Sparrowhawk went craftily about wagering his dollars, even unto his bottom coin; and all to the end that he deplete the “jays” about him and become exceeding rich.

“I'm out for the stuff!” observed John Sparrow-hawk, and acted accordingly.

When the race started John Sparrowhawk had everything up but his eyes, his ears, and other bric-à-brac of a personal sort, which would mean inconvenience to be without a moment.

There could be no purpose other than a cruel one, so far as John Sparrowhawk is concerned, to dwell on the details of this race. Suffice it that they started and they finished, and the horse of the sick friend made a fool of the horse of John Sparrowhawk. He beat him like rocking a baby, so said the sports, and thereby dumped the unscrupulous yet sapient John Sparrow-hawk for every splinter he possessed. It shook every particle of dust out of John Sparrowhawk. He called to relate his woe to his sick friend. That suffering person's malady had temporarily taken a recess from its labours, and for the nonce he was resting easy.

“I know'd it, and had four thousand placed that way, John,” observed the invalid. “I win almost thirteen thousand on the trick. My horse could do that skate of yours on three legs. I tumbled to it the moment you came in the other day.”

“Why didn't you put me on?” remonstrated John Sparrowhawk, almost in tears, as he thought of the dray-load of money he had lost.

“Put you on!” repeated the Job of the Hoffman, scornfully; “not none! I wanted to see how it would seem to let a 'surething' sharp like you open a game on a harmless sufferer and 'go broke' on it. No, John; it will do you good. You won't have so much money as the result of this, but you will be a heap more erudite.”

GLADSTONE BURR

Gladstone Burr is a small, industrious, married man. His little nest of a home is in Brooklyn. Perhaps the most emphasised feature of the Burr family home is Mrs. B. She is a large woman, direct as Bismarck in her diplomacy, and when Gladstone Burr does wrong, she tells him of it firmly and fully for his good. There is but one bad habit which can with slightest show of truth be charged to Gladstone Burr. The barriers of his nature, yielding to social pressure, at intervals give way. At such times the soul of Gladstone Burr issues forth on a sea of strong drink.

But, as he says himself, “these bats never last longer than ten days.”

Notwithstanding this meagre limit, Mrs. B. does not approve of Gladstone Burr when thus socially relaxed. And from time to time she has left nothing unsaid on that point. Indeed, Mrs. B. has so fully defined her position on the subject, that Gladstone Burr, while he in no sense fears her, does not care to go home unless he is either very drunk or very sober. There is no middle ground in tippling where Gladstone Burr and Mrs. B. can meet with his consent. He is not superstitious, but he avers that whenever he has been drinking and meets Mrs. B. he has had bad luck. His only safety lies in either being sober and avoiding it, or in taking refuge in a jag too thick for wifely admonitions to pierce.

There arose last week in the life of Gladstone Burr some event that it was absolutely necessary to celebrate. For two days he gave himself up to his destiny in that behalf, and being very busy with his festival Gladstone Burr did not go home.

Toward the close of the third day he was considering with himself how best to approach his domicile so as to avoid the full force of the storm. He was not so deep in his cups at that moment, but Mrs. B.'s opinions gave him concern. Still, he felt the need of going home. He was tired and he was sick. Gladstone Burr knew he would be a great deal sicker in the morning, but he felt of a four-bit piece in his pocket, and remarking something about the hair of a dog, took courage, and was confident he carried the means of restoring himself.

But how to get home!

It was at this crisis in the affairs of Gladstone Burr that his friend, Frederick Upham Adams, came up. An inspiration seized Gladstone Burr. Adams should take him home in a carriage. Mrs. B. didn't know Adams, being careful of her acquaintances. They would say that he, Gladstone Burr, had been ill, almost dead from apoplexy, or sunstroke, during the recent hot spell, and that “Dr. Adams” was bringing him home.

It was a most happy thought.

“Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Burr,” said Adams, as an hour later he supported the drooping Gladstone Burr through the hall and stowed him away on a sofa. “I am Dr. Adams, of Williamsburg. Mr. Burr has suffered a great shock, but he is out of danger now. All he needs is rest--perfect rest!”

Gladstone Burr gasped piteously from the sofa. Mrs. B. was deceived perfectly. The ruse worked like a charm.

[Illustration: 0159]

“How long must he be kept quiet, Doctor?” asked Mrs. B., as she wrung her hands over Gladstone Burr's danger. She was bending above the invalid at the time, and he was unable to signal his friend to be careful how he prescribed.

“Oh! ahem!” observed “Dr. Adams,” looking at the ceiling, professionally, “about three days! That is right! Perfect rest for three days, and Mr. Burr will be a well man again.”

“Are there directions as to what medicines to give him?” asked Mrs. B., passing her hand gently over Gladstone Burr's heated dome of thought; “any directions about the food, Doctor?”

“He needs no medicine,” observed the wretched Adams, closing his eyes sagaciously, and sucking his cane. “As for food, we must be careful. I should advise nothing but milk. Give him milk, Mrs. Burr, milk.”

After this Frederick Upham Adams drove away. And at the end of three days Gladstone Burr was almost dead.

THE GARROTE

(Annals of The Bend)

Tell youse somethin' about d' worser side of d' Bend!” retorted Chucky. His manner was resentful. I had put my question in a fashion half apologetic and as one who might be surprised at anything bad in the Bend. It was this lamblike method of being curious that Chucky didn't applaud. Evidently he gloried a bit in the criminal vigour of certain phases of a Bend existence.

“Mebby you t'inks there is no worser side to d' Bend! Mebby you takes d' Bend for a hotbed of innocence! Don't string no stuff on d' milky character of d' Bend. Youse would lose it one, two, t'ree, keno! see! There's dead loads of t'ings about d' Bend what's so tough it 'ud make youse sore on yourself to get onto 'em.

“Be d' way! while youse is chinnin' concernin' d' hard lines of d' Bend, I'm put in mind about Danny d' Face, who shows up from Sing Sing to-day. Say! d' Face wasn't doin' a t'ing but put up a roar all d' morn-in', till a cop shows up an' lays it out cold if d' Face don't cork, he'll pinch him.

“What was d' squeal about? Why! it's like this,” continued Chucky, settling himself where the barkeeper might know when his glass was empty. “It's all about d' Face's Bundle. When d' victim takes his little ten spaces, his Bundle mourns 'round for a brace of mont's, see! An' then she marries another guy.

“What else could youse look for? That's what I say; what could d' Face expect? Ten spaces ain't like a stretch, it's 'life,' see! D' mug who chases in an' takes a trip for ten, he's a lifer. An' you knows as well as me, even if youse ain't done time, that when a duck gets life, it's d' same as a divorce. That's dead straight! his Bundle is free to get married ag'in.

“An' that's just what d' Face's Rag does; she hooks up wit' another skate, after d' Face has had his stripes for a couple of mont's. She's no tree-toad to live on air an' scenery, so she gets hitched. I was right there, pipin' off d' play meself, when d' w'ite choker ties 'em. It was a good weddin', wit' a dandy lot of lush; d' can was passin' all d' time, an' so d' mem'ry of it is wit' me still.

“As I says, d' Face comes weavin' in this mornin', an' tries to break up what d' poipers call 'existin' conditions.' It don't go, though; d' cop cuts in on d' play an' makes it a cinch case of nit, see!

“What'll d' Face do? What can he do but screw his nut an' stan' for it? He ain't got no licence to interfere. It's a case of 'nothin' doin',' as far as d' Face's end goes. Let him charge 'round an' grab off another skirt. There's plenty of 'em; d' Face can find another wife if he goes d' right way down d' line. But he don't make no hit be hollerin', he can take a tumble to that.

“What is it railroads d' Face? He does a stunt garrotin', see! I'll tell youse d' story. Of course, d' Face is a crook.

“Now, understan' me! I ain't no crook. I'm a fakir, an' a grafter; an' I've been fly in me time an' I ain't no dub to-day, but I never was no crook, see! But, of course, born as I was in Kelly's Alley, an' always free of d' Bowery push, I hears a lot about crooks, an' has more'n one of d' swell mob on me visitin' list.

“Naw; d' Face was never in d' foist circles, nothin' fine to him. He never was d' real t'ing as a dip, an 'd' best he could do was to shove an' stall. Now an' then he toins a trick as a porch climber; but even at that I never gets a tip of any big second-story woik d' Face does.

“D' Face's best trick is d' garrote, an' it's on d' gar-rote lay dey downs d' Face when dey puts him away.

“Now-days there's a lot of sandbaggin'. Some mug comes wanderin' along, loaded to d' guards wit* booze, an' some soon duck lends him a t'ump back of d' nut wit' a sandbag, or mebby it's a lead pipe or a bar of rubber. Over goes d' slewed mug, on his map, an' d' rest is easy money, see! That's d' way it's done now.

“But in d' old times, when I'm a kid, it ain't d' sandbag; it's d' garrote. An' d' patient can be cold sober, still d' garrote goes all right. It takes two to woik it; but even at that it beats d' sandbag hands down. It's smoother, cleaner, and more like a woik-man, see! d' garrote is.

“Besides, there's more apt to be stuff on a sober party than on some stiff who's tanked. I know d' poipers is always talkin' about people gettin' a load, wit' money all over 'em; but youse can gamble! such talk is a song an' dance. I'm more'n seven years old, an' me exper'ence is, that it's a four-to-one shot a drunk is every time broke.

“But to go to d' story of how d' Face gets pinched. As I states, it's way back; not quite ten spaces (for d' Face shortens his stay at d' pen wit' good conduct time see!), an 'd' Face an' a pal, Spot Casey, who's croaked now, is out on d' garrote lay.

“D' Face is followin', an' Spot is sluggin'. Here's how dey lays out d' game. It's on Fift' Avenoo, down be Nint'. Spot's playin' round d' corner on Nint'; d' Face is woikin' about a block away on Fift' Avenoo, on d' lookout for a sucker, see! Along he comes walkin' fast, this sucker. As he passes, d' Face gives him d' size-up. He's got a spark, an' a yellow chain, an' looks like he's good for a hundred in d' long green. That does for d' Face. He lets this guy get good an' by, an' then toins an' shadows him.

“D' Face walks faster than d' sucker. It's his play to be nex', be d' time dey hits Nint', where Spot is layin' dead.

“As dey chases up, d' Face an 'd' snoozer he's out to do is bot' walkin' fast, wit 'd' Face five foot behint.

“Just before dey makes d' corner, d' Face gives d' office to Spot be stampin' onct wit' his trilby on d' sidewalk. Then he moves right up sharp, claps his right arm about d' geezer's t'roat, at d' same time grabbin' his right hook wit' his left an' yankin' his arm in tight. It shuts off d' duck's wind.

“As d' Face clenches his party, as I says, he gives him d' knee behint, an' sort o' lifts him up. At d' same instant, Spot comes chasin' round d' corner in front an' smashes his right duke into what d' prize fighters calls 'd' mark.' Yes, it's d' same t'ump that does for Corbett that day wit' Fitz.

“'That's d' stuff, Spot!' says d' Face, as d' party is slugged, an' then he sets him down be d' fence all limp an' quiet, an' goes t'rough him.

“Dey gets a super, a pin, an' quite a healt'y roll besides. He's so done up dey even gets a di'mond off one of his hooks.

“Sure! d' garrote almost puts a mark's light out. Youse can bet! after youse has been t'rough d' mill onct, youse won't t'ink, travel, nor raise d' yell for half an hour. A mark's lucky to be alive who's been t'rough d' garrote. It ain't so bad as d' sandbag at that, neither.

“How was it d' Face is took? Nit; d' cop don't get in on d' play; dey win easy. It's two weeks later when he's collared. D' Face's pal, Spot, gets too gabby wit' a skirt, who's stoolin' for d' p'lice on d' sly, an' she goes an' knocks to d' Chief!”

O'TOOLE'S CHIVALRY

A woman, a spaniel, and a walnut tree;

The more you beat them, the better they be.

Irish Proverb.

Thus sadly sang P. Sarsfield O'Toole to himself, as he readjusted the bandage to his wronged eye. He believed it, too; at least in the case of Madame Bridget Burke, the wife of one John Burke.

The Burkes were the neighbours of P. Sarsfield O'Toole; they lived next door. The intimacy, however, went no further; O'Toole and the Burkes were not friends.

This is the story of the damaged eye. It offers the reason why P. Sarsfield O'Toole comforted himself with the vigorous Irish proverb.

It was the evening before. P. Sarsfield O'Toole was sitting on his back porch, cooling himself after a day's work at his profession of bricklayer, by reading the history of Ireland. The Burkes were holding audible converse just over the division fence.

P. Sarsfield O'Toole closed the history of his native land to listen. This last was neither an arduous nor a painful task, for the Burkes, with the splendid frankness of a household willing to stand or fall by its record, could be heard a block.

“Me family was noble!” P. Sarsfield O'Toole overheard John Burke remark. “The Burkes wanst lived in their own cashtle.”

“They did not,” observed Madame Burke. “They lived woild in the bog of Allen, and there was mud on their shanks from wan ind of the year to the other. Divvil a cashtle did a Burke ever see; barrin' a jail.”

“Woman! av yez arouse me,” said John Burke, threateningly, “I'll break the bones of ye, an' fling yez in the corner to mend. Don't exashperate me, woman.”

“I exashperate yez!” retorted Madame Burke, scornfully. “For phwat wud I exashperate yez! Wasn't your own uncle transhpoorted? Answer me that, John Burke?”

“Me uncle suffered to free Ireland, woman!” responded the husband.

“May the divvil hould him!” said Madame Burke. “He was transhpoorted as a felon, for b'atin' the head off Humpy Pete, the cripple, at the Fair. He was an illygant speciment of a Burke! always b'atin' cripples an' women!”

The last would seem to have been an unfortunate remark, in so far as it contained a suggestion. The next heard by the listening P. Sarsfield O'Toole was the loud lament of Madame Bridget Burke as her husband, John Burke, submitted her to that correction which he afterwards described to the police justice as, “givin' her a tashte av the sthrap.”

The cries of Madame Bridget Burke were at their highest when P. Sarsfield O'Toole looked over the fence.

“Shtop b'atin' the leddy, John Burke!” commanded P. Sarsfield O'Toole.

“Phwat's it to yez! ye Far-down!” demanded John Burke, looking up from his labours. “Av yez hang your chin on that line fince ag'in, I'll welt the life out av yez! D'ye moind it now!”

“Is it to me yez apploies the word 'Far-down!” shouted P. Sarsfield O'Toole, wrathfully. “Phwat are yez yerself but a rascal of a Stonethrower? Don't timpt me with your names, John Burke, an' shtop b'atin' the leddy. If I iver come over wanst to yez, I'll return a criminal!”

“Shtop b'atin' me own lawful Bridget,” retorted John Burke, in tones of scorn, “when she's been teasin' for the sthrap a month beyant! Well, I loike that! I'll settle with yez, O'Toole, when I tache me woife to respect the name of Burke.” Here the representative of that honourable title smote Madame Bridget lustily. “Av I foind yez in me yarud, O'Toole, ye'll lay no bricks to-morry.”

P. Sarsfield O'Toole cleared the fence at a bound. He was chivalrous, and would rescue Madame Burke. He was proud and would resent the opprobrious epithet of “Far-down.” He was sensitive, and would teach John Burke never to threaten him with disability as a bricklayer.

P. Sarsfield O'Toole, as stated, cleared the fence at a bound, and closed with John Burke as if he were a bargain.

What might have been the finale of this last collision will never be known. As P. Sarsfield O'Toole and John Burke danced about, locked in a deadly embrace, the emancipated Madame Burke suddenly selected a piece of scantling from the general armory of the Burke backyard and brought it down, not on the head of her oppressor, but on that of the gallant P. Sarsfield O'Toole, who had come to her rescue.

“Oh, ye murtherin' villyun!” shouted Madame Burke. “W'ud yez kill a husband befure the eyes of his lawful widded woife! An' due yez think I'd wear his ring and see yez do it!”

At this point in the conversation Madame Bridget Burke cut a long, satisfactory gash in P. Sarsfield O'Toole, just over the eye.

The police came.

John Burke was fined twenty dollars.

Madame Bridget Burke, present lovingly in court, paid it with a composite air, breathing insolence for the judge and affection for John Burke.

“The ijee av that shpalpeen, O'Toole,” said Madame Burke that evening to John Burke, and her words floated over the fence to P. Sarsfield O'Toole, as he nursed his wounds on his porch; “the ijee av that shpalpeen, O'Toole, comin' bechuxt man and woife! D' yez moind th' cheek av 'im! Didn't the priest say, 'Phwat hivin has j'ined togither, let no man put asoonder?”

“He did, Bridget, he did,” replied John Burke. “An' yez have the

## particulars av a foine woman about yez, yerself, Bridget!”

“Troth! an' I have,” said Madame Burke, giving full consent to this view of her merits. “But, John, phwat a rapscallion yer uncle they transhpoorted must av been, to bate the loife out o' poor Humpy Pete, the cripple-fiddler, that toime at the Fair!”

For the second time the strap fell, and the shrieks of Madame Burke filled the neighbourhood. P. Sarsfield O'Toole, still on his porch, sat unmoved, and bestowed no interest on the doings of the Burkes. As the strap was plied and the yells of the victim uplifted, P. Sarsfield O'Toole repeated the proverb which stands at the head of this story.

WAGON MOUND SAL

(Wolfville)

It was Wagon Mound Sal--she got the prefix later and was plain “Sal” at the time--who took up laundry-labours when Benson Annie became a wife. And this tells of the wooing and wedding of Riley Bent with Sallie of Wagon Mound.

Wagon Mound Sal prevailed, as stated, the mistress of a laundry. And it was there Riley Bent first beheld her, as she was putting a tubful of the blue woollen shirts affected by the males of her region through a second suds. On this occasion Riley's appearance was due to a misunderstanding. He was foggy with drink, and looked in on a theory that the place was a store which made a specialty of the sale of shirts.

“What for a j'int is this?” asked Riley as he entered.

“It's a laundry,” replied Sal; and then observing that Riley Bent was in his cups, she continued with delicate firmness; “an' if you-all ain't mighty keerful how you line out, you'll shorely get a smoothin' iron direct.”

Nothing daunted by the lady's candour, Riley Bent sat down on a furloughed tub which reposed bottom up in one corner. In the course of a conversation, whereof he furnished the questions, and Sal the short, inhospitable replies, it occurred that she and Riley Bent became mutually, albeit dimly, known to one another.

During the three months following, Riley Bent was much and persistently in the laundry of Wagon Mound Sal. Wolfville, eagle-eyed in the softer and more dulcet phenomena of life, looked confidently for a wedding. So in truth did Sal, emulous of Benson Annie. Also Sal was a clear-minded, resolute young lady; and having one day concluded to take Riley Bent for better or for worse, she lost no time in bringing matters to a focus.

“You're a maverick?” she one day asked, suddenly looking up from her ironing. Sal's tones were steady and cool, but it was noticed that she burnt a hole in the bosom of Doc Peets's shirt while waiting a reply. “You-all ain't married none?”

“Thar ain't no squaw has ever been able to rope, throw an' run her brand on me!” said Riley Bent. “Which I'm shorely a maverick!”

“Whatever then is the matter of you an' me dealin'?” asked Sal, coming around to Riley Bent's side of the ironing table.

That personage surveyed her in a thoughtful maze.

“You're a long horn, an' for that much so be I,” he said at last, as one who meditates. “Neither of us would grade for corn-fed in anybody's yards!”

Then came another long pause, during which, with his eyes fixedly gazing into Wagon Mound Sal's, Riley Bent gave himself to the unwonted employment of thinking. At last he shook his head until the little gold bells on his bullion hatband tinkled in a dubious, uncertain way, as taking their tone from the wearer.

“Which the idee bucks me plumb off!” he remarked, with a final deep breath; and then with no further word Riley repaired to the Red Light Saloon and became dejectedly yet deeply drunk.

For a month Wolfville saw naught of Riley Bent. He was supposed to be two-score miles away on the range with his cattle. Wagon Mound Sal, with a trace of grimness about the mouth, conducted her laundry, and, in the absence of competition, waxed opulent. She looked confidently for the return of Riley Bent; as what woman, knowing her spells and powers, would have not.

At last he came. Sal, as well as Wolfville, learned of his presence by a mellow whoop at the far end of the single street. Sal was subsequently gratified by a view of him as he and a comrade, one Rice Hoskins, slid from their saddles and entered the Red Light Saloon.

Wagon Mound Sal was offended at this; he should have come straight to her. But beyond slamming her irons unreasonably as she replaced them on the range, she made no sign.

To give Riley Bent justice, he had done little during the month of his absence save think of Wagon Mound Sal. Whether he pursued the evanescent steer, or organised the baking powder biscuit of his day and kind, Wagon Mound Sal ran ever in his thoughts like a torrent. But he couldn't bring himself to the notion of a wife; not even if that favoured woman were Wagon Mound Sal.

“Seems like bein' married that a-way,” he explained to Rice Hoskins, as they discussed the business about their camp-fire, “is so onnacheral.”

“That's whatever!” assented Rice Hoskins.

“But,” said Riley Bent after a pause; “I reckon I'd better ride in an' tell her she don't get me none, an' end the game.”

“That's whatever!”

It was deference to this view which gained Wolfville the pleasure of the presence of Riley Bent and Rice Hoskins on the occasion named. It had been Riley Bent's plan--having first acquired what stimulant he might crave--to leave Rice Hoskins to the companionship of the barkeeper, while he repaired briefly to Wagon Mound Sal, and expressed a determination never to wed. But after the first drink he so far modified the programme as to decide, instead, to write a letter.

“You see!” he said, “writin' a letter shows a heap more respect. An' then ag'in, if I goes personal, she might get all wrought up an' lay for me permiscus a whole lot.”

The flaw in this letter plan became apparent. Neither Riley Bent nor Rice Hoskins could write. They made application to Black Jack, the barkeeper, to act as amanuensis. But he saw objection, and hesitated.

“I reckon I'll pass the deal, gents,” said Black Jack, “if you-alls don't mind. The grand jury is goin' to begin their round-up over in Tucson next week, an' they'd jest about call it forgery.”

At last as a solution, Rice Hoskins drew a rude picture in ink of a woman going one way, and a man with a big hat and disreputable spurs, going the other; what he called an “Injun letter.” This work of art he regarded with looks of sagacity and satisfaction.

“If she was an Injun,” said the artist, “she'd _sabe_ that picture mighty quick. That means: 'You-all take your trail an' I'll take mine.'”

“Which it does seem plain as old John Chisholm's 'Fence-rail Brand,'” remarked Riley Bent. “Now jest make a tub by her, an' mark me with a 4-bar-J, the same bein' my brand; then she'll shorely tumble. Thar's nothin' like ropin' with a big loop; then if you miss the horns, you're mighty likely to fasten by the feet.”

The missive was despatched to Wagon Mound Sal by hand of a Mexican. Then Riley Bent and Rice Hoskins restored their flagged spirits with liquor.

Riley Bent and Rice Hoskins drank a vast deal. And it came to pass, by virtue of this indiscretion, that Rice Hoskins later, while Riley Bent was still thoughtfully over his cups at the Red Light, rode his broncho into the New York Store. In the plain line of objection to this, Jack Moore, the Marshal, shot Rice Hoskins' pony. As the animal fell it pinned Rice Hoskins to the floor by his leg; in this disadvantageous position he emptied his pistol at Jack Moore, and of course missed.

Moore was in no sort an idle target. He was a painstaking Marshal, and showed his sense of duty at this time by putting four bullets through the reckless bosom of Rice Hoskins; the staccate voices of their Colt's six-shooters melted into each other until they sounded as one.

“I never could shoot none with a pony on my laig,” observed Rice Hoskins.

[Illustration: 0177]

Then a splash of blood stained his sun-coloured moustache; his empty pistol rattled on the board floor; his head dropped on his arm, and Rice Hoskins was dead.

It was at this crisis that Riley Bent, startled by the artillery as he sat in the Red Light, came whirling to the scene on his pony. The duel was over before he set foot in stirrup. He saw at a glance that Rice Hoskins was only a memory. Had he been romantic, or a sentimentalist, Riley Bent would have shot out the hour with Jack Moore, the Marshal. And had there been one spark of life in the heart of Rice Hoskins to have fought over, Riley Bent would have stood in the smoke of his own six-shooter all day and taken what Fate might send. As it was, however, he curbed his broncho in mid-speed so bluntly, the Spanish bit filled its mouth with blood. It spun on its hind hoofs like a top. Then, as the long spurs dug to its ribs, it whizzed off in the opposite direction; out of camp like an arrow. The last bullet in Jack Moore's pistol splashed on a silver dollar in Riley Bent's pocket as he turned his pony.

“Whenever I reloads my pistol,” said Jack Moore to Old Man Enright, who had come up, “I likes to reload her all around; so I don't regyard that last cartridge as no loss.”

Wagon Mound Sal was deep in a study of Rice Hoskins' “Injun letter” when the shooting took place. The missive's meaning was not so easy to make out as its hopeful authors had believed. When the deeds of Jack Moore were related to her, however, the brow of Wagon Mound Sal took on an angry flush. She sent a message to Jack Moore asking him to call at once.

“Whatever do you mean?” she demanded of Jack Moore, as he entered the laundry, “a-stampedin' of Riley Bent out of camp that a-way? Don't you know I was intendin' to marry him? Yere he's been gone a month, an' yet the minute he shows up you have to take to cuttin' the dust 'round his moccasins with your six-shooter, an' away he goes ag'in. He jest nacherally seizes on your gun-play for a good excuse. It's shore enough to drive one plumb loco!”

Jack Moore looked decidedly bothered.

“Of course, Sal,” he said at last in a deprecatory way, “you-all onderstands that when I takes to shakin' the loads outen my six-shooter at Riley Bent, I does it offishul. An' I'm free to say, that I was that wropped and preoccupied like with my dooties as Marshal at the time, I never thinks once of them nuptials you med'tates with Riley Bent. If I had I would have downed his pony with that last shot an' turned him over to you. But perhaps it ain't too late.”

It was the next afternoon. Riley Bent was reclining in his camp in the _Très Hermanas_. Grey, keen eyes watched him from behind a point of rocks. Suddenly a mouthful of white smoke puffed from the point of rocks, and something hard and positive broke Riley Bent's leg just above the knee. The blow of the bullet shocked him for a moment, but the next, with a curse in his mouth, and a six-shooter in each hand, he tumbled in behind a boulder to do battle with his assailant. With the crack of the Winchester which accompanied the phenomena of smoke-puff and broken leg, came the voice of Jack Moore, Marshal.

“Hold up your hands, thar!” said Moore. “Up with 'em; I shan't say it twice!”

Riley Bent could not obey; he had taken ten seconds off to faint.

When he revived Jack Moore had claimed his pistols and was calmly setting the bones of the broken leg; devoting the woollen shirts in the war-bags on his saddle to be bandages, and making splints of cedar bark. These folk of the plains and mountains, far from the surgeon, often set each other's, or, for that matter, their own bones, when a fall from a pony, or some similar catastrophe, furnishes the call.

“If you-all needed me,” observed Riley Bent peevishly, when a little later Jack Moore was engaged over bacon and flap-jacks for the sundown meal, “whatever was the matter of sayin' so? Thisyere idee of shootin' up a gent without notice or pow-wow is plumb onlegal. An' I'll gamble on it, ten to one!”

“Well!” said Jack Moore, as he deftly tossed a flap-jack in the air and caught it in the frying-pan again, “I didn't aim to take no chances of chagrinin' one who loves you, by lettin' you get away. Then, ag'in, my own notion is that it might sorter hasten the bridal some. Thar's nothin' like a bullet in a party's frame for makin' him feel romantic an' sentimental. It softens his nature a heap, an' sets him to yearnin' for female care.

“Which you've been shootin me up to be married!” responded Riley Bent in tones of disgust.

“That's straight!” retoited Jack Moore, as he slid the last flap-jack into the invalid's tin plate. “You've been pesterin' 'round Wagon Mound Sal ontil that lady has become wropped in you. She confides to me cold that she's anxious to make a weddin' of it, which is all the preliminary necessary in Arizona. You are goin' back to Wolfville with me tomorry on a buck-board,--which will be sent on yere from the stage station,--an' after Doc Peets goes over your laig ag'in, you an' Wagon Mound Sal are goin' to become man an' wife like a landslide. You have bred hopes in that lady's bosom, an' you've got to make 'em good. That's all thar is to this play; an' you don't get your guns ag'in ontil you're a married man.”

Jack Moore, firm, direct and decided, had a great effect in fixing the wandering fancies of Riley Bent. He thoughtfully masticated his flap-jack a moment, and then asked:

“S'pose I arches my back an' takes to buckin' at these yere abrupt methods in my destinies; s'pose I quits the deal cold?”

“In which eevent,” responded Jack Moore, with an air of iron confidence, “we merely convenes the Stranglers an' hangs you for luck.”

But Riley Bent was softened and his mind made fully up. Whether it was the sentimental influence of Jack Moore's bullet, which Doc Peets subsequently dug out; or whether Riley was touched by the fact that Wagon Mound Sal, herself, brought over the buckboard to convey him to Wolfville, may never be known. What was certain, however, was that Riley Bent came finally to the conclusion to wed. He told Wagon Mound Sal so while on the buckboard going back.

“Which it's shorely doubtful,” said Wagon Mound Sal, “if any man is worth the trouble. An' this yere is my busiest day, too!”

There was great rejoicing in the wareroom of the New York Store. A whole box of candles blazed gloriously from the walls. Old Man Enright gave the bride away, Benson Annie appeared to look on, while Faro Nell supported Sal as bridesmaid. As usual, in any hour of sacred need, a preacher was obtained from Tucson.

“An' you can bet that pastor knows his business!” said Old Monte, the stage driver, who had been commissioned to bring one over. “He's a deep-water brand, an' he's all right! I takes my steer when I seelects him from the barkeep of the Golden Rod saloon, an' he'd no more give me the wrong p'inter, that a-way, than he'd give me the wrong bottle.”

Doc Peets's offering to the bride was a bullet. It was formerly the property of Jack Moore. It was the one he conferred on Riley Bent that evening in the foothills of the _Très Hermanas_.

“Keep it!” said Doc Peets to the bride. “It's what sobers him, an' takes the frivolity outen him, an' makes him know his own heart.”

“An' I shorely reckons you're right that a-way, Doc,” said Jack Moore, some hours after the wedding as the two turned from the laundry whither Moore had repaired to return Riley Bent his pistols; “I shore reckons you're right a whole lot. I knows a gent in the states, an' he tells me himse'f how he goes projectin' 'round, keepin' company with a lady for a year, an' ain't thinkin' none speshul of marryin' her. One day somebody gets plumb tired of the play an' shoots him some, after which he simply goes about pantin' to lead that lady to the altar; that's straight!”

JOE DUBUQUE'S LUCK

(Annals of The Bend)

YOUSE can soak your super,” said Chucky, “some dubs has luck! I've seen marks who could fall into d' sewer, see! an' come out wit' a bunch of lilacs in each mit.

“Nit; it wasn't all luck wit' Joe Dubuque. His breakin' out of hock that time is some luck, but mostly 'cause Joe himself is a dead wise guy an* onto his job. Tell youse about it? In a secont--in a hully second! Just say 'gin fizz!' to d' barkeep an' I'll begin.

“Never mind d' preeliminaries, as d' story writers says, but Joe's in jail, see! Joe win out ten spaces for touchin' a farmer for his bundle. Was it a wad? D' roll Joe gets is big enough to choke a cow--'leven t'ousand plunks, if it's a splinter.

“Wherefore, as I relates, Joe gets ten years, an' is layin' in jail while d' gezebo, who's his lawyer, sees can he woik d' high court to give Joe a new trial.

“Joe don't feel no sort chirpy; he's onto it d' high court's dead sure to t'run him down. Then he goes to d' pen to do them ten spaces. An' onct there, wit' all that time ahead, he sees his finish all right, all right. He might as well be a lifer.

“So Joe puts it up he'll break himself out. Joe's goil comes every day to see him. Say! she's a bute, Joe's Rag is; d' crooks calls her 'Wild Willie,' 'cause now an' then she toins dopey an' acts like she's got doves in her eaves. But anyhow she's on d' square wit' Joe, an' sticks to him like a postage stamp.

“Joe sends out d' woid be his Rag about what he's goin' to do, to d' push outside; an' tells 'em how to help. Yes; d' job is put up as fine as silk. Every mark knows what he's to do.

“Now, here's d' trick dey toins; here's how Joe beats d' jail for good.

“It comes round to d' night. Joe's cell--it's a big cell, a reg'lar corker, wit' gas into it--is on d' fort' corridor. D' guard comes round at 9 o'clock orderin' out d'lights. Joe's gas is boinin' away to beat d' band, an' Joe is lay in' on his bunk.

“'Dowse d' glim, Joe!' says d' guard.

“What th' 'ell!' says Joe. 'Dowse d' glim, yourself, you Sheeny hobo!'

“D' guard makes a bluff about what he'll do, an' cusses Joe out. All d' same he unlocks d' door an' comes chasin' in to put out Joe's gas.

“Now, what does Joe do? As d' guard toins to d' gas to dowse it, Joe sets up on his bunk, an' all at onct he soaks this gezebo of a guard wit' a rubber billy his Moll sneaks in to him d' day before. Does he land d' sucker? Say! he almost cracks his nut, an' that's for fair!

“D' guard drops an' in a minute Joe winds him all up tight in a bedtick rope he's made. Then he stoppers his jaw an' t'rows d' mucker on d' bunk, takes his keys, locks him in d' cell an' goes galumpin' off to let himself t'rough d' doors, so he can try a sprint for it. Yes, Joe makes some row when he t'umps this party, but d' captiffs in d' nex' cells hears d' racket an' half tumbles to it; an' so dey starts singin' 'Rock of Ages,' an' makes a noise so as to cover Joe's play, see! Oh! dey was some fly guys locked up in that old coop.

“As Joe lines out for d' doors, he's t'inkin' to himself, how on eart' is he goin' to make it? Nit; it wouldn't be no trouble to get outside d' doors of what youse might call d' jail proper. But after that, Joe's got to go t'rough four offices wit' a mob of dep'ties into 'em. An' he's on it's goin' to be a squeak if some of 'em don't recognize him. Joe's mug was well known.

“You know how dey woiks d' doors to a jail? Youse don't? It's this way. Joe, when he comes up, has d' key to d' inside door, which he nips off d' guard as I says when he slugs him wit 'd' billy. Joe lets himself into d' cage wit' that.

“Now, d' key to d' outside door ain't in d' coop at all. There's an old stiff of a dep'ty sheriff planted outside wit' that. As Joe opens d' inside door, he raps on d' bars of d' cage wit' his key, an' it's d' tip for this outside snoozer to unlock his door. Of course he plays Joe for d' guard coinin' out from his rounds.

“It's at this door-slammin' pinch where Joe's luck comes in, an' relieves him of d' chanct of d' gang of dep'ties in d' office tumblin' to him. Just as Joe raps to d' sucker on d' outside door, an' then lets himself into d' cage, a gun goes off inside d' jail. It's Joe's guard. Joe forgets to pinch d' pop, see! an' this gezebo gets his hooks onto it, all tied like he is, an' bangs away wit' it in his pockets so as to warn d' gang Joe's loose.

“'That does me for fair!' t'inks Joe when he hears d' gun; ''dey gets me dead to rights!'

“Say! it was d' one trick that saves him! At d' bang of d' gun every dep'ty leaps to his trilbys an' comes chasin'. D' outside mark has just unslewed his door. He flings it wide open an' scoots inside d' cage. Joe t'rows d' inside door open--for Joe's dead swift to take a hunch that way--an 'd' outside guard an 'd' entire bunch of dep'ties goes sprintin' into d' jail. Then Joe locks 'em all in an' loafs t'rough d' offices into d' street.

“Yes; Joe knows where he's goin'. He toins into d' foist stairway an' climbs one story to a law office, which d' crooks outside has fixed to be open, waitin' for him. Nixie; d' law guy ain't in on d' play. A dip named Jim Butts comes an' touts this law sharp away, an' cons him into goin' out six miles to d' country to draw d' last will an' test'ment of a galoot he says is on d' croak, an' can't wait for mornin'. Yes, Butts has one of his mob faked up for sick, an' dey detains d' law guy four hours makin' d' will. This stall of Butts, who's doin' d' sick act, sets up between gasps an' gives away more'n twenty million dollars wort' of wealt'. This crook who's fakin' sick is on his uppers at d' time, an' don't really have d' price of beer; but to hear him make his will that night, you'd say he was d' richest ever; d' Astors was monkeys to him.

“As I states, Joe skips into this lawyer's office, d' same bein' open for d' poipose, an' one of d' 'fambly' holdin' it down. While Joe's in there he hears d' chase runnin' up an' down in d' street below d' window.

“Not for long, though. Fifteen minutes after Joe is outside d' jug, one of d' crooks calls up d' Central Office be telephone.

“'Who's talkin'?' asts d' captain at d' Central Office.

“'It's Doyle, lieutenant o' police, Fourt' Precinct,' says d' crook who's on d' wire. Me man on d' station house beat just reports Joe Dubuque drivin' west on Detroit street wit' a horse an' buggy. He was on d' dead run, lamin' loose to beat four of a kind. Send all d' men youse can spare.'

“An' that's what d' captain at d' Central Office does. In ten minutes every cop an' fly cop is on d' chase, a mile away from Joe, an' gettin' furder every secont, see!

“After a while it settles down all quiet an' dead about d' jail, an 'd' little old law office where Joe lies buried. He, an' d' crook who's waitin' for him, is chinnin' each other in whispers. All d' time Joe's got his lamps to d' window pipin' off d' other side of d' street. At last a cab drives up opposite d' law office an' stops. A w'ite han'kerchief shows flutterin' be d' window. It's Wild Willie who's inside.

“Joe's pal gets up an' goes down to d' street. All's clear an' he w'istles up to Joe. When he gets d' office Joe sort of loafs down an' saunters over to d' cab. D' door opens an' in one move Joe's inside, an' d' nex' his arm is 'round his Moll. She's all right, this Wild Willie is, an' Joe does d' correct t'ing to give her d' fervent squeeze.

“That's d' end. Joe Dubuque runs clear away, goes under cover, an' d' sheriff never gets his hooks on him ag'in. As Joe drives be d' jail he can still hear them captiffs singin' 'Rock of Ages.'

“'Say!' says Joe to Wild Willie as he toins her mug to his an' smacks her onct for luck, 'I won't do a t'ing but make it a t'ousand dollars in d' kecks of them ducks who's doin' that song. I'll woik d' dough to 'em be some of d' boys, see!'”

BINKS AND MRS. B.

BINKS was an excellent man, hard-working and sober. He made good money and took it home to his wife for her judgment to settle its fate; every dollar of it. Mrs. Binks was a woman among a thousand. When taken separate and apart from his wife and questioned, Binks said she was a “corker.” Binks declined all attempts at definition, and beyond insisting that Mrs. Binks was and would remain a “corker,” said nothing.

From what was told of Mrs. Binks by herself, it would seem that she was a true, loving wife to Binks, and that, aside from the duty every woman owed to her sex and the establishment of its rights in all avenues of life, she held that with the wedding ring came a list of duties due from a good woman to her husband, which could not be avoided nor gone about.

“Some women,” quoth Mrs. B., “worry their husbands with a detail of small matters. A woman who is to be a helpmeet to her husband, such as I am to Binks, will be self-reliant and decide things for herself. In the little cares of life which fall to her share, let her go forward in her own strength. What is the use of adding her troubles to his? If she has plans, let her execute them. If problems confront her, let her solve them. If she tells her husband aught of the thousand little enterprises of her daily home life, then let it be the result. When success has come to her, she may call her husband to witness the victory. Aside from that she should face her responsibilities alone.”

Of course Mrs. B. did not mean by all this that she would not be open and frank with Binks, and confide in him if a burglar were in the house, or if the roof took fire in the night that she would not arouse Binks and mention it. What she did mean was that when it came to such things as dismissing the servant girl, the wife should gird up her loins and “fire” the maiden singlehanded, and not ring her husband in on a play, manifestly disagreeable, and likely to subject him to great remorse.

It chanced recently that an opportunity opened like a gate for Mrs. B. to illustrate her doctrine that wives should proceed in a plain duty alone, without imposing needless anxiety on the head of the family.

Mrs. Binks had decided to visit her sister in Hoboken. She was to go Thursday, and Binks, who was paid his sweat-bought stipend on Monday, was to furnish the money Monday evening wherewith to make the trip.

It chanced, unfortunately, that pay-day this particular week was deferred. The head partner was sick, or out of town; checks could not be drawn, or something like that.

“But your money will come on Saturday, boys,” said the other partner.

Binks was obliged to wait.

The money was all right; it would be accurately on tap Saturday, so Binks took no fret on that point.

But what was he to do about Mrs. B.? That good woman was to go Thursday, and in order to organise for the descent upon her relative would need the money--$40--on Tuesday. What was Binks to do?

Clearly he must do something. He could not ask Mrs. B. to put off her trip a week; indeed, his reluctance to take such course came almost to the point of superstition.

In his troubles Binks suddenly bethought him of a gold watch, once his father's, with a rich chain and guard attached. These precious heirlooms had been given to Binks by the elder Binks' executor, and were cherished accordingly.

Rather than disappoint Mrs. B. the worthy Binks decided, that just for once in his life he would seek a pawnbroker and do business with that common relative of all.

Binks felt timid and ashamed, but the case was urgent. There was no risk, for his money would float in all right on the tides of Saturday. Binks would then redeem these pledges from disgraceful hock; all would be well. Mrs. B. would be in Hoboken on redemption day, and it would not be necessary to tell her anything about the matter. It would save her pain, and Binks bravely determined to keep the whole transaction dark.

Again, if he told her he had not been paid at the store, the brave woman would indubitably wend to his employer's house and demand the reason why. This would be useless and embarrassing. Therefore, Binks would say nothing. He would pawn the ancestral super, and get it again when his money came in, and his wife was away.

The watch and its appertainments were snug in the far corner of a bureau drawer; away over and behind Mrs. B.'s lingerie. Binks had a watch of his own, a Waterbury, with a mainspring as endless as a chain pump. Mrs. B. saw, therefore, no reason why he should carry the gold watch of his progenitor. Binks might lose it. Mrs. Binks strongly advised that it be kept in the bureau where it would be safe and naturally, in an affair of that sort Binks took his wife's advice.

Binks reflected that he must secure the watch and pawn it that night. To do this he must plot to get Mrs. B. out of the house. Binks thought deeply. At last he had it.

Binks sent a message home in the afternoon and asked Mrs. B. to meet him in a store down town at six o'clock. Then he had himself released at 5:30, and went hotfoot homeward.

The coast was clear; Mrs. B. was down town in deference to his stratagem, no doubt believing that Binks meditated soda water, or some other delicacy, as the cause of his sudden summons of the afternoon. She little wotted that she was the victim of deceit. If she had, there would have been woe.

Binks rushed at once to the bureau and secured the treasure. He did not wait a moment, but plunged off to a store where the three balls over the door bore testimony to the commerce within. Binks would explain to Mrs. B. on his return, how he had missed her and so failed to keep his date with her down town.

The merchant of loans and pledges looked over Binks' timepiece, and then, as Binks requested, gave him a ticket for it and $40. It was to be redeemed in thirty days or sooner. And Binks was to pay $44 to get it again. Binks was very willing. Anything was wiser and better than to permit Mrs. B.'s visit to her sister to be interrupted.

When Binks got home Mrs. B. had already returned.

There was a bad light in her eye. She accepted Binks' excuses and explanations as to “how he missed her down town” with an evil grace. She as good as told Binks that he deceived her; that if the phenomenon were treed she would find another woman in the case.

However, Binks had the presence of mind to turn over the $40 he reaped on the watch; and as he expressed it later:

“That sort of hushed her up.”

The next day Binks returned to his labours, while Mrs. B. repaired to the marts to plunge moderately on what truck she stood in want of for her trip.

When Mrs. B. got back to the house it chanced that the first thing she needed was in the fatal drawer. She opened it.

Horrors! The watch was gone!

There was naught of hesitation; Mrs. B. knew it had been stolen. Anybody could see that from the way every garment had been carefully laid back to hide the loss.

What should she do? The police must at once be notified. Mrs. B. pulled on her shaker and scooted for the police station. She told her story out of breath. She left her house at three o'clock and was back at four o'clock, and in that short hour her home had been entered and looted of its treasures. Made to be specific, Mrs. B. said the treasures were a watch and chain, and described them.

“What were they worth?” asked the sergeant of the detectives.

Mrs. B. considered a bit, and then said they would be dog cheap at $1,000. She reflected that the sum, if published in the papers, would be a source of pride.

The sergeant of detectives told Mrs. B. his men would look about for her property, and should they hear of it or find it they would at once notify her.

“You bet your gum boots! ma'am,” said the sleuth confidently, “whatever crook's got your ticker, he's due to soak it or plant it some'ers in a week. Mebby he'll turn it over to his Moll. But the minute we springs it, ma'am, or turns it up, we'll be dead sure to put you on in a jiff.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. B.

Then Mrs. Binks went home and, true to her determination to save Binks from unnecessary worry, she told him nothing of the loss nor of her arrangements for the watch's recovery.

“What's the use of bothering Binks?” she asked herself. “All he could do would be to notify the police, and I've done that.”

Thursday came and Mrs. B. set forth for Hoboken. No notice had come from the police. Binks was glad to see her go. He had lived in fear lest she come across the departure of the watch. He breathed easier when she was gone. As for Mrs. B., as she had not heard from the police, there was nothing to tell Binks; wherefore, like a self-reliant woman who did not believe in making her husband unhappy to no purpose, she left without word or sign as to her knowledge of the watch's disappearance.

It was Friday; ever an unlucky day. Binks was walking swiftly homeward. Binks was thinking some idle thing when a hand came down on his shoulder, heavy as a ham.

“Hold on, me covey; I want you!”

Binks looked around, scared and startled. He had been halted by a stocky, bluff man in citizen's clothes.

“What is it?” gasped Binks.

“Suttenly, sech a fly guy as you don't know!” said the bluff man, with a glare. “Well! never mind why I wants you; I'm a detective, and you comes with me.”

And Binks went with him.

Not only that, Binks went in a noisy patrol wagon which the detective rang for; and it kept gonging its way along and attracting everybody's attention.

The word went about among his friends that Binks was drunk and had been fighting.

“And to think a man would act like that,” said one lady, who knew Binks by sight, “just because his wife is away on a visit! If I were his wife I'd never come back to him!”

At the station Binks was solemnly looked over by the chief.

“He's the duck!” said the chief at last. “Exactly old Goldberg's description of the party who spouts the ticker. Where did you collar him, Bill?”

“I sees him paddin' along on Broadway,” replied the bluff man, “and I tumbles to the sucker like a hod of brick. I knowed he was a sneak the first look I gives; and the second I says to meself, 'he's wanted for a watch!' Then I nails him.”

“Do you know who he is?” asked the chief.

“My name,” said Binks, who was recovering from the awful daze that had seized him, “my name is B----”

“Shet up!” roared the bluff man. “Don't give us any guff! It'll be the worse for you!”

“I know the mark,” said an officer looking on.

“His name is 'Windy Joe, the Magsman.' His mug's in the gallery all right enough; number 38, I think.”

“That's correct!” said the chief. “I knowed he was familiar to me, and I never forgets a face. Frisk him, Bill, and lock him up!”

“But my name's Binks!” protested our hero. “I'm an innocent man!”

“That's what they all says,” replied the chief. “Go through him, Bill, and lock him up; I want to go to me grub.”

Binks was cast into a dungeon. Next door to him abode a lunatic, who reviled him all night. On the blotter the ingenuity of the chief detective inscribed: “Windy Joe, the Magsman, alias Binks. Housebreaking in daytime.”

*****

There is scant need of spinning out the agony. Binks got free of the scrape some twelve hours later. But it was all very unfortunate. He came near dismissal at the store, and the neighbours don't understand it yet. They shake their heads and say:

“It's very strange if he's so innocent, why he was locked up. When the police take a man, he's generally done something.”

“I'm not sorry a bit!” said Mrs. B., when she was brought back from Hoboken on Saturday by a wire the police allowed Binks to send her. “And when I saw him with the officers, I was as good a mind to tell them to keep him as ever I had to eat. To think how he deceived me about that watch, allowing me to break my heart with thoughts of it being stolen! I guess the next time Binks sneaks off to pawn his dead father's watch, he'll let me know.”

ARABELLA WELD

(By the Office Boy)

I

It was a chill Harlem evening. The Undertaker sat in his easy chair smoking his pipe of clay. About him were ranged the tools and trappings of his gruesome art. On trestles, over in the corner's gliding shadows, lay the remains he had just been monkeying with.

At last, as one who reviews his work, the Undertaker arose, and scanned the wan map of the Departed.

“He makes a great front,” mused the Undertaker. “He looks out of sight, and it ought to fetch her.”

Back to his chair roamed the Undertaker. As he seated himself he touched a bell. The Poet of the establishment glided dreamily in. The Undertaker, not only straightened the kinks out of corpses to the Queen's taste, but he furnished epitaphs, and as well, verses for those grief-bitten. These latter were to run in the papers with the funeral notice.

“Have youse torn off that epitaph for his jiblets?” asked the Undertaker, nodding towards Deceased.

“What was it you listed for?” asked the Poet.

“D' epitaph for William Henry Weld,” replied the Undertaker. The Poet passed over the desired epitaph.

William Henry Weld.

(Aged 26 years.)

His race he win with pain and sin,

At Satan he did mock;

St. Peter said as he let him in:

“It's Willie, in a walk!”

“You're a wonder!” cried the Undertaker, when he had finished the perusal, and he gave the Poet the glad hand. “Here's d' price. Go and fill your tank.”

“That should win her,” reflected the Undertaker, when the poet had wended his way; “that ought to leave her on both sides of d' road. What I've done for Deceased, and that epitaph should knock her silly. She shall be mine!”

II

PUBLIC interest having been aroused in the corpse, it may be well to tell how it became that way.

Deceased was William Henry Weld. Five days before the opening of our story, William donned his skates and lined out on one of his periodicals. For four days he debauched to beat four kings and an ace.

And William had adventures. He paid a fine; he fell down a coal hole; he invaded a laundry and administered the hot wallops to the presiding Chinaman. On the fourth day he declared himself in on a ball not far from Sixth Avenue.

“Ah, there!” quoth William, archly, to a beautiful being to whom he had not been introduced. “Ah, there! Tricksey; I choose youse for d' next waltz.”

“Nit; not on your life!” murmured the beautiful one.

As William Henry Weld was about to make fitting response, a coarse, vulgar person approached.

“What for be youse jimmin' 'round me pick?” asked this person.

“That's d' stuff, Barney!” said the beautiful one. “Don't do a t'ing to him!”

The next instant William Henry Weld was cast into outer darkness.

“It's all right, Old Man!” said the friend who rescued William Henry Weld, “I'm goin' to take youse home. Your wife ain't on to me, an' I'll fake it I'm a off'cer, see! I'll give her d' razzle dazzle of her existence, an' square youse wit' her.”

“It's Willie!” said the friend to Arabella Weld, as he supported her husband into the sitting-room. “It's Willie, an' he's feelin' O. K. but weedy. Me name, madam, is Jackson--Jackson, of d' secret p'lice. Willie puts himse'f in me hands as a sacred trust to bring him home.”

“Is he sick?” moaned Arabella Weld, as she began to let her hair down, preparatory to a yell.

“Never touched him!” assured the friend. “Naw; Willie's off his feed a bit. You sees, madam, Willie hired out to a hypnotist purely in d' interest of science, an' he's been in a trance four days, see! That's why he ain't home. Bein' in a trance, he couldn't send woid. Now all he needs is a rest for, say, a week. Oughtn't to let him get out of his crib for a week.”

At 4 o'clock the next morning William Henry Weld began to see blue-winged goats. Arabella Weld “sprung” a glass of water on him.

“Give it a chase!” shrieked William Henry Weld, wildly waving the false beverage aside.

In his ratty condition he didn't tumble to the pure element's identity, but thought it was one of those Things.

At 5 o'clock A. M. William Henry Weld didn't do a thing but perish. When the glorious sun again poured down its golden mellow beams, the Undertaker had his hooks on him and Arabella Weld was a widow.

III

BUT to return to the Undertaker, the real hero of our tale. We left him in his studio poring over the epitaph of William Henry Weld, while Departed rehearsed his dumb and silent turn for eternity in the corner's lurking shadow. At last the Undertaker roused himself from his reveries.

“I must to bed!” he said; “it waxeth late, and tomorrow I propose for her in wedlock.”

Next morning the Undertaker arose refreshed. He had smote his ear for full eight hours. He felt fit to propose for his life, let alone the delicate duke of Arabella Weld.

The Undertaker's adored one was to come at noon. She wanted to size up Departed prior to the obsequies.

Although it was but 9 o'clock, the Undertaker had to get a curve on himself to keep his date with Arabella Weld at midday. He had an invalid to measure for a coffin--it was a riveted cinch the party would die--and then there was a corpse to shave in the next block. These duties were giving him the crowd.

But our hero made it; played every inning without an error, and was organised for Arabella Weld when she arrived.

As they stood together--Arabella and the man who, all unknown to her, loved her so madly--looking down at Deceased, she could not repress her admiration.

“On d' dead! I never saw Willie look so well,” she said. “He's very much improved. You must have taken a woild of pains wit' Willie.”

The Undertaker was silent.

Struck by this, Arabella Weld turned her full lustrous lamps on the Undertaker and saw it all. It was for her, the loving heart beside her had toiled over Deceased like an artist over a picture.

Swift is Love, and the Undertaker, quivering with his great passion, twigged in an instant that Arabella was onto him. A vast joy swept his heart like a torrent.

“I wanted him to make a hit for your sake,” he whispered, stealing his arm about her.

Arabella softly put his arm away.

“Not now,” she sighed. “It would be too soon a play. We must wait until we've got Willie off our hands--we must wait a year.”

“Wait a year!” and the pain of it bent the Undertaker like a willow. “Wait a year, dearest! Now, what's d' fun of that? You must take me for a farmer!” and his tones showed that the Undertaker was hurt.

“But in Herkimer County they wait a year,” faltered Arabella, wistfully.

“Sure! in Herkimer!” consented the Undertaker; “but that's Up-the-state. A week in Harlem is equal to a year in Herkimer. Let it be a week, love!”

“This isn't a game for Willie's life insurance?” and great crystals of pain and doubt swam in Arabella's glorious eyes.

“Oh, me love!” cried the Undertaker, fondly, yet desperately, “plant d' policy wit' Willie! Send it back to d' company if youse doubts me, an' tell 'em to call d' whole bluff a draw.”

The bit of paper, containing the epitaph, fluttered to the floor from her nerveless mits, her beautiful head sank on the broad shoulder of the Undertaker, and her tears flowed unrestrained.

IV

One week had passed since William Henry Weld was solemnly pigeon-holed for eternal reference.

The preacher received the couple in his study.

“Shall I marry you with the prayer-book, or would youse prefer the short cut?” he asked.

“Marry us on a deck of cards, if you choose!” faltered Arabella. Her eyes sought the floor, while the tell-tale blushes painted her lovely prospectus. “Only cinch the play, an' do it quick!”

THE WEDDING

(Annals of The Bend)

Naw; I'm on I'm late all right, all right; but I couldn't help it, see!”

Chucky was thirty minutes behind our hour. I'd been sitting in the little bar in sickening controversy with one of the vile cigars of the place waiting for Chucky. For which cause I was moved to mention his dereliction sharply.

“Sorry to keep an old pal playin' sol'taire, wit' nothin' better to amuse him than d' len'th of rope youse is puffin',” continued Chucky in furtive excuse, “but I was to a weddin' an' couldn't breakaway. That's w'y I've got on me dress soote.

“Say! on d' dead! of course I ain't in on many nuptials; but all d' same I likes to go. I always comes away feelin' so wise an* flossy an* cooney. Why, I don't know, unless it's 'cause d' guys gettin' hitched looks so much like a couple of come-ons--so dead sure life is such a cinch, such a sight of confidence like one sees at a weddin', be d' parts of d' two suckers who's bein' starred, never omits to make me feel too cunnin' to live for d' whole week after.

“Sure! this weddin' was a good t'ing; what youse might call d' real t'ing; an' it's a spark to a rhinestone it toins out all hunk for d' folks involved. Who's d' two gezebos who gets nex' to each other? D' groom is d' boss gunner of one of our war boats, an 'd' skirt is d' cash goil in d' anti-Chink laundry on Great Jones street.

“An' say! that little skirt's a wonder, an' don't youse forget it! She's good any day for any old t'ing I've got; an' all she's got to do is just rap, an' she takes it, see! It was me Rag sees d' goil foist one time when she's down be d' laundry puttin' in me t'ree-sheets for their weekly dose of suds.

“Is me Rag an' me married? Say! I likes that, I don't t'ink! Youse is gettin' fanciful in your cupolo. 4 Be me little Bundle an' me married?' says you. Well, I should kiss a pig! Youse can take me tip for it, if we ain't man an' wife be d' longest system d' Cat'lic Choich could play--for me Rag told d' father who 'fficiates that we're out for d' limit--then all I got to stutter is there ain't a mug who's married in d' entire city of Noo York.

“Cert! we're married!” Chucky went on after cheering himself with the tankard which the barkeeper placed before him. “If youse had let your lamps repose on this horseshoe scar over d' bridge of me smeller, youse would have tumbled to d' fac wit'out astin'.

“How do I win it? I'm comin' up d' stairs like a sucker, just followin' a difference of opinion between me an' me loidy (I soaked her a little one, an' that's for fair! to show her she's off her trolley about d' subject in dispoote), when she cuts loose d' coal bucket at me. Say! she spoiled me map for a mont'.

“But to get back to d' little laundry goil. Me Rag, as I says, was in this tub-joint where d' goil woikswit' me linen one day; an' just as she chases in, a fresh stiff who's standin' there t'run some raw bluff at d' little laundry goil she couldn't stand for, see! an' she puts up a damp eye an' does d' weep act.

“This little laundry goil is one of them meek, harmless people--rabbits is bull-terriers to 'em--an' so when me onliest own beholds d' tears come chasin down her nose at d' remarks of this fly guy, she chucks me shirts in d' corner an' mounts him in a hully secont.

“An' say! me Rag can scrap, an' that's no dream! I don't want none of it. When she an' me has carried d' conversation to d' point where she takes out her hairpins, an' gives her mane to d' breeze, that's me cue to cork. Youse can't get another rise out of me after that: I knows her.

“Well! me Rag lights into this hobo who's got gay wit 'd' little goil, an' when she takes her hooks out of his make-up, an' he goes surgin' into d' street, honest! he looks like he's been fightin' a dog. Some lovers of true sport who's there an' payin' attention to d' mill, says this galoot wasn't in it wit' me Rag. She has him on d' blink from d' jump; she win in a loiter.

“Takin' her part that way makes d' little laundry goil confidenshul wit' me Rag. It's about two weeks later when she sprints over an' tells Missus Chuck (she makes her promise to lay dead about it, too, but still she passes d' woid to me)--she tells me Rag, as I'm sayin', that she's in trouble. Her steady, she says, is one of d' top notch gunners of one of our big boats; he's d' main squeeze in histurrent, see! an' way up in d' paint. His boat's been layin' at d' Navy Yard, an' now he's ordered to sail for Cuba in a week an' help straighten up d' Dagoes we're havin' d' recent run in wit'. Meanwhiles, she says, dey won't let her beloved have shore leave; an' neither dey won't stand for her to come aboard an' see him. There youse be! a case of dead sep'ration between two lovin' hearts.

“D' little laundry goil gives it out cold, she'll croak if she don't get to see her Billy before he skates off for d' wars. She says she knows he's out to be killed anyhow. D' question wit' her is--what's she goin' to do? Dey won't let her aboard d' boat, an' dey won't let him aboard d' land; now, what's d' soon move for her to make?

“Well, me Rag--who's got a nut on her for cert--says for her to skip down to Washin'ton an' go ag'inst d' Sec'tary himself.

“'Make him a strong talk,' says me Rag; 'give him a reg'lar razzle-dazzle, an' he'll write youse a poiper to them blokes aboard d' boat to let youse see your Billy.'

“'Do youse t'ink for sure he will?' says d' little laundry goil.

“'Why, it's a walkover!' says me Rag. 'If he toins out a hard game, give him d' tearful eye, see! an' cough a sob or two, an' he'll weaken! You can't miss it,' says me ownliest; 'it's easy money.'

“But d' little goil was awful leary of d' play.

“' Washin'ton is so far away,' she says.

“' It's like goin' to Harlem,' says me Rag. 'All youse has to do to go, is to take some sandwidges an' apples to sort o' jolly d' trip, an' then climb onto d' cars an' go. When d' Con. comes t'rough, pass him your pasteboard, see! an' if any of them smooth marks try to make a mash, t'run 'em down an' t'run 'em hard. I'll go over an' do your stunt at d' laundry, so that needn't give youse a scare. An' be d' way! if that lobster I win from d' other day shows up, I'll make a monkey of him ag'in. I didn't spend enough time wit' him on d' occasion of our mix-up, anyway.'

“At last d' little laundry goil makes d' brace of her life. She's so bashful an' timid she can't live; but she's dead stuck on seein' her Billy before he sails away, an' it gives her nerve. As I says, she takes me Rag's steer an' skins out for d' Cap'tal.

“An' what do youse t'ink? D' old mut who's Sec'tary won't chin wit' her. Toins her down cold, he does; gives her d' grand rinky-dink wit'out so much as findin' out what's her racket at all.

“At d' finish, however, d' little goil lands one of d' push--he's a cloik in d' office, I figgers--an' he hears her yarn between weeps, an' ups an' makes a pass or two, an' she gets d' writin'. It says to toin Billy loose every afternoon till d' boat pulls out.

“Say! him an 'd' little goil, when she gets back, was as happy as a couple of kids; dey has more fun than a box of monkeys. On d' level! I was proud of me Rag for floor managin' d' play. She wasn't solid wit' Billy an 'd' little goil! Oh, no!

“That's how me an' me loidy was in on this weddin' to-day wit' bot' trilbys. Me Rag's 'It' wit' d' little goil; youse can gamble on that!

“Of course d' war's over now, an' two weeks ago d' little goil's Billy comes home. An' what wit' pay, an' what wit' prize money, he hits d' Bend wit' a bundle of d' long green big enough to make youse t'row a fit, an' he ain't done a t'ing but boin money ever since.

“Nit; it ain't much of a story, but d' whole racket pleases me out o' sight, see! Considerin' d' hand me Rag plays, when I'm at that weddin' to-day I feels like a daddy to Billy an 'd' little goil. On d' level! I feels that chesty about it, that when d' priest is goin' to bat an says, 'Is there any duck here to give d' bride away?' I cuts in on d' game wit 'd' remark, 'I donates d' bride meself.' I s'pose I was struck dopey, or nutty, or somethin'.

“But me Rag fetches me to all c'rrect. She clinches her mit an' whispers:

“Let me catch youse makin' another funny break like that an' I'll cop a sneak on your neck.' An' then she stands there chewin' d' quiet rag an' pipin' me off wit' an eye of fire. 'Such an old bum as youse,' she says, 'is a disgrace to d' Bend.'”

POINSETTE'S CAPTIVITY

This is a tale of last August. Poinsette was to be left alone for four weeks. Mrs. Poinsette had settled on Cape May as a good thing for the hot spell. She would hie her thither and leave Poinsette to do his worst without her.

Poinsette did not care. He bravely told Mrs. P. she needed an outing. The ozone and the salty, ocean breeze would do her good. So he encouraged Cape May, and bid Mrs. P. go there by all means.

It was decided by the Poinsettes discussing Cape May to have Poinsette room up town while Mrs. P. was thus Cape Maying. The Poinsette house in the suburbs might better be locked up during Mrs. P.'s absence from the city. It would be more economical; indeed, it was not esteemed safe to leave the Poinsette lares and penates to the unwatched ministrations of the Congo who performed in the Poinsette kitchen. It would be wiser to dismiss the servant, bolt and bar the house, obtain Poinsette apartments, and let him browse for food among the bounteous restaurants of the city.

Poinsette found a room to suit in a house on West 87th Street. It was one of a long row of houses. Poinsette reported his victory in room-hunting to Mrs. P. Poinsette was now all right, and ready for what might come. Mrs. P. might bend her course to Cape May without further hesitation.

Mrs. P. was glad to learn of Poinsette's apartment success. She went out and looked at his find to make sure that Poinsette would be comfortable. Incidentally, Mrs. P. kept her eye about her, to note whether the boarding-house books carried any pretty girls. Mrs. P. did not care to have Poinsette too comfortable.

There were no pretty girls. Mrs. P. approved the selection. The very next day she kissed Poinsette good-bye and rumbled and ferried to the station, from which arena of smoke and noise a train leaped forth like a greyhound and bore her away to Cape May.

Poinsette did not accompany his spouse to the station. Ten years before he would have done this, but experience had taught him that Mrs. P. could care for herself. Therefore he remained behind to fasten up the house. Soberly he went about locking doors, and fastening windows, and thinking rather sadly,--as all husbands so deserted do,--of the long, lonely months before him. At last all was secure, and Poinsette turned the key in the big front door and came away.

Poinsette did not feel like work that afternoon, or the trifling fragment of it that was left after Mrs. P. had wended and he had locked up the house. He bought a few good books and several of the more solid periodicals. They would serve during the weary nights while Mrs. P. was away at the Cape. These Poinsette sent to his rooms, and, as it was growing six o'clock now, he turned into Sherry's for his dinner.

Just where Poinsette went that evening following Sherry's, and what he saw and did, and who assisted at such enterprises as he embarked in, would be nothing to the present point and may be skipped. They are the private affairs of Poinsette, and not properly the subjects of a morbid curiosity. However, lest Mrs. P. see this and argue aught herefrom to feed distrust, it should be said that Poinsette saw nobody, did nothing, went no place unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.

It was four o'clock in the morning when Poinsette, the sole passenger aboard a foaming night-liner, toiled through the Park and bore away for his new abode. Poinsette stopped the faithful night-liner two blocks from the door and went forward on foot. Poinsette did not care to clatter ostentatiously to his rooms at four in the morning the first day he inhabited them.

Poinsette found the house without trouble, and stepped lightly to the door. He put the pass-key his landlady had bestowed upon him in the lock, but it would not turn. The bolt would not yield to his wooing. Do all he might, and work he never so wisely, there had sprung up a misunderstanding between key and lock which would not be reconciled. Poinsette could not get “action;” the sullen door still barred him from his bed.

At last Poinsette gave up in despair. He might ring the bell and arouse the house; but he hesitated. It was his first day; the hour needed apology. Poinsette thought it would be better to walk gently to a hotel and abide for the remainder of the night. He would solve this incompatibility of key and lock the next afternoon.

Poinsette turned away and started softly for the street. As he did so a policeman stepped from behind a tree and stopped him. The policeman had been watching Poinsette for five minutes.

“Wot was you a-doin' at the door?” he asked.

Poinsette, in a low, hurried voice, explained. He didn't care to awaken his landlady by a tumult of talk, and have that excellent woman discover him in the hands of the law.

“If your key don't work,” said the policeman, “why don't you ring the bell?”

Poinsette cleared up that mystery. The officer was not satisfied.

“To be free with you, my man,” he said, seizing Poinsette's collar, “I think you're a burglar. If that's your boarding-house you're goin' in. If it isn't, you're goin' to the station.”

Then the policeman, with one hand wound about in Poinsette's neckwear, made trial of the key with the other hand. The effort was futile. The lock was obdurate; the key was stranger to it. Then the blue guardian of the city's slumbers stepped back a pace and took a mighty pull at the door-bell. It was a yank which brought forth a wealth of jingle and ring.

Poinsette was glad of it. He had grown desperate and wanted the thing to end. Bad as it was, it would be better to face his landlady than be locked up in a burglar's cell. Poinsette was resigned, therefore, when a second-story window lifted and a night-capped head was made to overhang the sill and blot its silhouette against the star-lit sky.

“Be you the landlady?” asked the policeman.

“Yes, I am!” quoth the night-cap in a snappy, snarly way. “What do you want?” This with added sourness.

“This party says his name is Poinsette and that he rooms here,” replied the officer.

“No such thing!” retorted the night-cap. “No such man rooms here. Don't even know the name!”

Then the window came down with a grievous bang. It was as if it descended on Poinsette's heart.

“You're a crook!” said the policeman, “and now you come with me.”

Poinsette essayed to explain that the night-cap was not his landlady; that he had made a mistake in the house. The policeman laughed in hoarse scorn at this.

“D'ye think I'm goin' all along the row, yankin' door-bells out by the roots on such a stiff as you're givin' me?”

That was the reply of the policeman to Poinsette's pleadings to try next door.

Poinsette was led sadly off, with the grip of the law on his collar. At the station he was searched and booked and bolted in. On the hard plank, which made the sole furnishings of his narrow cell, Poinsette threw himself down; not to sleep, but to give himself to bitter consideration of his fate.

As Poinsette sat there waiting for the sun to rise and friends to come to his rescue, the station clock struck five. It rang dismally in the cell of Poinsette.

At Cape May, clocks of correct habits were also telling the hour of five. Mrs. P. was not yet asleep. The vigorous aroma of the ocean swept the room. The half-morning was beautiful; Mrs. P., loosely garbed, sat in an easy-chair at the window and enjoyed it.

“I wonder what Poinsette's been doing,” said Mrs. P. to herself; and there was a colour of jealousy in the tone. Then Mrs. P. snorted as in contempt. “I'll warrant he's been having a good time,” she continued. “This idea that married men when their wives are away for the summer have a dull time, never imposed on me.”

TIP FROM THE TOMB

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