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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 46699
   :PG.Title: Judge Elbridge
   :PG.Released: 2014-08-26
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Opie Read
   :DC.Title: Judge Elbridge
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1899
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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JUDGE ELBRIDGE
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      Cover art

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   .. _`He threw a piece of silver upon the banner of the salvationists`:

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      :alt: He threw a piece of silver upon the banner of the salvationists.—*Page* 180

      He threw a piece of silver upon the banner of the salvationists.—*Page* `180`_

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      JUDGE ELBRIDGE

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      BY

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      OPIE READ

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      AUTHOR Of
      "AN ARKANSAS PLANTER," "THE WATERS
      OF CANEY FORK," "A YANKEE
      FROM THE WEST," ETC.

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      CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
      RAND, McNALLY & CO., PUBLISHERS.
      MDCCCXCIX.

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      Copyright, 1899, by Rand, McNally & Co.

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   CONTENTS

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   CHAPTER

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I.  `THE STUDENT AND THE ORATOR`_
II.  `THE FAMILY JOKE`_
III.  `THE NIGHT CAME BACK WITH A RUSH`_
IV.  `STOOD LOOKING AT THEM`_
V.  `SHE SAID THAT SHE WAS STRONG`_
VI.  `THE WEXTON CLUB`_
VII.  `WENT OUT TO "DIG"`_
VIII.  `SAW THE BLACK FACE, GRIM, WITHOUT A SMILE`_
IX.  `HEARD A GONG IN THE ALLEY`_
X.  `WILLIAM AGREED WITH THE JUDGE`_
XI.  `THE OLD OFFICE`_
XII.  `WALKED AND REPENTED`_
XIII.  `WANTED TO SEE HIS SON`_
XIV.  `A PROPOSITION TO MAKE`_
XV.  `DID NOT TOUCH HER`_
XVI.  `WITH AN EAR TURNED TOWARD THE DOOR`_
XVII.  `LYING ON THE SIDEWALK`_
XVIII.  `MADE HIS PROPOSITION`_
XIX.  `THE GIRL AGAIN`_
XX.  `THE PREACHER CONFESSES`_
XXI.  `UP THE STAIRS AND DOWN AGAIN`_
XXII.  `TOLD HIM GOOD-BYE`_
XXIII.  `THE LIGHT BREAKS`_
XXIV.  `SENT A MESSAGE`_

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   ILLUSTRATIONS

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`He threw a piece of silver upon the banner of the
salvationists`_ . . . *Frontispiece*

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`"Halloa, Goyle," said he.  "Come in."`_

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`Goyle began to turn the knob of the safe`_

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`"How's everything?" Bodney asked`_

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`Bodney took the money`_

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`The old man pointed toward the door, and Howard
walked slowly out`_

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`Bodney struck him in the mouth`_

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`The Judge seized the shears and raised them high above his head`_

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.. _`THE STUDENT AND THE ORATOR`:

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   JUDGE ELBRIDGE

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   CHAPTER I.

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   THE STUDENT AND THE ORATOR.

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When John Elbridge retired from the bench, the
newspapers said that he had been an honorable
judge.  He was not a pioneer, but had come to
Chicago at a time which we now call an early day,
when churches rang their bells where now there is
a jungle of trade, when the legs of the Giant of the
West were in the ache of "growing pains;" at a
time when none but the most visionary dreamed
that a mud-hole full of old boots, dead rats, cats,
dogs, could ever be worth a million of dollars.
Elbridge came from Maryland, with a scant
wardrobe, a lawyer's diploma, and the confident
ambition of youth.  It was not long before he formed a
copartnership with a young man named Bodney, a
Kentuckian, in whose mind still lived the chimes of
Henry Clay's bells—a memory that not so much
fitted him to the law as it atuned him to oratory;
but in those days the bar could be eloquent
without inviting the pitying smile which means, "Oh,
yes, it sounds all right, but it's crude."  Elbridge
was the student of the firm, and Bodney the orator,
not a bad combination in the law at that time, for
what one did not know the other was prepared to
assert.  They prospered in a way, but never had the
forethought to invest in the magic mud-hole; took
wives unto themselves, and, in the opinion of the
"orator," settled down to dull and uneventful
honesty.  The years, like racing horses, flew round and
round the track, and a palace of trade grew out of
the mud-hole.  Bodney and his wife passed away,
leaving two children, a boy and a girl.  Elbridge had
stood at the bedside of his partner, who was
following his wife into the eternal shadow.  "Don't
worry about the children, Dan; they are mine,"
said the "student," and the "orator" passed away in
peace.  And they were his.  He took them to his
home to be brother and sister to his son; and the
years raced round and round the track.

At the time of his retirement from the bench the
Judge was asked why he refused longer to serve the
people.  "Because," said he, "I am beginning to be
afraid of my judgment; I am becoming too careful—like
the old engineer who can't summon the nerve
to bring his train in on time."

Mrs. Elbridge had been known as a local
"beauty."  It was said that the "orator" had rung
his Henry Clay bells for her hand, and with
philosophy, a rare quality among orators, had accepted
defeat, to spur himself into another contest and to
win a woman not unknown to "looks."  Rachel
Fry, afterward Mrs. Elbridge, had written verses
to sky tints and lake hues, and the "student"
believed that he had won her with a volume of Keats,
bound in blue, the color of one of her own lake
odes.  And in the reminiscent humor of his older
days he was wont to laugh over it until he himself
was shot through with a metric thrill, when in
measure he strove to recall the past; and then she
had the laugh on him.  It may be a mere notion, but
it seems that the young doctor and the old lawyer
are much inclined to write verses, for among the
papers of many an aged jurist sonnets are found,
and editors are well acquainted with the beguiling
smile of the young physician.  So the "pink fleece
of the cloud-sheep," and the "blue, mysterious soul
of the lake," inspirations of the "beauty's" earlier
years, found sympathy in the "student's" "mellow
morning of sunlit hope," penned in the late afternoon
of life.  But verses, be they ever so bad, are
the marks of refinement, and there was no vulgar
streak in the mind of the Judge.  His weakness,
and he possessed more than one, was the doggedness
with which he held to a conviction.  His mind
was not at all times clear; a neighbor said that he
often found himself in a cloud of dust that arose
from ancient law books; and it is a fact that an able
judge is sometimes a man of strong prejudices.  At
the time of this narration he was still hale, good
humored, a little given to the pedantry of advancing
years, devoted to his family, impressive in manner,
with his high forehead and thin gray hair; firm
of step, heavy in the shoulders, not much above
medium height, cleanly shaven, with full lips slightly
pouting.  Following his own idea of comfort, he
had planned his house, a large brick building in
Indiana Avenue, at first far out, but now within
easy reach of the area where the city's pile-driving
heart beats with increasing violence.  It was a
happy household.  The son, Howard, was a manly
fellow, studious but wide awake, and upon him the
old man rested a precious hope.  The mother was a
blonde, and nature had given her cast to the boy,
blue eyes and yellowish hair; and it was said that if
he had a vanity it lay in his bronze beard, which he
kept neatly trimmed—and it had come early, this
mark of the matured man.  His foster brother,
George Bodney, was dark, inclined to restlessness,
over-impressionable, nervous.  The old man had
another precious hope—Florence, Bodney's sister;
but of this he shall tell in his own words.  A
stranger might not have seen anything striking
about the girl; but all acquaintances thought her
handsome.  At school she had been called a
"character," not that she was original to the degree of
being "queer," but because she acted in a manner
prematurely old, discussing serious questions with
her teachers, debating the problems of life.  Her
hobby was honor, a virtue which a cynic has
declared is more often found among boys than among
girls.  She liked to read of martyrs, not that there
was heaven in their faith, but because she thought
it glorious to suffer and to die for a principle, no
matter what that principle might happen to be.

There was one other member of the family, William,
the Judge's brother.  He looked like a caricature
of the "student," with thinner hair and thicker
lips.  He had not given his energies to any one
calling; shiftless is the word best fitted to set him
forth.  He had lived in different parts of the far
West, had been dissatisfied with all places because
a failure in all, and had come to spend the remainder
of his days with his brother in Chicago.  Here, he
declared, a man could not find disappointment, for
no man of sense expected anything but permission
to breathe and to keep out of the way.  Friends
knew that he was the Judge's standing joke, a
family laughing stock, a humorous burden, a necessary
idleness.  Of course, it was natural for him to
feel that he owned the place.

Howard and George Bodney were bred to the
law, and recently had been admitted to the bar.  The
"starvation period" of the average young lawyer did
not arise out of dull prospect to confront them; they
were to make their way, it was true, but they could
study and wait.  Howard was ambitious, and his
mind was grasping.  It was said that he "gulped"
a book.  He did not stop at the stern texts which
were to serve as a part of his necessary equipment,
but gave himself excursions among those graces of
half-idle minds which light a torch for souls that
may be greater.  He peeped into the odd corners of
thought.  Once he startled his father by declaring
that genius was the unconscious wisdom of ignorance.

"It is the reflection of hard work," said the old
man.  The boy was the corner-stone of his hope;
he wanted to feel that his work was to go on,
generation after generation, a pardonable vanity, but
a vanity nevertheless.  He wanted the boy to be
practical, for a speculative youth is not a good
perpetuator of a father's career.  And on one occasion
the boy was taken gently to task for reading a
decadent book.

"I like to brush up against different minds," said he.

"But nothing is gained by brushing against a diseased mind."

"We might learn something from a mad dog."

"But all of value that we may learn from him,"
said the old man, "is to keep out of his way.  I
must request you not to read such books."

Bodney had not distinguished himself.  He appeared
to be restless and dissatisfied with himself
and with his prospects.  He thought that the law
afforded but a slow and tedious way to make money,
and deplored the shortsightedness of his father and
his benefactor for not having invested in the
mud-hole.  Nervousness may inspire force of character,
but it more often induces weakness.  In many
respects Bodney was weak.  But the Judge, who
should have been a shrewd observer of men as well
as of principles, did not see it.  In the "youth of
old age," a man who, in his younger days, may have
been keenly of the world, sometimes turns upon
life the goggle eye of optimism.

After his retirement from the bench and the more
active affairs of the law, the Judge fitted up an office
at his home, with desks, long table covered with
green baize, books and safe.

One evening Bodney sat alone in the home office,
deeply brooding.  The household was at dinner,
and he heard the hearty laughter of the Judge.  He
was joking with a guest, a preacher, a good fellow.
The young man's brow was dark.  Of late he had
formed an association with a man named Goyle,
clearly an adventurer, but a man to inflame the
fancy of a morbid nature.  Bodney and Goyle had
been much together, at the house and at the office
down town, but no one made any objection.
Personal freedom was a hobby with the Judge.

There were two doors leading into the office, one
opening into a hall, the other into a passageway
communicating directly with the street.  Through
the door opening into the passage Goyle entered.
He carried a valise in his hand.  Bodney looked up.

"Halloa, Goyle," said he.  "Come in."

.. _`"Halloa, Goyle," said he.  "Come in."`:

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   :alt: "Halloa, Goyle," said he.  "Come in."

   "Halloa, Goyle," said he.  "Come in."

"That's what I'm doing," Goyle replied, putting
down the valise near the door and advancing
toward the desk at which Bodney was seated.

"Sit down," said Bodney.

"That's what I'm going to do," Goyle replied.

He sat down, and for a time both were silent.
"Where's everybody?" Goyle asked.

The bass laughter of the Judge and the contralto
of a woman's mirth were heard.

"At dinner," said Bodney, nodding toward the
dining room.

"Don't you eat?"

"Sometimes," Bodney answered, and then after
a short silence he asked: "Did you get my note?"

"Yes."

"What do you think?"

"I think you're scared," said Goyle.

Bodney gave him a quick look.  "Who wouldn't be?"

"I wouldn't."

"Yes, you would.  It's this way, and there's no
other way to it: The old man has missed money
from the safe.  He hasn't said so, but I can tell by
the way he acts."

Goyle smiled.  "Well, but no one but himself
knows the combination of the safe.  He doesn't
know that you found a piece of paper with the
figures on it, does he?"

"Of course not, but it won't be long before he
begins to suspect someone."

"Which, necessarily, fastens it on you.  Is that it?"

"Doesn't it look like it?"

"Oh, it might," said Goyle.  "That is, if you let it?"

Bodney looked at him with reproach.  "If I let it.
How the deuce can I help it?  You don't suppose
he'd suspect his son Howard, do you?  No man
could trust a son more than he does."

Goyle shrugged his shoulders.  "Didn't trust
him with the combination of the safe, did he?"

"No, for it's his idea of business not to trust
anyone absolutely.  He laughs and jokes all right
enough, and says that this is a fine old world, but
he hasn't quite forgotten that he practiced law
among rascals."

"Yes," said Goyle, leaning back and stretching
himself.  "This soft air makes me lazy.  It's not
natural, you know, to be comfortable in Chicago.
What were we talking about?"

Bodney turned upon him almost fiercely, but the
visitor looked at him with the self-command of
impudent laziness.  He was not given to starts.  He
was born a rascal, and had cultivated his legacy.
Coolness may be a virtue; it is also the strongest
weapon of the scoundrel, and Goyle was always
cool.  He motioned with his hand, bowed, smiled,
and Bodney's anger was gone.

"Don't get hot, old man," said he.  "Everything
is all right.  If it isn't, we'll make it so.  Oh, yes,
we were talking about the old gentleman's
suspicions.  And we've got to take care of them.  If
I understand it, Howard is to marry your sister.
You are all of a family.  Your father and the Judge
were law partners years ago, and you and your
sister were adopted by—"

Bodney waved his hand impatiently.  "We know
all about that.  Yes, and he has been a father to
me and I have been—"

"A villain, necessarily," Goyle broke in.  "Villainy
is born in us, and for a time we may hide out
our inheritance, but we can't get away from it.  And
it's only the weak that struggle against it.  The
lamb is born with wool and the dog with hair.  No,
we can't get away from it."

"But we needn't delight in it," said Bodney, with
a faint struggle.

"No, and we needn't lie down on it, either.  But,
to business.  The Judge must know who took the
money from the safe."

Bodney started.  "What, do you think I am
going to tell him?"

Goyle yawned.  "No, you must show him."

"Show him!"

"Yes.  He must see his son Howard take the money."

Bodney stood up and looked down upon him.
"Goyle, are you a fool, or do you take me for one?
Must see Howard take the money!  What do you
mean?  Do you think I can bribe Howard to take
it?  I don't understand you."

"Sit down," said Goyle, and Bodney obeyed,
looking at him.  Goyle lighted a cigarette, turned
and pointed to the valise.  "The thief is in that
grip, and the Judge must see him take the money
from the safe.  Listen to me a minute.  Among my
numerous accomplishments I number several
failures—one as an actor.  But we learn more from a
failure than from a success.  All right.  I heard
Howard say that tonight he is going to a reception.
In that grip is his semblance—make-up.  At the
proper time, after Howard is gone, you must lead
the Judge in here and see me, as Howard, take
money from the safe.  On the mother's account the
old man can be made to keep quiet—to hold his
tongue, and not even say anything to his son.  He
changes his combination, the affair blows over—and
we've got the money."

"Monstrous!" exclaimed Bodney, jumping up
and glaring at Goyle.

"Do you think so?  Sit down."

Bodney sat down.  "Yes, I do think so," he said.

"What, the crime or the—"

"Both.  And the trick!  Anybody could see
through it.  It's nonsense, it's rot."

"Yes?  Now, let me tell you, Brother Bodney,
that life itself is but a trick.  The world worships a
trick—art, literature, music—all tricks.  And what
sort of art is the most successful?  Bold art.  What
sort of scoundrel is the most admired by the world?
The bold scoundrel.  Bold art, my boy."

"But art has its limits and its rules," Bodney
feebly protested.

Goyle dropped the stub of his cigarette upon the
floor.  "Yes, rules for imitators to follow.  Originals
break rules.  Rules are made by weaklings to
hamper the success of the strong.  You've got to
take the right view of life," he said, slowly lifting
his hand and slowly letting it drop upon his knee.
"We are living in the nervous atmosphere of
adventure and bold trickery.  The spirit of this town
hates the stagnant; we wipe our muddy feet on
tradition.  To us the pig squeal of the present is
sweeter than the flute of the past.  You and I are
intellectual failures, and why?  The town is against
us.  Put an advertisement in tomorrow
morning's newspaper—'Graduates of Harvard and
Yale wanted, fifteen dollars a week,' and see
how many answers you'll get.  A cartload—and
from men who were turned out prepared
to fight the battle of life.  Think of it.
The man who has had his mind trained to failure,
whose teaching has made him a refined weakling,
with a mind full of quotations and mystic theories—that
man has a cause to be avenged upon life, upon
society for misleading him.  Hear them laughing in
there?  You don't hear me laughing.  I've got
nothing to laugh about.  You and I know that there
isn't any future beyond this infernal life.  Then,
why hesitate to do anything that works toward our
advantage here?  I'm talking to your reason now.
We have gambled, and we have lost."  He turned
and shook his finger at the valise.  "The thief, I tell
you, is in that grip, and he will get us out.  If it
fails, of course, we are done for, but we are done for
if we don't try.  I know it's a bold trick, but that's
in its favor.  It's too bold to be expected or
understood.  It's no time to think of gratitude.  We've
got to act.  Give me the combination."

They got up, and Bodney stood trembling.  He
seemed to be struggling to break loose from
something that held him in its grasp.  Goyle gazed into
his eyes.  Bodney put up his hand as if to shield
them from a dazzling light.

"Give me the combination."

Bodney tore loose from the something that
seemed to be gripping him, and started on a run
toward the door.  Goyle caught him, put his hand on
him, held him.

"I hear them coming.  Give me that piece of paper."

Bodney gave him a slip of paper.  Goyle took up
the valise.  "Come on," he said, and Bodney
followed him out through the door leading into the
passage.





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.. _`THE FAMILY JOKE`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   THE FAMILY JOKE.

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The Judge, his brother William and the Rev. Mr. Bradley
entered the office.  "Yes, sir," said the
Judge, "I'm delighted that you have been called to
Chicago.  We are full of enterprise here, religious
as well as secular.  Sit down.  And we push
religious matters, Mr. Bradley.  Here everything takes
up the vigorous character of the town.  You know
that one of our poets has said that when the time
comes we'll make culture hum."  Bradley sat down,
smiling.  "William," said the Judge, still standing,
"can't you find a chair?"

"Oh, I believe so," William replied, sitting
down.  "But why do you make everybody sit down
and then stand up yourself?  Mr. Bradley, my
brother John is a browbeater.  He forgets that he
ain't always on the bench."

The Judge winked at Bradley, and laughed.  He
was full of good humor, sniffing about on the scent
of a prank, and when all other resources failed, he
had the reserve fund of his brother, the family joke,
the humorous necessity.

"You remember," said Bradley, "I told you, some
time ago, that it was my ambition to have a charge
here."

The Judge, standing in front of him, began to
make convincing motions with his finger, laying
down the law, as William termed it.  "It's the field,
Bradley.  You can raise more money in a church
here than—"

"Oh, it is not that, Judge," the preacher broke in.
"Chicago presents a fertile opportunity for doing
good, for making men better, life more worth
living, and—"

"Death more certain," William suggested.

"My brother doesn't like it here," said the Judge.

Bradley turned his mild eyes upon the brother
and in the form of a question, said, "No?"

William cleared his husky throat.  "I have lived
further West, where a fellow may make you get
out of a stage-coach at the muzzle of a pistol, but he
won't sneak up and slip his hand into your pocket."

"My brother took a whirl at the board of trade,"
said the Judge.  He sat down, lighted a cigar, and
offered one to Bradley.  "Won't you smoke?"

"Not now," Bradley answered.  "I am trying to
break myself."

"Go down to the board of trade," William
suggested.  The Judge laughed, and looked as if he
were proud of his family joke.  "Won't you smoke,
William?"

"No," replied the humorous necessity, "I'll wait
till I go to my room and then smoke sure
enough—a pipe."

"Smoke it here."

"No, I'll put it off—always enjoy it more then.
I recollect the tenth of June, sixty-three—was it the
tenth or the eleventh?  Anyway, a party of us were
going—it was the eleventh.  Yes, the eleventh.  I
was only a young fellow at the time, but I liked a
pipe, and on that day—no, it must have been the
tenth.  John, did I say the eleventh?"

"I think you hung a little in favor of the
eleventh, William."  He winked at Bradley.  "And I
was sorry to see it, too, for of all the days in June,
the tenth is my favorite."

William looked at him and cleared his throat, but
the Judge wore the mask of seriousness.  The
brother proceeded: "Well, I'm reasonably certain
it was the tenth.  Yes.  Well, on the tenth of June,
sixty-three, a party of us were going over to—yes,
the tenth—over to—"

"Hold on a moment," said the Judge.  "Are you
quite sure it was the tenth?  We want it settled,
don't we, Bradley?  Of course, you are much
younger than we are, Bradley, but you are old
enough to enter into the importance of this thing.
As far as he can, a preacher should be as exact as
a judge."  Bradley nodded, laughing, and the flame
of William's anger burst forth.'

"Confound it, John, don't you suppose I know?"

"I hope so, William," said the Judge.

William snorted.  "You don't do anything of the
sort, and you know it."

"Well, if I don't I know it, of course, but—"

"Oh, you be confound.  You are all the time—"

"Go ahead with your story."

"I'll do nothing of the sort, sir; I'll do nothing
of the sort.  You are all the time trying to put it
on me, and I'll do nothing of the sort; and the first
thing you know, I'll pick up and leave here.  I was
simply going to tell of something that took place
on the—Mr. Bradley, did I say the tenth?"

The preacher had not been able to keep a straight
face, but with reasonable gravity he managed to say
that the tenth was the final date agreed upon.  "By
all parties concerned," said the Judge, puffing at his
cigar.  William scratched his head.  "But, after all,
it must have been on the eleventh."

"Knocks out my favorite again," the Judge muttered,
but William took no notice of the interruption.
It is the duty of a family joke to be forbearing.

"Ab Tollivar came to me on that day," William
began, "and said that there was to be—"

"On the tenth—came to you on the tenth?" the
Judge broke in.

"I said the eleventh."

"William, I beg your pardon," the Judge
replied, "but you said the tenth, raising my hopes,
for you well know my predilection for that day.  In
many ways a man may be pardoned for recklessness,
but not in the matter of a date.  The exact
time of an occurrence is almost as important as the
occurrence itself.  History would lose much of its
value if the dates—"

"John, when you get into one of your tantrums
you are enough to make a snow man melt himself
with an oath.  You'd make a dog swear."

"Not before me when I was on the bench.  But
your story.  Ab Tollivar came to you and—"

"I'll not tell it."  He got up and glared at the
Judge.  "Oughtn't I to know what day it was on?"

"Yes, and I believe you do.  Sit down."

"I'll do nothing of the sort, sir.  I'll not sit here
to be insulted by you or anybody else."  He moved
off toward the door, but before going out, halted,
turned, and said: "Mr. Bradley, I'll tell you the
story some other time.  But John shall never hear
it."  He gave his head a jerk, intended for a bow of
indignation, and strode out.

"He's the dearest old fellow in the world," said
the Judge, "and I couldn't get along without him."

"Isn't he somewhat younger than yourself?"

"Yes, two years.  Come in."

Mrs. Elbridge entered the dingy room, brightening
it with her presence.  "Won't you please
come into the drawing room?" she said.  "It is so
dreary in here.  Judge, why do you bring visitors
to this room?  After the Judge retired from the
bench, Mr. Bradley, he decided to move the main
branch of his law office out here, and I didn't think
that he would make it his home, but he has; and,
worse than that, he makes it a home for all his
clients.  They can stroll in from the street at any
time."

"A sort of old shoe that fits everybody," said the
Judge.  "The only way to live is to be comfortable,
and the only place in which to find comfort is in a
room where nothing can be spoiled."

"But won't you phase come into the drawing room?"

"Yes, my dear, as soon as I am done smoking."

"But you may smoke in there.  Do come, please.
The girls want to see Mr. Bradley.  Won't you
make him come?" she asked, appealing to the
preacher.

"Yes, very shortly," replied Bradley.  "If he
doesn't drop his cigar pretty soon we'll have him
driven out with Mr. William's pipe."

"The threat is surely dark enough," she rejoined.
"Don't be long, Judge," she added, turning to go.
"Agnes declares that you shall not drag Mr. Bradley
into your den and keep him shut out from civilized life."

Agnes was a Miss Temple, a visitor, bright and
full of mischief.  And during all the talk the
preacher's mind had been dwelling upon her, the mischief
in her eyes and the dazzle of her smile.

"Miss Temple is an exceedingly charming
woman," he said, when Mrs. Elbridge had quitted
the room.  "She and Miss Bodney were schoolmates,
I believe."

"Yes, and although much separated, have not
broken the gauze bonds of school fellowship."

"Gauze bonds, Judge?"

"The beautiful but flimsy friendship of girlhood."

"Younger than Miss Bodney, I fancy."

"Yes, a year or so.  She lives in Quincy, and is
here for a month, but we shall keep her longer if
we can.  She is a source of great entertainment.  Of
course, you have noticed Florence closely—you
couldn't help it.  She is one of the sweetest
creatures that ever lived, and she has character, too.  I
couldn't think more of her if she were my daughter—and
she is to be my daughter.  She and my son
Howard are soon to be married.  It is the prettiest
romance in life or fiction.  They are near the same
age.  They went to school hand in hand—sat beside
each other at table, year after year, and in innocent
love kissed each other good-night.  They don't
know the time when they made their first vows—upon
this life they opened their eyes in love; an
infant devotion reached forth its dimpled hand and
drew their hearts together.  Beautiful."

The preacher was thoughtful for a few moments,
and then he said: "The Spirit of God doing the
work it loves the best.  And they are soon to be
married.  May I hope to—"

"You shall join them together, Bradley."

"I thank you."

"No, thank the memory of your father.  I knew
him well.  He was my friend at a time when
friendship meant something to me."

"And the young woman's brother, Judge.  I
haven't seen much of him."

"George Bodney?  A manly young fellow, sir,
quiet and thoughtful.  He and Howard are to take
up the law when I put it down—indeed, they have
begun already."

"You are a happy man, Judge."

The Judge leaned back in his chair and was
thoughtful; his cigar had gone out, and he held it
listlessly.  "Yes, for the others are so happy."  He
dropped the cigar stub upon the ash tray, roused
himself, and said: "Nothing bothers me now.  I
am out of the current of life; I am in a quiet pool,
in the shade; and I don't regret having passed out
of the swift stream where the sun was blazing.  No,
I am rarely worried.  Yes, I am annoyed at times,
to be perfectly frank, now, for instance, and by a
most peculiar thing.  I—er—a friend of mine told
me a story that bothers me, although it is but a
trifle and shouldn't worry me at all.  He is a lawyer,
situated very much as I am.  He has been missing
money from his safe.  No one but himself knows
the combination.  He couldn't suspect either of his
sons; they didn't know the combination—not to be
considered at all.  He doesn't keep large sums on
hand, of course; just enough to accommodate some
of his old-fashioned clients who like to do
business in the old-fashioned way.  It bothered him, for
he took it into his head that he himself was getting
up at night and in his sleep taking the money from
the safe and hiding it somewhere.  For years,
whenever he has had anything important on hand, he has
been in the habit of waking himself at morning
with an alarm clock.  And I told him to set the
clock in the safe and catch himself.  He has done
better than that—has fixed a gong so that it will
ring whenever the inner drawer of the safe is pulled
open.  Of course, it is nothing to me, but—ah, come
in, Agnes."

"Your wife has sent a bench warrant for you,"
said the young woman, entering the room and
shaking her finger at the Judge.

"To be served by a charming deputy," said Bradley.

She laughed.  "No wonder preachers catch
women," she replied.  "I'm glad I struck you.  I
was afraid I might miss."

The Judge arose and bowed to her.  "We might
dodge an arrow but not a perfume," said he.

"Now, Mr. Judge, when did you come from the
South?" she cried.  "But are you going with me?
There are some more people in there; a young
fellow that looks like a scared rabbit.  But he's got
nerve enough to say cawn't.  I told him that if he'd
come to Quincy we'd make him say kain't."

"Well, Bradley," said the Judge, "we are prisoners.
Come on."

Bradley halted a moment to speak to Agnes.
The Judge turned and asked if Howard and George
Bodney were in the drawing room.  She replied
that Howard had gone or was going to a reception
and that Mr. Bodney was somewhere about the
house.  She had seen him passing along the hall
with Mr. Goyle.  Just then, in evening dress,
Howard came into the room.  "I thought I heard
Florence in here," said he, looking about.

"Going to leave us?" said the Judge.

"Yes, to bore and be politely bored.  I want
Florence to see if I look all right."

"Oh, I wonder," cried Agnes, "if any man will
ever have that much confidence in me.  There
she is now.  Florence, here's a man that wants you
to put the stamp of approval upon his appearance."

Howard turned to Florence.  "I wanted you to
see me," he said.

"I've been looking for you," she replied.

Bradley, in an undertone, spoke to the Judge.
"I can see the picture you drew of them."

"No," replied the preacher, with the light of
admiration in his honest eyes.

Agnes spoke to Howard.  "It must have been
nearly half an hour since you and Florence saw each
other.  What an age," she added, with the caricature
of a sigh.  "But come on, Judge, you and
Mr. Bradley."  She led the two men away, looking back
with another mock sigh at Florence.

"I may not be back till late," said Howard, "and
I couldn't go without my good-night kiss."

She smiled upon him.  "I knew that you had
not forgotten it.  And yet," she added, looking at
him—"and yet I was anxious."

"Anxious?"

"Yes, but I didn't know why.  Howard, within
the past few days my love for you has taken so—so
trembling a turn.  We have been so happy, and—"

"And what, Florence?"

"Oh, I don't know, but something makes me
afraid now.  You know that there are times when
happiness halts to shudder."

He put his arm about her.  "Yes, we are sometimes
afraid that something may happen because it
has not.  But it is only a reproachful fancy.  We
see the sorrow of others and are afraid that we don't
deserve to be happy.  But I must go," he added,
kissing her.

She continued to cling to him.  "Do I look all
right?" he asked.

"I don't know—I can't see."

"Can't see?"

"No.  Love, which they say is blind, has blinded me."

He kissed her again.  "But if love blinds,
Florence, it would make a bat of me.  You are serious
tonight," he added, looking into her eyes.

"Yes, I am."  The sound of laughter came from
the drawing room.  "Yes, I am, and I must go in
there to be pleased.  Howard, do you believe that
anything could separate us?"

"Really, you are beginning to distress me.  I have
never known what it was to live without you, and I
couldn't know it.  But cheer up, won't you?  To-morrow we—"

"Yes, I will," she broke in.  "It was only a
shadow and it has passed.  But I wonder where
such shadows come from.  Why do they come?
Who has the ordering of them?"

As they were walking toward the door opening
into the hall, William entered from the passage,
smoking his pipe, his thin hair rumpled as if he had
just emerged from a contest.  Howard and Florence
did not see him, and he called to them.

"I say, there, Howard, I thought you were going out."

The young man halted and looked back with a
smile.  "Don't you see me going out, Uncle Billy?"

"Now look here, young fellow!" exclaimed the
old man in a rage, his hair seeming to stand up
straighter, "I don't want to be Uncle Billied by you,
and I won't have it, either.  Your daddy's got it in
for me lately, and I'll be hanged if I'm going to put
up with it much longer.  And Florence, you'd better
speak to him about it.  I want to give him every
opportunity to mend his ways toward me, and you'd
better caution him before it's too late.  Do you
understand?"

"Yes, Uncle William," she answered.  "And I
will speak to him."

"Well, see that you do.  And, mind you, I wasn't
certain whether it was on the tenth or the eleventh;
I was willing to give either the benefit of the doubt;
I—"

"That's all right, Uncle William," said Howard.

The old man glared at him.  "It's not all right,
sir, and you know it.  But go ahead.  I don't
belong to the plot of this household, anyway.  I'm
only a side issue."  Howard and Florence passed
out, and he shouted after them.  "Do you hear me?
Only a side issue."

Just then Bodney came in.  "You are a what,
Uncle William?" he asked, looking about.

"I said a side issue."

"What's that?"

"If you haven't got sense enough to know, I
haven't the indulgence to tell you."

"Where did you get that pipe, Uncle William?"

"I got it in the Rocky Mountains," said the old
fellow.

"It must have come there about the time the
mountains arrived.  Whew!"

"Now, look here, George Bodney, don't you
bring up the tail end of an entire evening of insult
by whewing at my pipe.  I won't stand it, do you
hear?"

Bodney undoubtedly heard, but he did not reply;
he went over to the desk and began to look about,
moving papers, as if searching for something.  "I
left my knife here, somewhere," said he.  "Must
have a little more light."  He turned up the gas
drop light on the table, went back to the desk, and,
pretending to find his knife, turned down the drop
light lower than it had been before.

"There's no use to put out the light simply
because you've found your knife," said William.  "It
may be to your advantage to have it dark, but I like
to see.  I haven't always lived in this soot and
smoke; I have lived where I could see the sky from
one year's end to another."

"I beg your pardon," said Bodney, "but how long
do you expect to stay in this room?"

"Oh, don't pay any attention to me.  I don't
belong to the plot."

"What plot?" Bodney exclaimed, with a start.

"Why, the plot of this household—the general
plot of the whole thing."

"Oh, yes, I see," said Bodney.

"I'm glad you do.  And, here, just a minute.
The Judge and I had a difference tonight."

"Not a serious one, I hope."

"Devilish serious.  Wait a moment.  I set out
by admitting that I was not exactly certain whether
it was on the tenth or the eleventh.  But I settled it,
finally, I think, on the eleventh.  I—"

"Eleventh of what?"

"Of June, sixty-three.  On that day, as I started
to tell them—now, I want to be exact, and I'll tell
you all about it."  The old man sat down, crossed his
legs, took a few puffs at his pipe, preliminaries to a
long recital; but the young fellow, standing near,
began to shift about in impatience.  "I remember
exactly what sort of a day it was.  There had been a
threat of rain, but the clouds—"

"Oh, I don't care anything about it."

"What!"

"I say, I don't care anything about it."

"The hell you don't!  Why, you trifling rascal, I
raised you; you owe almost your very existence to
me.  And now you tell me that you don't care
anything about it.  Go on out, then.  You shan't hear
it now, after your ingratitude."  Bodney strode out,
and the old man shouted after him, "I wouldn't tell
you that story to save your life."  Laughter came
from the drawing room.  William grunted
contemptuously.  "There's John telling his yarns.  And
that preacher—why, if I couldn't tell a better story
than a preacher—"  He broke off and got up with
sudden energy.  "But they've got to hear that
story.  They can't get away from it."  And
muttering, he walked out briskly.

Bodney stepped back into the room.  He looked
at the light, turned it lower, sat down and, leaning
forward, covered his face with his hands.  But he
did not remain long in this position; he got up and
went to the safe, put his hand upon it, snatched it
away, put it back and stood there, gazing at the
light.  Then he went to the door and beckoned.
Goyle, disguised as Howard, walked in with
insolent coolness.  In Bodney's room he had dressed
himself, posing before the glass, arranging his
bronze beard, clipping here and there, touching up
his features with paint—and Bodney had stood by,
dumb with astonishment.  The dress suit,
everything, was complete, and when he came out he
imitated Howard's walk.  Bodney could not help
admiring the superb control he had of his nerves; but
more than once he felt an impulse to kill him,
particularly when, in response to the beckoning, he
stepped into the office.

"If it fails, I shoot you," Bodney whispered.

"Rot.  It can't fail.  Don't I look like him?"

"Yes.  You would deceive me—you—"

"Art, bold art," said Goyle.  "A man ought to be
willing to die for his art.  Turn the light a little
higher."

"No, it's high enough."

Goyle walked over leisurely and turned up the
light.  "That's better.  We must give him a chance
to see."

"Wait a moment," said Bodney, as Goyle took
his position at the safe.  "Wolf, I want to
acknowledge myself the blackest scoundrel on the earth."

"Not necessary.  Taken for granted.  Go ahead."

Bodney turned to go, but hesitated at the hall
door and seemed again to struggle with something
that had him in its grasp.  Goyle motioned, and
said, "Go ahead, fool."  Bodney passed into the
hall, and Goyle began to turn the knob of the safe,
holding his paper to catch the light.  He heard
the voice of Bodney.  "It won't take long.  I want
you to help me—"  The door swung.  Goyle pulled
open the drawer, and then followed three sharp
strokes of the gong, just as loud laughter burst
from the drawing room.  Goyle jumped back.  The
Judge rushed in, with Bodney clinging to him.
Goyle turned as if he had not seen the Judge and
rushed from the room.  Bodney struggled with the
Judge, his hand over his mouth, and forced him
down upon a chair.  "Judge, father, not a word—for
his mother's sake.  You must freeze your heart for
her sake."  The old man dropped with a groan,
Bodney bending over him.

.. _`Goyle began to turn the knob of the safe`:

.. figure:: images/img-038.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Goyle began to turn the knob of the safe.

   Goyle began to turn the knob of the safe.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE NIGHT CAME BACK WITH A RUSH`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE NIGHT CAME BACK WITH A RUSH.

.. vspace:: 2

Bodney led the Judge to his room on the second
floor, where he left him almost in a state of collapse.
He spoke of calling Mrs. Elbridge, but the old man
shook his head, which Bodney knew he would do,
and in a broken voice said that he wanted to be left
alone.  At the time when the Judge left the drawing
room with Bodney, Bradley was bidding the family
good-night, but lingered a moment longer to join
the company in a laugh at William, who, having
settled his date to his own satisfaction, had forgotten
the point of the story.

Bodney's room was on the first floor, off the
passage, and, going thither, he found Goyle sitting
on the side of the bed, not as Howard, but as
himself.  The scoundrel declared that it had worked
like a charm, but that the clang of the gong had
prevented his getting any money.  That, however,
was a minor consideration.  He needed money, it
was true; he had not expected much, but even a
little would have helped him greatly.  A lower order
of mind might have brooded over the disappointment,
but his mind was exultant over the success
of his art.  He argued that if his impersonation of
a son could deceive a father, he might bring forth
a Hamlet to charm an audience.

"How is he?" Goyle asked, as Bodney stepped
into the room.

"Don't talk to me, now," said Bodney, sitting
down.  He took up a newspaper and fanned himself.
"For a time I wished that I had killed you."

"Yes?  And now?"

"I wish that you had killed me.  Tell me, are you
a human being?  I don't believe you are.  I don't
believe that any human being could have the
influence over me that you have had—that you still
have, you scoundrel.  I wish I could stab you."

"Can't you?"

"No.  My arm would fall, paralyzed.  I used to
scout the idea of a personal devil, but I believe in
one now.  He is sitting on my bed.  He has
compelled me to do something—"

"It worked like a charm, George; and now, old
fellow, don't hold a grudge against me.  I have
taught you more than you ever learned before; I
have shown you that a man can do almost
anything—that men are but children to be deluded by
trickery.  There, for instance, is a judge, a man who
was set up to pass upon the actions of men.  What
did I do?  Convinced him that his own son is a
robber.  Was that right?  Perhaps.  Why should
such a man have been a judge?  What wrongs may
not his shortsightedness have caused him to
commit?  We can't tell.  He may have committed a
thousand unconscious crimes.  But an unconscious
crime may be just as bad as a conscious one.  He
has been sitting above other men.  Now let him
suffer; it is due him.  And his son!  What does he
care for you or me?  He reads, and thinks that he
is wise.  He has stuffed himself with the echo of
feeble minds; and now let him wallow in his
wisdom.  Look at me.  Are you sorry for what we
have done?  Look at me."

Bodney made an effort to get up, but his strength
seemed to fail him, and he remained as he was,
gazing at Goyle.  "George," Goyle continued, his
eyes glittering, "I was the hope of a father, a better
man than Judge Elbridge.  But he was ruined by
honest men and died of a broken heart.  That was
all right; it was a part of life's infamous plan.
Everything is all right—-a part of the plan.  My
friends called me a genius; they believed that I was
to astonish the world, and I believed it.  I bent
myself to study, but one day the bubble burst and I
felt then that nothing amounted to anything—that
all was a fraud.  The world is the enemy of every
man.  Every man is the natural enemy of every
other man.  Evil has always triumphed and
always will.  The churches meet to reform their
creeds.  After a while they must revise out
God—another bubble, constantly bursting.  Then, why
should there be a conscience?  That's the point I
want to make.  Why should you and I suffer on
account of anything we have done?  Everything
you see will soon pass away.  Nothing is the only
thing eternal.  Then, let us make the most of our
opportunities for animal enjoyment.  The animal
is the only substance.  Intellectuality is a shadow.
Are you sorry for what I have done?"

He fixed his glittering eyes upon Bodney, and,
gazing at him, Bodney answered: "No, I am not.
It was marked out for us, and I don't suppose we
could help it; but somehow—somehow, I wish
that I had killed you."

"What for? to cut off a few days of animalism—to
make of me an eternal nothing?  That wouldn't
have done any good."

"It would have prevented the misery—"

Goyle stopped him with a snap of his fingers.
"For how long?  For a minute.  It will all pass
away.  Be cheerful, now.  We haven't any money
as a reward of our enterprise and art, but we have
let the life blood out of all suspicion attaching to us.
Let us go to bed."

"You go to bed.  I will lie on the floor."

"No use to put yourself out, George.  I'll lie on
the floor."

"No," said Bodney, and Goyle let him have his
way.  The hours passed, Bodney lying in a restless
stupor, but Goyle slept.  Sunlight poured into the
room and Bodney got up.  He went to the window
and stood to cool his face in the fresh air.  He
looked back at the bed.  Goyle was still sleeping,
breathing gently.  The horror of the night came
in a rush.  And there was the cause of it, sleeping
in peace.  Bodney snatched open a drawer and
seized a razor.  Goyle turned over, with his face
toward the window.

"Ah, up?  What time is it, George?"

Bodney dropped the razor and sat down.  "It is
time to get up," he said.  Goyle got out of bed and
began to exercise himself by striking out with his
fists.  He had passed, he said, a night of delicious
rest, with not a dream to disturb him.  He whistled
merrily as he dressed himself.  Bodney stood with
his elbow resting on the marble top of the
"bureau," his face yellow and haggard.  Glancing down
into the half closed drawer, he saw the razor and
shuddered at the sight of it.  With his left hand he
felt of his right arm, gripping it from shoulder down
to wrist as if in some strange manner it had been
deprived of strength.  Goyle moved toward him
and he pushed against the drawer to close it, but the
keen eye of the "artist" fell upon the open razor,
and glittered like the eye of a snake.  But he showed
no sign of fear or even of resentment.

"I will stay to breakfast with you," he said,
putting his hand on Bodney's shoulder.

"I wish you wouldn't," Bodney feebly replied.

"Oh, no you don't.  Come, brace up now.  My
part of the work is done, but yours is just
beginning.  I have saved you from suspicion, but you
must keep yourself saved.  That's right, brighten
up.  Now you are beginning to look like yourself.
Why, nothing so very bad has been done.  We
have enacted a little drama, that's all.  Such things,
or things on a par with them, are enacted every
day.  The newspapers are full of stranger things.
We haven't hired a 'castle' and entered upon a
career of wholesale murder; we haven't cut up a
woman and made her into sausage."

The voice of William was heard in the passage,
scolding a housemaid for disturbing his papers.
The old man tapped on the door and Goyle opened it.

"Ah, you here?" said the old man, stepping into
the room.  "You'd better go in to breakfast.  Well,
sir, I never saw anything like it in my life.  I can't
put a thing down and find it where I left it.  George,
what's the matter with you this morning?"

"Nothing at all, sir.  I had a headache and didn't
sleep very well.  That's all.  Is the Judge up yet?"

"I believe not.  And when he does get up I want
to have a talk with him.  I'll be hanged if he didn't
get that preacher to laughing at me last night—laughing
at me right here in my own house.  I can
stand a good deal, but when a preacher laughs at
me, why things have gone too far."

Goyle smiled upon him.  "But, Mr. Elbridge, a
preacher means quite as little when he laughs as
when he talks."

This pleased the old man, and he chuckled, his
fat sides shaking.  Bodney smiled, too, and Goyle
gave him a look of approval and it appeared to
brighten him.  He dressed himself hastily, turning
occasionally to heed a remark made by Goyle or the
old man, and when he stepped out of the room to go
with them to breakfast, his face was not so yellow,
nor his countenance so haggard.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`STOOD LOOKING AT THEM`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   STOOD LOOKING AT THEM.

.. vspace:: 2

About two hours later Florence was sitting alone
in the drawing room when Howard entered.  She
asked him if he had seen his father that morning.
He sat down on a sofa beside her and said, after
a moment's reflection:

"Yes, I have seen him?  Why did you ask?"

She seemed worried and did not immediately
answer him.  He repeated his question.  "Because
he spoke of you at breakfast," she said.  "He didn't
appear at all well—sat staring about, and—"

"That explains it," said Howard.

"Explains what?" she asked.

"His treatment of me."

"Treatment of you?  Has anything gone wrong?"

"Yes, in the office, just now.  When I went in he
jumped up from his desk, threw down a hand full
of papers, and stared at me—muttered, seemed to
struggle with himself, sat down, and asked me to
leave him alone.  He never acted that way toward
me before.  I'm afraid he's ill.  Why, he's the most
jovial man in the world, and—I'm worried.  I don't
understand it.  If he's sick, why didn't he say so?"

"I don't know, but don't let it worry you, dear,"
she said.

"But it does, Florence, to be turned upon in that
way.  What did he say about me at the table this
morning?  He surely wasn't angry because I didn't
get up in time for breakfast."

"Surely not.  He didn't say anything, only asked
where you were, and kept staring at the place
where you sit."

"And is that the reason you asked me if I had
seen him?"

"Yes, that and the fact that he didn't appear to
be well."

"I don't understand it.  Why, he has joked with
me all my life, sick or well.  It hurts me."  And,
after a slight pause, he added: "I wonder if he
turned on George, too."

"It wouldn't seem so, for as he was going out of
the breakfast room he put his hand on brother's
shoulder and leaned on him."

Bodney came in at that moment, and, looking
about, asked if they had seen Goyle.  As he was
going out, Howard called him.

"Oh, George, just a moment.  Have you noticed
anything strange about father this morning?"

And Bodney was master of himself when he
answered: "Nothing much.  Only he didn't seem
to be as well as usual.  It will pass off.  I wonder
where that fellow is?"  He strode out, and they
heard him talking to Goyle in the hall.

"Put his hand on George's shoulder and leaned
on him," Howard mused, aloud.  "Then he is not
well.  George knows it and doesn't want to distress
me by telling me.  Did he sit up late?"

"No.  Mr. Bradley had to go early, and just as
he was taking his leave brother stepped in and
asked your father to help him with an important
matter—some abstract of title, or something of
the sort, and they went out and he didn't come back.
I don't want to distress you, but your mother said
that he walked the floor nearly all night."

"Did she?  And George knows more than he is
willing to tell.  But why do they try to shield me?
It would be all right to shield mother if anything
were wrong, but if there's a burden, I ought to help
bear it."

She besought him not to be worried, assuring him
that nothing had gone very far wrong and that
everything would come right.  The clearness and
the strength of her mind, her individuality, her
strength of character, always had a quick influence
upon him, and he threw off the heavier part of his
worry and they talked of other matters, of the
reception which he had attended the night before.
He repeated a part of a stupid address delivered by
a prominent man, and they laughed at it, he declaring
that nearly all men, no matter how prominent
or bright, were usually dull at a reception.  And,
after a time, she asked: "What sort of a man is
Mr. Goyle?"

"Oh, he's all right, I suppose; smart, full of odd
conceits.  I don't know him very well.  He comes
into the down-town office quite frequently, but he
rarely has much to say to me.  George seems to be
devoted to him."

Florence shook her head, deploring the intimacy.
"I don't like him," she said.  "And Agnes says she
hates him.  She snaps him up every time he speaks
to her."  She looked at Howard, and saw that his
worry was returning upon him.  She put the hair
back from his forehead, affection's most instinctive
by-play, and said that he must not be downcast at
a mere nothing, a passing whim on the part of his
father.  "And it was only a whim," she added.

"But whims make an atmosphere," he replied.

"Not ours, Howard—not yours, not mine.  Love
makes our atmosphere."

"Yes," he said, putting his arm about her, "our
breath of life.  Florence, last night you were
depressed, and now I am heavy."  Their heads, bent
forward, touched each other.  "And your love is
dearer to me now than ever before."  Their faces
were turned from the hall door.  The Judge silently
entered, and, seeing them, started toward them,
making motions with his hands as if he would tear
them apart.  But Howard, after a brief pause, spoke
again, and the old man halted, gazing at them.
"Florence, you asked me, last night, if anything
could separate us, and now I ask you that same
question.  Could anything part us?"

"No," she said, "not man, not woman, nothing
but God, and he has bound us together."

"With silken cords woven in the loom of eternity,"
he replied; and the Judge wheeled about, and,
with a sob, was gone, unseen.

"What was that?" Florence asked, looking round.
"It sounded like a sob."

"We were not listening for sobs and should not
have heard them," he replied.  "It wasn't anything."

William came in, clearing his throat.  "Don't let
me disturb you," he said, as they got up.  "I don't
belong to the plot at all."  He began to look about.
"I left my pipe somewhere."

"I don't think it's here, Uncle William," said
Howard.  "You surely wouldn't leave it here; and,
besides, I don't hear it."

There came a sort of explosion, and upon it was
borne the words, "What's that?  You don't hear it?
You don't?  Now what have I ever done to you to
deserve such an insult?  Ha!  What have I done?"

"Why, nothing at all, Uncle William."

"Then why do you want to insult me?  Haven't
I been your slave ever since I came here?  Haven't
I passed sleepless nights devising things for your
good?  You can't deny it, and yet, at the first
opportunity, you turn upon me with an insult."

"Why, Uncle Billy," said Florence, "he wouldn't
insult you.  He was only joking."

Howard assured him that he meant no insult,
whereupon the old man said: "All right, but I
know a joke as well as anybody.  I have joked with
some of the best of 'em in my time, I'll tell you
that.  But it's no joke when you come talking about
not hearing a man's pipe.  It's a reflection on his
cleanliness—it means that his pipe is stronger than
a gentleman's pipe ought to be.  But I want to tell
you, sir, that it isn't.  It's as sweet as a pie."

Howard said that he knew the import of such an
accusation.  "But," he added, "I was in hopes that
it was strong, not to cast any reflection, you
understand, but to show my appreciation of what you
have done for me.  I was going to give you that
meerschaum of mine."

The old man's under jaw dropped.  "Hah?  Well,
now, I do believe that it has got to be just a little
nippy; just a little, you understand."

"I wish it were stronger than that, Uncle Billy."

"You do?  Howard, you have always been a
good friend to me; our relations have been most
cordial and confidential, and I don't mind telling
you—to go no further, mind you—that my old pipe
is as strong as—as a red fox.  Yes, sir, it's a
positive fact.  Er—where is your pipe?"

"In my room.  You may go and get it as soon
as you like."

"All right, and I'm a thousand times obliged to
you.  Florence, did that preacher go away so
suddenly last night because I settled the fact that it
was on the tenth?"

"Oh, no, he left because he had an engagement."

"Well," drawled the old man, "I don't know
about that.  Why, confound him, I've got a right to
settle it as my memory dictates.  Does he think
that I'm going to warp my recollection just for him?"

"What was it all about, Uncle Billy?" Howard asked.

"About a story I was going to tell."

"Did you tell it?"

"Did I tell it!  Well, after a fashion; after they
had badgered me.  Then I made a mess of it.  How
do you expect me to tell a story when—look here,
ain't you trying to put it on me?  Hah, ain't you?"

"I don't know what you mean, Uncle William."

"Oh, you don't.  The whole kit of you are devilish
dull all at once."

"You surely don't include me," said Florence.

"No, not you, Florence, but all the men about
the house.  Why, I went up to John, just a while
ago, and I'll be hanged if he didn't snap at me like
a turtle—told me to get out of his office.  Shall I
tell you what he said?  He said that last night he
went to hell and was still there.  There's something
wrong with him, as sure as you live."

Howard turned away and began to walk up and
down the room.  "There it is again," said he.  "I
no sooner convince myself that it might have been
a mere whim when something comes up to assure
me that it is something worse.  And the look he
gave me, Florence.  It hurts me."  He walked
toward the door.  Florence asked him if he were
going to his father.  He turned and stood for a
moment in silence.  "No, I am going down town.  I
don't feel right.  I am hurt.  But don't say
anything to him, please.  I am going to wait and see
what comes of it.  And please don't say anything
to mother."  He took his leave, and Florence went
to the window and looked after him as he passed
down the street.  She spoke to William.  "I
wonder what the trouble is," she said.

"I don't know," William replied, ruffling his
brow, "but as for that preacher—the first thing he
knows, I won't let him come here.  John has
insisted on his dropping in at any time, because he
used to know his father, but I'll attend to that.
Why does a great, strong fellow as he is want to
throw away his time?  Why doesn't he get to
work?"  He sat down and, looking toward the piano,
asked Florence to play something.  "I'd like a
tune quick and high-stepping," he said.  She told
him that she was in no humor.  "In that event,"
he insisted, "you might play the Maiden's Prayer."

"Not now, Uncle William.  Here's Agnes.
She'll play for you."

"No, I won't," said Agnes, coming into the room.
Florence expected the old fellow to snort his
displeasure at so flat a refusal, but he did not.  He
bowed to her and said: "Now, that's the way to
talk.  I like to have a woman come right out and
say what she means.  Well," he added, getting up,
"I am not in your plot, anyway, so I'll bid you
good morning."

As soon as William was gone, Agnes went to
the piano, seated herself on the stool and began
to ripple on the keys.  "There are times when we
feel like dabbling in water but don't want to swim,"
she said.

"And you are dabbling now," Florence spoke up.

"Only dabbling.  Oh, I forgot; your dressmaker
is out there, and I came in to tell you."

"I'm glad you didn't forget it entirely.  Oh, and
I must tell you something.  Brother says that
Mr. Goyle is smitten with you."

Agnes, still rippling, turned half way round,
sniffed and turned back.  "I hate him so hard that
it's almost second cousin to love," she declared.

"Don't let it be any closer kin, Agnes.  There is
always danger in a first cousin."

Agnes, still rippling, sniffed contemptuously.
"He's been following me around all the morning.
How I love to hate him."

The voice of Mrs. Elbridge was heard, calling
Florence, who answered that she was coming, but
she halted long enough to say to Agnes, mischievously,
that she might learn to love him if she loved
to hate him.  Both love and hate were kindred
passions, with but a thin partition between them.  As
she was going out, Agnes shouted after her that,
if she ever loved him she would hate herself, and
then, just as Goyle and Bodney entered the room,
she added: "We tar and feather such fellows in
Quincy."

"You do what in Quincy?" Bodney asked.

And Agnes, without looking round, repeated:
"Tar and feather such fellows."

Goyle knew that she meant him, but instead of
kindling resentment, her words aroused in him an
additional interest in her.  He looked at her as in
the rhythmic sway of her graceful form, the nodding
of her shapely head, she kept time with a tune, half
remembered, half improvised; and, turning to Bodney,
he asked in tones too low for the girl to hear:
"Has she got any money?"

"I think she has."

"Leave me alone with her."

"Do you want to snatch her purse?"

"Do you suppose I want a hair pin, a pearl
button, a scrap of verse, and a three-cornered piece
of silk that no man can match?  I mean, has she
got any money in her own name?"

"I haven't asked her, but I think she has."

"Then leave me alone with her."

Bodney stood looking at him.  There was a continuous
fascination in the fellow's affrontery.  "All
right," he said, but quickly added: "We've got to
go down town, you know.  I'll step into the office
and wait till she gets through with you.  You may
hypnotize me, but—"

Goyle cut him off with a gesture.  "Nonsense!
When she gets through with me!  Cool, coming
from a man whose honor I have saved at the risk
of my own.  But no cooler than the bullet you
threatened me with."

"I wish I had given it to you," said Bodney.

"Do you?  It's not too late, if you are bent on
murder.  But that's all right," he broke off, with a
wave of the hand.  "Leave me alone with her."

Bodney went out and Goyle sat down on a sofa,
gazed at the girl, cleared his throat, coughed; but
she did not look round.  "What are you playing?
May I ask?"

"You have asked," she replied, without looking
round.

"But you haven't told me."

She left off playing, and slowly turned on the
stool to face him.  "A tune they played in Quincy
one night, when they tarred and feathered a man,"
she said.  And then, with a smile of sweet
innocence, she added: "You were never in Quincy,
were you?"

"Well, I was never tarred and feathered there."

"Possibly an acknowledgment that you were
never in the town.  Oh, somebody told me that you
were once connected with opera."

"Then somebody flattered me.  I couldn't sing
in a chorus of scissors grinders."

"A sort of Chinese opera, I inferred," she said.

"Well, that's about the only sort I could sing in.
Chinese opera, eh?"

"Yes, that's what I inferred.  It was something
about Sing-Sing.  Isn't that Chinese?"

"Oh, it sounds like a joke," said he.

"And it wasn't?" she asked, in surprise.  "Then
it was serious opera instead of comic.  They call
serious opera grand, I believe.  And is that the
reason they call larceny grand—because it is serious?"

For a time he sat in a deep study of her.  How
different from the nervous and impressionable
weakling who had just left the room; and in looking
at her he felt that his eyes refused to glitter with a
snake-like charm; they were dull and flat, and he
drew his hand across them.  "Do you know that I
like you?" he said.

"Then I do not bring up an unpleasant recollection."

"No, a beautiful vision."  And now he had more
confidence in his eyes, for he got up and moved
toward her.  She slipped off the stool and stood
looking at him.

"Won't you play something for me?" he asked.

"I don't want to play.  I don't feel like it."

"Let your fingers dream over the keys."

"My hands aren't asleep."  She moved off from him.

"You aren't afraid of me, are you?".

She looked him in the eye.  "My grandmother
killed a panther," she said.

He drew his hand across his eyes; he recalled
what Bodney had said—about her getting through
with him.  In the dictionary of slang there is a word
to fit him: the resources of his "gall" were
boundless.  "Why don't you like me?" he asked.  "Am
I ugly in your sight?  Do I look like a villain?"

"If you looked more like a villain you'd be less
dangerous."

"That's cruel.  We may not see each other again.
Won't you shake hands with me?"

"What is the use of shaking hands with a stranger
we are never to see again," she said.

"But if we shake hands," he persisted, "we may
not be strangers."

"No?  Then, we'll not shake."

William strolled through the room, halting just
long enough to assure them that he was not trying
to break into the plot.  "He's a queer duck," said
Goyle.

"I wish there were more of his feather," she
replied.  "He can pass through without stopping."

"And so could I but for you," he rejoined.

She snapped her eyes at him.  "What nerve tonic
do you take?"

"Nature's.  She gives me a tonic whenever I look
at you."

She laughed at this, and she said: "I am woman
enough to like that sort of talk, but I don't like
you."

"You like my talk, but don't like me.  Why this
discrepancy?  Why don't you like me?"

"Oh, I don't know.  You give me the creeps."

"You are very frank."

"Oh, the creeps would make anybody frank."

Bodney appeared at the door and cleared his
throat to attract attention, and he was bold enough
to ask her if she had got through with him.  "Long
ago," she answered.  "And now you may have him."

Goyle bowed to her.  "Mr. Bodney and I may
go out of town for a day or two—or, at least, I
may.  Will you permit me to hope to see you upon
my return?"

"Oh, certainly," she said, and he felt that at last
he was making some sort of progress.  "I thank
you," he replied.

But there was something more to follow.  "You
can hope that you may, and I will hope that you
may not," she said.

Goyle bowed, and looked at her, admiringly.
"Miss Needle-tongue," he said.  "But you catch me."

Bodney told him to come on, but he lingered a
moment longer.  "May I tell you good-bye?" he
said, and she replied that she hoped so.  As the two
men were going out the Judge came in.  Goyle
glanced at him, but Bodney averted his eyes.  The
old man's face smote him with reproach.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SHE SAID THAT SHE WAS STRONG`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   SHE SAID THAT SHE WAS STRONG.

.. vspace:: 2

Agnes, accustomed to joke with the Judge, now
looked at him in astonishment; his face was
haggard and his eyes appeared hot with suffering.  But
he had not forgotten his dignified courtesy.  He
bowed to her, bade her good morning, as if he had
not seen her earlier in the day, said that he was
looking for Florence, and asked if she would please
find her, that he desired to see her—alone.  Agnes
went out at once to find Florence, wondering what
could have happened to throw so serious a cast
upon the countenance of the Judge; and, left alone,
the old man walked slowly up and down the room,
talking to himself.  "I don't know how to tell her,
but she must know of it.  It is my duty to tell
her."  He paused, looked toward the door, and continued:
"I am striving to master my heart by smothering
it; I must be the master of a dead heart."  He
paused again and resumed his walk.  "Yesterday
the world was a laugh, but today it is a groan.  I
wonder if he saw me.  No, and toward him I must
bear the burden of silence.  A mother's heart would
see the accusation in his face, and I must protect
her.  To keep her shielded is now my only duty
in life.  That decadent book!  It was a seed of
degeneracy.  Ah, come in," he said, as Florence
appeared at the door.  Howard had called her eyes the
searchlights of sympathy; and she turned those
lights upon the old man's face as she came into the
room, slowly approaching him.

"Did you send for me—father?"

"Father," he repeated with a catch in his breath
that sounded like a sob.  "My dear, it comes sweet
from your lips, but it falls upon me with reproach."  He
stood with bowed head, and Florence put her
hand on his arm.

"What is the matter, father?  Why, you need
a doctor.  Let me call—"

"No!" came from him like a cry of pain, as he
stepped back from her.  "You must call no one.
Wait a moment.  Oh, I've got iron in me—but it is
cold, Florence—cold.  Wait a moment.  Wait."

She stood looking at him, wondering, striving to
catch some possible forecast of what might follow,
but in his face there was no light save the dull hue
of agony.  Gradually he became calmer, and then
he said: "I am going to tell you something; it is
my duty."

"Yes, sir, I am listening."

"But are you strong enough to hear what I have
to say?"

"Does it take strength to hear?"

"In your case—yes."

"Then I am strong."  She moved closer and
stood resolutely before him, looking into his eyes.

"Florence, I know your character; I know that
your word is too sacred to break, but this is—is an
unparalleled case, and you must be put under oath."

"Judge, instead of administering an oath, you
ought to take medicine.  Why, I never saw you
this way before."

She was about to turn away from him, but he
took her by the arm.  "Look at me.  You never
saw me this way before.  No.  In all my experience
I have never heard of a man being so situated.  I
am a novelty of distress.  And you must know what
my ailment is, but you must take an oath, a sacred
oath, not to speak of it to any human being."

"But if it is so awful, why should I know it?  Tell
it to a physician."

"It is my duty to tell it to one human being, and
you are the one."

"Then I will take the oath."

"Hold up your right hand."  She obeyed him.
"You swear never to repeat what I tell you."

"Yes, I swear."

"By the memory of your mother?"

"Yes, by the memory of my mother."

"And you hope that the Eternal God may frown
upon you if you do not keep your oath?"

"Judge, this is awful."

"Are you going to back out now?  Are you
afraid?"

"I am not afraid.  I hope that the Eternal God
may frown upon me if I do not keep my oath."

He took her hand, the hand held high, and said
to her, "You will keep your oath.  It was disagreeable
to take it, but the measure was necessary.  And
now comes the agonizing part of my duty—and I
wish I had died before being compelled to
discharge it.  Florence, you know that I love you."

"Yes, sir, I know it—could never have doubted
it.  But why do you speak of it?  What has it to
do with—"

"Wait.  This shall be explained.  You must not
marry my son."

She stepped back from him and from her clear
eyes, always so sympathetic, there came a flash of
anger.  "You are mad, Judge," she said.

"I grant it.  He drove me mad—he sent me to hell."

"And you would drag me there."

"I would save you.  It is a duty I owe to the
memory of your father and to my own love for you.
Yes, it is my duty."

"And it is my duty," she said, with now the light
of sympathy in her eyes, "to send for a doctor."

"Wait.  You have not heard.  Remember you
have sworn."

"Yes, and I will keep my oath.  No, I have not
heard.  You have told me nothing.  You have
simply been mad enough to say that we must not
marry."  The sympathy had gone from her eyes.
"You must know that Howard and I have
all our lives lived for each other.  I owe
you nearly everything, I would make
almost any sacrifice for you, but when you
even intimate—but I will not reproach you,"
she said, softening again.  "You have not told me
why," she added, looking into his eyes.

"My child, it would break your heart."

She straightened and put her hand upon her
bosom.  "I offer my heart.  Break it."

"Florence, my son Howard is a thief."

She snatched her hand from her bosom and
raised it as if to strike him, but one look of agony
from his eyes, and her hand fell.  "Judge, how can
you say such a thing?  Something has tripped your
mind, but how could it fall so low?"

"My mind has not been tripped.  It is as firm as a
rock.  And you cannot doubt my word.  Last
night I saw him stealing money from the safe, as
if I had not always supplied all his wants, and at
an alarm which I had fixed, little dreaming who
the thief might be, he ran away—a thief.  You
cannot doubt my word."

Stern of countenance and with her eyes piercing
him, regal as the barbaric queens we find in
ancient fiction, she stood, and the moment of her
silence seemed an age to him.  "I pity your word
and I doubt your eyes."

"You may pretend to, but you cannot in your
heart.  You must believe me when I say that I saw
him."

"You saw a vision.  Your eyes have lied to you."

"I saw no vision.  My eyes told a heart-breaking
truth.  Florence, would you marry a thief?"

"Sir, I would marry Howard if I knew that he
had stolen a hammer to nail a god to the cross."

The old man wheeled away from her with a cry.
"Oh, crumbled hope—"

Mrs. Elbridge swept into the room, gazing at
the Judge.  "Why, what is the matter?"

The old man gripped himself together.  "Why, I—I
have just received a dispatch, telling me—telling
me that my brother Henry is dead.  Don't tell
William—brother Henry is dead."

Mrs. Elbridge went to him and put her arm about
him.  "And you loved him so," she said.  "Poor,
dear man, but we must bow to it, and pray for
consolation.  Don't—don't grieve so, dear.  Where
is the message?"

The old man looked at Florence.  "It distressed
him so that I tore it to pieces and threw it away,"
she said.

The Judge gave her a grateful look.  "I thank
you," he muttered.





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.. _`THE WEXTON CLUB`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WEXTON CLUB.

.. vspace:: 2

When Goyle and Bodney left the house they went
to a place known as the Wexton Club.  This
institution was not incorporated under the laws of
the state, but its affairs were conducted under a law,
the law that governs the game of poker.  The
public dinner pail gaming house, the pickpocket of the
laborer, had been closed; the grave-countenanced
faro dealer and the sad-eyed man who turned the
roulette wheel; the hoarse-voiced "hazard" operator,
and the nimble and enterprising thief of the "stud
poker" game, now thrown out of visible employment,
stood at the mouth of the alley waiting for
"good times" to return.  "Bucket-shops" broke
out in new places, once in a while, and there was
the occasional raid of a poolroom, but it was agreed
that public gambling was a thing of the rough and
disgraceful past.  But the poker clubs!  They were
not traps set for the man in overalls.  His pennies
and dimes were not solicited.  Of course, if he
saved up capital to the amount of five dollars, and
came with a reasonable appearance of respectability,
he could get into the game, but he was not wanted.
The board of trade men, the race horse man, the
merchant, doctor, lawyer, and particularly the fool
with money, furnished the life blood of the
enterprise.  Shrewd gamblers risked their money and
pronounced the game "straight."  And it was
"straight."  The "house" could not afford to permit
any "crooked" work.  Its success, the "rake off,"
depended upon its own fairness to everyone
playing in the game.  But the "sucker" does not need
to be cheated to lose.  His own impulses will sooner
or later rob him of all the money he can borrow,
beg or steal.  The man who plays for recreation
wants it, not after a long season of waiting for a
good hand, but at once; and putting in his money
he draws to "short" pairs or to every four straight
or four flush.  He may have an encouraging spurt;
he may make a hardened player wince and swear
under his breath or even above it, but in the end,
and it comes on apace, he shoves it back, broke, and
the old-timer rakes in the money.  Within recent
years several fine young fellows of good standing
and of bright prospects have looked for diversion in
poker and have found state's prison.  The road to
the penitentiary is paved with four flushes.

At the Wexton, Goyle had introduced Bodney as
his friend, Mr. Ramage, and out of that familiarity
which comes of constantly gazing into a man's
countenance, in the effort to determine what he
holds in his hand, they shortened his name to Ram.
The young lawyer had played with friends, and had
won, not because his friends were kind to him, but
because they were as experimental in drawing cards
as himself, and because they were possessed of
equally as much curiosity.  The "gentleman's game"
is a trap door, and it is easy enough to fall from
"Billy" and "George" and "Tom," down into a hell
on earth.  This is not a tirade against gambling,
for the horrors of that vice have engaged the ablest
of pens, but to give life in poker clubs as it really
exists, the attractive with the distressful.  Indeed,
the distress is not seen in the club.  The victim gets
up with a jocular remark, and silently goes out,
wishing that he were dead, and resolving deep
within his disconsolate heart that he will never enter
the place again.  Then his heart lightens.  He is
saved.  He has lost money that he could not afford
to lose, the very bread of his family; but he will do
so no more.  He has strength of purpose, an object
in life, a position to maintain.  He is now grateful to
himself for his own strength of will.  The next
morning he goes dull and heavy to his business.
He shudders as he enumerates the amount of money
that he has lost within the past few weeks; counts
it all up, and then, with a sickening pang, recurs
a forgotten sum, borrowed from a friend and not
yet returned, though he had promised to "hand" it
back the next day.  The details of his business are
wearisome.  At noon he goes out.  At the "Club"
they serve a meal, better than he can get at a
restaurant.  He will go there, but not to play.  He
plays, to get even—will try it once more; and at
evening he sends a message to his wife—"detained
on important business."  He has several checks,
and one by one they melt away in the pot.  He is
broke.  He wants more chips.  He has money in
the bank, he declares; but the man at the desk is
sorry to inform him that it is a rule of the "house"
not to take personal checks.  He is angry, of course.
He wants to know why a check which he offered
earlier in the evening was accepted, and is told
that the other check was different, that it was signed
by a name better known than his.  Then he tries to
borrow from the men who have won his money;
he knows them well, for he has played with them
day after day.  They have laughed at his jokes,
when with the fool's luck he has drawn to "short"
pairs and won.  They have no money to lend—would
really like to accommodate him, but have
obligations to meet.  And so he goes heavily down
the stairs again, with murder in his heart.  But his
heart lightens after a time.  He will never, so help
him God, play again.  But he does.  Ah, it is less
bad to be bitten by a mad dog.

Goyle was but an indifferent player.  He well
knew the value of a hand, but was too impatient to
wait.  But no despair fell upon him when he lost.
He did not look forward to a time when circumstances
or the force of his own resolution might
set him beyond the temptations of the game, but
to the time when luck might give him enough
money to put him in the game.  Bodney, however,
was bound soul and body.  He could hardly think of
anything else.  Dozing to sleep he saw aces and
kings; asleep, he drew to flushes and straights.  In
his sleep he might win, but only in his sleep.  His
soul seemed to have been created for this one
debasing passion.  It was his first, for though
impressionable, no enthusiasm had ever mastered him,
and love had never set his heart aflame.  But now
he was an embodiment of raging poker, not for
gain, but for the thrill, the drunkenness of playing.
His bank account, never large, was gone.  For
himself and for Goyle he had taken small sums of
money from the Judge's safe, and had lived in the
terror of being confronted with the theft.  And he
actually believed that had the old man accused
him or even strongly suspected him he would have
killed himself.  Suspicion was now averted, but at
the cost of what infamy!  He could face Howard;
he could endure with a show of self-control the
agonized countenance of the old man; but remorse
gnawed him like a rat.  It was not to be supposed
that Florence would be enlightened as to the
coolness which, of necessity, must fall between Howard
and the Judge, but it could not be otherwise than a
grief to her.  He could look forward and see the
wonder in her eyes, and then the sorrow that must
come to her.  It is one of the misfortunes of a
weak man to have a strong conscience, a
conscience with not enough of forecast to prevent a
crime, but one which agonizes when a crime has
been committed.  His only solace was to play.
Then his mind was chained to the game, the
dealing of the cards, the scanning of his hand, to the
thrill of winning, the dull oppression of losing.
Upon entering the club he had been surprised to
see so many old and venerable looking men sitting
about the tables.  One had been a prominent
lawyer; another, a doctor, had turned from a fine
practice to waste his substance and the remainder of his
days.  There was good humor, an occasional story
of brightness and color, but upon the whole the
place was sad, everyone seeming to recognize that
he was a hopeless slave.  The scholar turned
poker-player, thinks and talks poker.  He forgets his
grammar, and puts everything in the present tense.
"How did you come out last night?" someone asks,
and he answers, "I lose."  Many of those men
would not have gone to a "regular" gaming house;
they would not have played faro or roulette, but
the blight of poker fell upon them, to weaken them
morally, to make them liars.  Sometimes an old
fellow, getting up broke, would turn moralist.  One
said to Bodney: "The chips you see on the table
don't belong to anyone.  You may go so far as to
cash them and put the money into your pocket, but
it isn't yours.  You may spend it, but you will
borrow or steal to make it good to the game."  Among
those daily associates engaged in the enterprise of
"wolfing" one another there was a fine shade of
courtesy.  No one can be politer or more genial
than a winner, and a loser is expected to shove over
the pot which he has just lost, in case the winner
cannot reach it.  In return for this the loser is
permitted to swear at his victor, but etiquette demands
that it shall be done in a mumble, as if he were
talking to himself.  The winner can stand a great
deal of abuse.  In the game there were usually two
or more players put in by the "house," cool
fellows, educated to know the value of a hand or the
advantage of a position.  They were the "regulars,"
the others the militia.  The dash and the fire of the
militiaman sometimes overrode the regular, but
there was no question as to the ultimate result.
The regular knew when to put down a bad hand;
he could be "bluffed" by the militiaman.  But he
could afford to wait; he was paid to sit there; it
was his business.  Bodney, however, could not wait.
With him, impulsive hope was leaping from deal to
deal, from card to card, from spot to spot.

When Goyle and Bodney arrived the members
of this family of interchangeable robbery were
ranged at a long table in the dining room, eating
in hurried silence or talking about the game.
Occasionally someone would venture an opinion of a
race horse or a prize fighter, but for the most part
the meal was solemn and dull.  Laughter was not
unknown, but it was short, like a bark.  This does
not mean that there was a want of fellowship in the
club, but eating was looked upon as a necessary
interruption.

"You are just in time," said the proprietor of the
house, not a bad fellow, a business man, accommodating
as far as he could be, yielding sometimes
to the almost tearful importunity of a fool to the
extent of lending him money never to be returned.
"Sit down.  Fine weather we're having."

"A champagne day," said Goyle, sitting down
and spreading a napkin across his knees.  "How's
the game going?"

"Oh, fairly well.  We've got a good run of
customers.  They know that they are perfectly safe
here."

"What's become of that fellow they called Shad?"
asked a man at the end of the table.

"Oh, that fellow from Kansas City?  He's gone.
I didn't want him.  I think he'd snatch a card."

Bodney was silent.  He could hear the rat gnawing
at his conscience, and he yearned for the moral
oblivion of the game.  Leaving Goyle at the table,
he arose, and walked up and down, then went into
the room where the game was forming.  He had but
fifteen dollars, but with this amount he felt that he
could win.  He bought ten dollars worth of chips,
musing upon the fact that he had a reserve fund of
five dollars.  The game was all jackpots, twenty-five
cent ante, and three dollar limit, except when the
pot was doubled, and then the limit was five dollars.
While a man at his side was shuffling a deck of new
cards, Bodney began to meditate upon the policy
which he intended to pursue.  He would not draw
to a flush or straight except when there were several
"stayers," for then the percentage would warrant
the risk.  He would not draw to a pair below kings,
nor open on jacks next to the dealer.  If the pot
were opened and came around to him, even without
a raise, he would not stay on a pair of queens.
If he opened on one pair and was raised, he would
lie down.  He would not stand a raise under kings
up.  Goyle came in, bought twenty dollars worth
of chips, and took a seat on the opposite side of the
table; and the game proceeded, with seven players.
Bodney opened on a pair of kings.  All passed
around to Goyle.  He looked at his hand a moment,
and said: "Only one in?  Well, I've got to stay.
Give me that one," he said to the dealer, meaning
that he wanted one card.  "Got two little pairs here,
and I won't raise you unless I help."  Bodney drew
three cards and did not help his kings.  He bet a
white chip.  "Now I'll go down and look," said
Goyle.  "Bet you three dollars," he added.  Bodney
was smoking.  He puffed at his cigar.  "I don't
know about that," he said.  "What do you want to
raise me for?"

"Got to play my hand, haven't I?" Goyle replied.

Bodney put his cigar on the table and thought.
"Well, you've got 'em or you haven't.  I'll call
you."  He threw in three blue chips, and Goyle spread a
flush.  "Thought you said you had two little pairs,"
said Bodney, as Goyle raked in the pot.

"I hadn't looked at my hand very close."

"You knew what you had all the time.  Stayed
on a four flush with only one man in.  Of course
you can always make it against me."

The deal went round and round, and occasionally
Bodney won a pot, once a large one, and now as he
stacked up his chips he felt at peace with the world.
He laughed and joked with a man whom he had
never met before; he did not see how he could lose.
He threw off the rigor of his resolution, and drew to
a pair of sixes, caught the third, raised the opener
three dollars, and won the pot against aces up.
Then his senses floated in a limpid pool of delight.
Goyle opened a pot.  Bodney raised him, having
kings up.  "I've got to stay," said Goyle.  "Give me
one card."  Bodney drew one and made a king full.
His heart leaped with joy.  "What do you do?" he
asked.

"Bet three dollars," said Goyle, putting in the
chips, and Bodney was almost smothered in exultation.

"I raise you three."

"Raise you three," said Goyle.

"Are you as strong as that?" Bodney remarked,
striving to hide the delight that was shooting
through him.  "Well, I'll have to raise you three."

Goyle began to study.  "Well, if you can beat a
jack full, take the money."  He put in his three
dollars.  "King full," said Bodney, and Goyle threw
down his cards with an oath.  "Of course you
couldn't make that against anybody but me.  It's
what a man gets for not playing his hand before the
draw.  I ought to have raised you back.  Had three
jacks all the time.  But I didn't want to beat you."

"Looked like it when you made that flush."

"That's ancient history."

Bodney did not reply.  He was behind a bulwark
of chips, and his heart beat high.  He began to tell
a story.  The winners were interested; the losers did
not hear it.  In the midst of the story, just below
the climax, he had a hand beaten for six dollars, and
the story, thus broken, fell into silence.

"What was that story you were going to tell?"

"It didn't amount to anything," said Bodney, but
not long afterward he won a ten dollar pot, found
the fragments of the story, lying at the bottom of
silence, and gave them voice.  The winners laughed;
the losers did not hear it.

A minute legitimately employed may seem an
hour; an hour at a poker table may be but a minute.

Someone asked the time.  Bodney looked at his
watch, and said that it was five o'clock.  He was
nearly seventy dollars ahead, with the reserve fund
still in his pocket, and was resolved to quit very
soon.  Just then Goyle emerged from a contest,
broke.  "Let me take ten," said he.  Bodney
hesitated a moment.  "Say, I've got to pay for—"

"Oh, I'll give it to you tomorrow.  Let me take ten."

He passed over the chips, but with a feeling of
depression.  "I may be broke pretty soon," said he.
"And I can't let you have any more."

"Broke pretty soon!  Why, you're even on your
whole life.  You got all my money."

"I haven't won as much from you as you have from me."

"That's all right.  My day may come."

Bodney was determined to play no longer than
dinner time.  Then he would cash in.  Goyle's stack
grew to the amount of thirty dollars.  Bodney was
glad to see it grow; ten dollars of it belonged to
him.  He did not care for ten dollars; he had loaned
Goyle ten times ten, and did not expect to recover
the sum, but chips were different, and especially
now that they fed his passion and dulled his
conscience.  Goyle got up.  "Let me have that ten till
tomorrow," said he, and Bodney did not say
anything, but his spirits felt a sudden weight.  He was
pleased, however, when Goyle went out, for there
were to be no more raids upon his stack.  Dinner
was announced.  He motioned to an attendant upon
the game, and his chips were taken over to the desk.

"Going to quit us?" a man asked.

"Yes.  This is the first time I've won," he added,
by way of apology.

"Have dinner before you go," said the proprietor,
coming forward.

"I don't know that I've got the time."

"Just as well.  You've got to eat anyway."

He went out to dinner, and was permitted to be
vivacious.  An old fellow, sitting on his right,
remarked: "I'm glad to see you win."  Others said
that they were glad to see him win.  It was surely a
very genial company.





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.. _`WENT OUT TO "DIG"`:

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   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   WENT OUT TO "DIG."

.. vspace:: 2

After dinner, when the game was reorganized,
Bodney looked on for a few moments, still alive
to the keen pleasure of winning; and just as he was
about to go out, a thought struck him.  What was
the use of quitting now that he had luck?  He had
waited for it a long time, and now that it had
arrived he was going to throw it away.  He might just
as well win a hundred and seventy as seventy.  He
could at least try ten dollars, and quit if he found
that fortune was against him.  There was one vacant
seat and he took it.  Ten dollars and not a cent
more.  That would leave sixty to the good,
enough to play on for a long time.  So he bought
ten dollars worth of chips and was again forgetful
of the Judge, of Howard, of Florence, of the world.
After a few hands he picked up a straight, seven
high.  He raised the opener, who promptly raised
him in return, giving him the other barrel, as the
saying went.  Bodney raised again.  He was to get
action on all the money in front of him.  The dealer
said "cards," and the opener, tapping the table with
his cards, replied, "Help him."

"Don't you want any?" Bodney eagerly asked.

"Didn't hear me call for any, did you?"

"Well, I don't want any either," said Bodney, in
faltering tones.  A seven high straight looked weak
against a pat hand.

"Turn 'em over, boys," said the man in the look-out chair.

Bodney tremulously spread his hand.  "Only
seven high."

"Just top you.  Mine's eight high.  You had me
scared, and if you'd have more money and bet me
after the draw I don't think I call."

That might have been true, but it offered no
consolation to Bodney.  "Just my luck," he said.

"When a man gets them sort of hands beaten
he's got to lose his money," said the "look-out."  "There's
nothing to it."  A man standing near was
waiting for Bodney's seat.  He shoved back and
was about to get up, pursuant upon the resolution
which he had formed when, it occurred to him, as
it always does, that with ten more he could win back
the ten just lost.  It was simply an accident that the
fellow held over him.  He would try ten more.  His
luck was gone, but he expected every moment to
see it return.  He opened a pot on aces and tens.
A fool stayed on deuces, caught his third, and
slaughtered him.  He bought ten more.  His spirits
were heavy and he sighed distressfully.  It was
not the loss of the money; it was the harassing
sense of being beaten.  He opened another pot on
queens up.  One of the regulars raised him.  He
began to reason.  "He would raise it on two pairs
smaller than queens up.  I saw him raise just now
on sevens up.  I'll stand it."  He put in his money
and drew one card.  The regular drew one.  The
prospect was not bright, still it was not so bad.  He
did not help.  He bet a white chip; the regular
raised him three dollars and he called.  Then the
regular had recourse to a joke, new to Bodney, but
old to the game.  "I have the waiter's delight,"
said he.

"The what?"

"The waiter's delight," and he spread a tray full.

At ten o'clock, Bodney's capital, including the
reserve fund, amounted to twenty dollars.  "You
beat me every time," he said, to an offensive fellow
who sat opposite.  It was the stranger with whom
he had laughed early in the game.

"That's what I'm here for."

"That's all right.  I'll get you yet."

He won several pots, and then opened a double
pot for five dollars.  He had a king high flush, and
he intended the heavy opening to operate as a
reverse bluff, to argue a small hand.  The offensive
fellow stayed and drew one card.  He made a small
full and Bodney felt his heart stop beating.  At
eleven o'clock he had simply the five dollar reserve
fund.  And he saw it melt away—saw his last chip go
in.  He drew, having a show for the pot, and made
jacks up.  The opener had queens up.  Heavy of
heart, Bodney went down the stairs.  He cursed
himself for playing after dinner.  "If I only had
ten dollars I might win it all back," he mused.
"They can't possibly beat me all the time.  I played
as good cards as anybody.  I wonder where I can
get ten dollars.  Everybody that knows me has
gone home by now.  Let me see.  I know a fellow
over at that drug store.  But I've forgotten his
name.  Wonder if he'd let me have ten.  I'll try
him."  He went into the drug store, saw the man
standing behind the counter, walked up, reached
over and shook hands with him.

"How's everything?" Bodney asked.

.. _`"How's everything?" Bodney asked`:

.. figure:: images/img-086.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
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   :alt: "How's everything?" Bodney asked.

   "How's everything?" Bodney asked.

"Oh, pretty fair.  How is it with you?"

"All right.  Say, old man, a college chum of mine,
devilish good fellow, came in just now on a train
and happened to catch me at the office—"

"Yes?" said the druggist, looking at him.

"Yes, and the fact is, he got here broke and has
called on me to help him out.  He's a devilish good
fellow, and I don't exactly know what to do.  Every
one I know has gone home, and—could you let me
have ten till tomorrow?  You can count on it then."

"Oh, I guess so, but I'm rather short."

"I'll give it to you tomorrow without fail."

He went out with a ten dollar note crumpled
in his hand.  A man may fail to get rent money,
clothes money, bread money; he may meet with
obstacles that he cannot overcome; his self-respect
withholds him from asking favors of certain men.
But the fool in hot quest of poker money knows no
self-respect, recognizes no embarrassments that
might stand in modesty's way.  Bodney bounded up
the stairs, afraid that the game might have broken
up.  Panting and tremulous, he pressed the electric
button.  A negro porter pulled aside a blue curtain,
peeped through the glass and opened the door.  The
game had not broken up.  Every seat was taken,
the regulars, with chips stacked high before them,
the "suckers" squirming with "short money."  How
dull and spiritless everything had looked when
Bodney went out, and now how bright it all was, the
carpet, the window curtains, the pictures on the
walls.  The room was large, affording ample space
for a meditative walk up and down, and as he was
too nervous to sit still, he walked.

"Think there'll be a seat pretty soon?" he asked
of the man at the desk.

"Very soon, I think.  Sit down and make yourself
comfortable.  Have a cigar."  He lighted the cigar
and resumed his walk.  Passing the table he saw a
man in the death throes of a "show-down."  Some
one had opened a pot and he had been compelled to
stay.  Bodney eagerly watched the draw.  The
opener drew one card.  The "show-down" man had
to draw four, presumably to an ace.  This was
encouraging to Bodney.  He was the next in line; he
would get the seat.  He leaned forward to catch the
result.  The opener had tens up.  The four-card
draw yielded a better crop, aces up, and with a sense
of disappointment and injury Bodney resumed his
walk.  But pretty soon a man cashed in, and the
young lawyer bought five dollars worth of chips,
and took his seat.  He won the first pot, the second
and the third, but without stayers.  Surely his luck
had returned.  Again he felt a current of pleasure
flowing through his mind.  He laughed at a stale
joke.  It had never sounded so well before.  A man,
the offensive fellow, now quite a gentleman, began
to tell a story, and Bodney encouraged him with a
smile.  "I knew a man once, a preacher, by the
way," said he, "who got into the habit of playing
faro; I guess he must have played before he began to
preach, and found that he couldn't quit.  Some
fellow that was kin to him croaked, and left him a
lot of money.  Then he knew he wouldn't play any
more.  Well, one day he went by the bank where he
had his money, and pretty soon he says to himself:
'Believe I'll draw out just a small sum and try my
luck once more—just once.'  Well, he kept drawing
on that money till it is all gone.  Nothing to it, you
know.  Then one night he gets down on his knees
and prays.  'Lord,' says he, 'if I ever play again I
hope you'll make me lose.'"

"Did he play again?" Bodney asked.

"Yes; he keep right on."

"And did he lose?"

"No.  He coppers his bets."

Bodney was immensely tickled at the idea of the
fellow "coppering" his bets to offset the influence
of the Deity, and he laughed uproariously, but just
then he lost a pot, and his mirth fell dead.  And
after this every time he opened a pot someone
would raise him.  After a while he dragged out his
last five dollars and invested in chips.  Then he
sank into the condition known as "sifting," anteing
and never getting a pair.  Behind him stood a man
waiting for his seat.  He saw his last chip melt
away and he got up, so heavy that he could hardly
stand.  The fellow who had told the story, and to
whom Bodney had paid the tribute of most
generous laughter, dealt the cards and skipped Bodney
without even looking at him.  But Bodney looked
at him, and how offensive he was.  "I'd like to cut
his infamous throat," he mused.  Down the stairs
again he went, heavier and more desperate than
before.  It was now past midnight.  "Now what?" he
said, halting on a corner and wiping his hot face.
"I don't know what to do, but I almost know I
could win out if I had ten more.  But I don't know
where to get it.  There's no use to look for Goyle.
I wonder if that fellow at the drug store would let
me have another ten.  I'll go and see."  He crossed
over, went into the drug store, and asked the
squirter of soda water if his friend was there.  No,
he had gone home.  "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well, I don't know.  By the way, you've seen
me in here a number of times, haven't you?"

"Oh, yes.  And I used to see you over at the
other place."

"Yes, I remember, now.  And your name is—"

"Watkins."

"Yes, that's a fact.  I remember you now.  How
are you getting along, Watkins?"

"All right."

"Yes, sir, I used to know you," said Bodney.
"And I guess you are about the best in your line."

The man smiled.  "Well, that's what they say."

"Yes, I've heard a good many people say it.
Well, you understand your business.  Say, can you
do me a favor?  I need ten dollars till tomorrow
morning, and if you'll let me have it, I'll—"

The man shut him off with the shake of the head.
"I haven't got ten cents," he said.

Bodney stepped out.  "Come in again," the fellow
called after him.  He did not reply, except in a
mumble, to hurl imprecations back over his shoulder
at the soda-water man.  "He's a liar, and I'll bet
he's a thief.  Now what?" he added, halting on the
corner.  He looked up and down the street, and
scanned the faces of the passers-by, hoping to
recognize an acquaintance.  Presently a man rushed up
and with a "helloa, old fellow," grasped him by the
hand.  Bodney gripped him; he did not recall his
name, but he held him close.  "I haven't seen you
for some time," said Bodney.

"No, not since we were out on Lake Geneva,
fishing for cisco."

"That's a fact.  Say, everybody has closed up,
and I need ten dollars till tomorrow morning.  Can
you—"

"I was just going to ask you for five," said the
cisco fisherman.  "I went over here at three
sixty-one, and got into a little game of poker and got
busted.  Ever over there?  Now, there's a good
game, only two dollars limit, but it's liberal.  There
ain't a tight wad in the house.  Come up some time."

Bodney got on a car to go home.  He had just
five cents.  The talking of two women and the
frolicking of a party of young fellows annoyed him.
And then arose before him the sorrowful face of
his sister.  The rat had come back with his teeth
sharpened, and he felt his heart bleeding.  He
fancied that he could hear the dripping of the blood.
Then came upon him the resolve never to play
another game of poker.  It was a sure road to ruin,
to despair.  He would confess to Howard and the
Judge.  The car stopped and Bradley, the preacher,
got on, sitting down opposite Bodney, who, upon
recognizing him, arose and warmly shook his
hand.  "I am delighted to see you, Mr. Bradley.
You are out thus late for the good of humanity, I
suppose, or rather I know."

"I can only hope so," replied the preacher.

"Some sort of meeting of preachers for the
advancement of morals, Mr. Bradley?"

"No, a dinner."

"Well, a good dinner contributes to good morals."

"If not over-indulged in."

"Yes, if there is a virtuous lack of wine, such as
must have been the case tonight."  He continued to
stand, holding a strap, and meditating upon future
procedure, for there was a purpose in the cordiality
with which he had greeted the minister, a purpose
now fully developed.  "By the way, I must come
down again tonight—am going home to get some
money.  Late this evening I received a note, telling
me that a friend of mine, a divinity student, was
exceedingly ill.  I hastened to the number given
and found him in a poverty-stricken room, lying
upon a wretched bed, without a nurse, almost
delirious with suffering.  I knew that he was poor,
that he had bent his energies to study to the neglect
of material things, but I had not expected to find
him in so deplorable a condition.  So I am now on
my way home to get ten dollars.  I went to several
places, hoping that I could borrow, but failed to
find any one whom I knew well enough to ask for
a loan, even for so short a time as tomorrow.  But
perhaps you could let me have it."

"Why, I'll go with you—at once.  What is the
young man's name?"

"Patterson.  But he's so peculiar that he might
not like to see a stranger.  He begged me not to
say anything about his condition."

Bradley gave him ten dollars, and he did not wait
to reach the next street crossing, but jumped off
the car, sprang upon a cable train going north, and
was soon climbing the stairs leading to the Wexton
Club.  The same negro admitted him, and again he
was afraid that the game might have dissolved,
merely to cheat him of victorious reprisal, but it
was still in progress, with one vacant seat.  This
time he invested his entire amount.  The feeling of
security, inspired by a reserve fund, favored an
over-confidence, he fancied; it was better to know that
there was nothing in reserve; it enforced caution.
He played with varying luck till about twelve
o'clock, till a regular smote him, hip and thigh;
and then, like the captain, in the version of the poem,
not recited to ladies, he staggered down the stairs.





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.. _`SAW THE BLACK FACE, GRIM, WITHOUT A SMILE`:

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   CHAPTER VIII.


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   SAW THE BLACK FACE, GRIM, WITHOUT A SMILE.

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It was nearly daylight when Bodney reached
home.  As he stood on the steps, after unlocking
the door, he looked toward the east and said aloud:
"The sun will soon draw to his flush.  But he
always makes it.  God, what a night I've had.  It is
the last one, for here at the threshold of a new day
I swear that I will never touch another card.  And
Goyle—I'll have nothing more to do with him."  He
went in, still repeating his vow, and as he passed
the door of the office, was surprised to see a light
within; and halting, he heard footsteps slowly
pacing up and down.  He stepped in and stood face to
face with the Judge.

"Why, Judge, are you up so soon, or haven't you
gone to bed?"

"I haven't been to bed.  And you?"

"I have been sitting up with a sick friend.  Don't
you think you'd better lie down now?"

"No, I think nothing of the sort.  It is better to
stand in hell, sir, than to wallow in it."  Bodney
sat down and the old man stood facing him.  "But
I can hardly realize that it was not a nightmare,
George.  Go over it with me; tell me about it.  How
did it happen?"

"Why, we simply came in here together and
found—him.  That's all."

"Yes, that's all, but it is enough."

"Was there very much money involved?"
Bodney asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Money!  I haven't once thought of the amount.
It is the fact that I have been shot with an arrow
taken from my own quiver, and poisoned.  And yet,
when I look at him, as I did today at dinner, I can
hardly bring myself to believe my own eyes."

"You haven't—haven't said anything to him,
have you?"

"In the way of accusation?  No.  It would leap
from him to his mother.  And I charge you to
breathe it to no one."

"Not even my sister, who is to be his wife?"

"No.  I will take her case in hand."

"But will you permit them to marry?"

"Not in a house of God; not in the presence of a
guest.  If she is determined to marry him against my
protest, it must be in secret, as his deed was."

"I hope, sir, that everything may—may come out
right."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, I hope that you may forgive him.  I don't
think that he's dishonest at heart."

"Then you are a fool."

"I admit that, Judge.  I am a fool, an infamous fool."

"But you are not a scoundrel, not a thief."

"I might be worse."

"Enough of that.  You are trying to debase
yourself to raise him.  Don't do it.  You can't afford
it.  You have an honest living to make, and through
you I must now look to the future."  He turned
away, and for a time walked up and down in silence;
then, coming back, resumed his place in front of
Bodney.  "It all comes from my over-confidence in
modern civilization.  I did not presume to instruct
or even advise him as to a course of reading,
permitting him to exercise his own fancy; and it led
him to that running sore on the face of the
earth—Paris.  He read French books, the germs thrown
off by diseased minds.  He lived in a literary pest
house, and how could he come out clean?  He was
prepared for any enormity against nature, and why
then should he have drawn the line between me
and any of his desires?"  He turned away, walking
up and down, sometimes rubbing his hands
together, as if washing them, then putting them
behind him; halting at the desk to gaze down at
something; going once to the safe and putting his hand
upon it, but snatching it away as if the iron were
hot.  Bodney followed him about with his eyes,
seeing him through cards, hearts and spades.  His
mind flew back to the game, and he could see the
players sitting just as he had left them, the offensive
fellow and the regular, behind a redoubt of chips.
Only ten dollars more would have saved him; he
had fancied so before, but now it was not fancy but
almost a perfect knowledge.  Why had he not asked
the preacher for twenty instead of ten?

"'But it is so strange," said the old man, sitting
down with one arm straight out upon the green
baize table; and the wretch with his mind on the
game thought that it would be but an ungainly
position for a player to take; he ought to sit facing
the table with his hands in front of him.  "Stranger
than truth," said the Judge, and Bodney looked at
him with a start.  For a moment the game
vanished and darkness fell upon the players, but soon
a blue curtain was pulled aside, a black face, grim,
without a smile, showed glistering behind the glass,
the door was opened, and there again were the
players in the light, the offensive fellow drawing
one card, the regular solemn and confident with
a hand that was pat.  "Stranger than the strangest
truth that I have ever encountered," the Judge went
on, turning his back to the table and looking over
Bodney's head at something on the wall.  "But I
brood too much."

"One card," said Bodney, in a thick muse.

"What's that?"

The young man started.  "Nothing."

"You said something about a card."

"Yes, sir; it was sent in to me tonight while I
was with my sick friend—man wanted to see him
on business and insisted upon coming in, and it was
all I could do to put him off."

"Brood too much," the Judge repeated, after a
brief interval of silence.  "The mind mildews under
any one thing that lies upon it long.  A continuous
joy might be as poisonous as a grief."  He leaned
forward with his head in his hands, and talked in a
smothered voice.

"The sun is coming up," said Bodney.  "Don't
you think you'd better lie down?"

"You go to bed.  Don't mind me."

"Believe I will.  I am worn out, and I don't see
how you can stand it as well as you do."

"In worry there is a certain sort of strength.  Go
to bed."

Bodney got up and went to the door, but turned
and looked at the old man, bowed over with his
fingers pressed to his eyes.  The coming of the sun
had driven the game further off into the night, and
now the wretch's heart smote him hard.  He could
lift that gray head; into those dull eyes he could
throw the light of astonishment, but they would
shoot anger at him and drive him out of the house.
If he could only win enough to replace the money
taken from the safe, to give himself the standing of
true repentance, he would confess his crime.  Win
enough!  He could not conceive of getting it in
any other way; all idea of business had been driven
from his mind.  He had no mind, no reason; what
had been his mind was now a disease on fire, half
in smoke and half in flame, but he felt that if he could
get even, the fire would go out and the smoke clear
away.  The old fellow who turned moralist could
have told him that he had for more than half a
life-time struggled to get even, that the poker fool is
never even but twice, once before he plays and once
after he is dead.  And the scholar who had forgotten
his grammar in the constant strain of the present
tense would have assured him that the hope to get
even was a trap set by the devil to catch the
imaginative mind.

The Judge groaned, and Bodney took a step
toward him, with his hands stretched forth as if he
would grasp him and shake him into a consciousness
of the truth, but the old man looked up and
the young man faltered.  "I thought you were
going to bed, George."

"I am, sir."

"Then, why do you stand there looking at me?"

"I—I don't know," he stammered, in his embarrassment.

"Yes, you do know," said the Judge, giving him
a straight and steady look.  "You know that you
are hanging about to plead the cause of your—your
friend; but it is of no use.  Friend!  I would to
God he had been my friend.  Confess, now; isn't
that the reason you are standing there?"

"You read my mind, Judge," said the wretch.

"Do I?  Then read mine and go to bed."

As Bodney turned toward the door, he met
William coming in.  The old fellow carried his coat
thrown across one arm and was trying to button
his shirt collar.  It was his custom to begin
dressing at his bedside, grabbing up the first garment
within reach, and to complete his work in the office,
the basement, or even the back yard.  "Hold on
a minute," he said to Bodney.  "Button this
infernal collar for me."  Bodney halted to obey.
"Can't you take hold of it?  Is it as slick as all
that?  Do you think I wear an eel around my neck?
Confound it, don't choke the life out of me.  Get
away.  I can do it better myself.  Didn't I tell you
to quit?  Are you a bull-dog, that you have to hang
on that way?"

Bodney trod heavily to his room.  The old fellow
threw his coat on the table and began to walk
about, tugging at his collar.

"Do you think you can button it here better than
in your own room?" the Judge asked, straightening
up and looking at him.  "Has this office been set
aside as a sort of dressing parade ground for you?"

William was muttering and fuming.  "I was
Judge Lynch out West, once, and was about to set
a horse-thief free, but just then I incidentally heard
that he had sold collars and I ordered him hanged.
Did you speak to me, John?"

"I asked you a question."

"I knew a Universalist preacher that changed his
religion on account of a collar—swore that its
inventor must necessarily go to the flames.  What was
the question you asked me, John?"

"One that would have no more effect on you than
a drop of water on the back of a mole."

William buttoned his collar, tied his cravat, took
a seat opposite his brother and looked hard at him.
"John, I see that your temper hasn't improved.
And you have got up early to turn it loose on me.
Now, what have I done?  Hah, what have I done?"

"I have never heard of your doing anything, William."

"That's intended as an insult.  Oh, I understand
you.  You never heard of my doing anything.  You
haven't?  You never heard of my electing two
governors out West.  You bat your eyes at the fact
that I sent a man to the United States Senate.  Why,
at one time I owned the whole state of Montana,
and a man who had never done anything
couldn't—couldn't make that sort of showing."

"What did you do with the state?"

"What did I do with it?  A nice question to ask a
man.  What did Adam do with the Garden of Eden?"

"You were not driven out of Montana, were you?"

"Driven out?  Who said I was driven out?"

"But Adam was driven out of the garden."

"Oh, yes, of course.  I merely spoke of the
Garden of Eden for the reason that Adam's claim
on it was only sentimental, if I may call it such.  I
mean that I owned the good opinion of every man
in the state.  I could have had anything within the
gift of the commonwealth."

"Then, why didn't you go to the Senate, or elect
yourself governor?  Why were you so thoughtless
a prodigal of your influence?"

"That's a nice question to ask a man.  Why didn't
you buy an acre in this town that would have made
you worth millions?  Why didn't I go to the
Senate?  I had something else on my mind.  Every
man is not ambitious to hold office.  There's
something higher than politics.  I was educated for a
different sphere of action.  I was, as you know,
educated for a preacher, but my faith slipped from
under me.  But it is of no use to talk to you."

"Not much, William, I admit."

"But can't you tell me why this peculiar change
has come over you?  It worries me, and you know why."

The Judge made a gesture.  "Don't—it's not that.
My mind is perfectly sound."

"Then, what's the trouble?"

"I can't tell you."

"Am I ever to know?"

"I hope not."

"I don't see why you should give me the keen
edge of your temper and not tell me the cause that
led you to whet it against me."

"I have not whetted it against you—it has been
whetted on my heart.  Go away, William, and leave
me to myself."

"I would if you were yourself, but you are not.
There is something the matter with you."

"I grant that."

"And in it there is cause for alarm, both for you
and for myself."

"Now, please don't allude to that again.  My
mind is perfectly sound, I tell you."

"And so one dear to us often declared."

The Judge got up.  "I shall have to command
you to leave this room."

"Then, of course, I'll go.  Here comes your wife.
Rachel, there is something radically wrong with
John, and I advise you to send for the best
physician in this town."





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.. _`HEARD A GONG IN THE ALLEY`:

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   CHAPTER IX.


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   HEARD A GONG IN THE ALLEY.

.. vspace:: 2

More than once during the night had Mrs. Elbridge
looked in upon her husband, to urge upon
him the necessity for rest.  But he had told her
that he had on hand the most important case that
ever came to him, declared that the life of a man
depended upon his meditation; a new point in law
was involved, and it would be a crime to sleep until
his work was done.  The governor of the state
had submitted the question to him.  And thus had
she been put off, having no cause to doubt him;
but now she caught William's alarm.  "My dear,"
said the Judge, when she approached him, "it seems
that both you and my brother are struggling hard
to misunderstand me.  You know that I have never
deceived you—you know that I would tell you if
there were anything wrong.  It is true that the
death of my brother Henry has shocked me greatly—"

"But why don't you tell William?  He ought to
know.  And it is our duty to tell him."

The old man, looking toward the door, held up
his hand.  "No, he must not be told—nor must
anyone else.  I have an object."

"But, my dear, I don't see—"

"I know you don't.  And I cannot tell you—I
can—can merely hint.  It is a question of life
insurance, and the company must not hear of his death
till certain points are settled.  William, as you
know, while one of the best men in the world, has a
slippery tongue.  And, besides, he is in no condition
now to hear bad news.  It is a secret, but he is
having trouble with his heart—under treatment.
Let us wait till he is stronger."

"But, dear, is that a cause why you should frown
so at Howard, and treat him with such contempt?"

He walked away from her, but she followed him
and put her hand on his arm.  They halted near
the safe and stood in silence, he looking at the
iron chest, she looking at him.  The sound of a
peddler's gong came from the alley, and he sprang
back from the safe and dropped heavily down upon
a chair.  Florence was heard talking to someone,
and Mrs. Elbridge called her, and at this the old
man brightened.  Florence was his recourse, his
safeguard, and when she came in he greeted her
with something of his former heartiness.

"Florence, they are worried about me.  Tell them
that they have no cause."

The young woman's face was bright with a smile,
but it was a light without warmth, a kindly light
intended to deceive, not the Judge, but his wife.
Mrs. Elbridge looked at her husband and was
astonished at the change in him.  She could not
understand it, but she was not halting to investigate
causes.  "You are our physician, Florence," she
said.  "But you must bring your patient under better
discipline.  He didn't go to bed at all last night."

"Then I shall have to reprimand him.  Sir, why
do you disobey my orders?"

The old man's attempt at a smile was but a poor
pretense, but it deceived the eye of affection.
"Because, Doctor, I had a most important case on
hand; but it is about worked out now, and I will
in the future have more regard for your instructions."

They talked pleasantly for a time, and then
Mrs. Elbridge went out, leaving the Judge and Florence
in the office; but no sooner was the wife gone than
the husband began to droop; and the light of the
forced smile faded from the countenance of the
young woman.  She looked at the Judge and her
face was stern.  "We are hypocrites for her," she
said, nodding toward the door through which
Mrs. Elbridge had just passed.

"Yes, to protect the tenderest nature I have ever
known.  She could not stand such a trouble.  It
would kill her."

"She would not believe your story."

"Yes, she would.  Unlike you, she could not be
infatuated with the blindness of her own faith.  She
loves her son, but she knows me—loves me.  She
could not doubt my eyes.  What," he said, getting
up with energy and standing in front of Florence,
"you are not debating with yourself whether or
not to tell her, are you?  Can you, for one
moment, forget your oath—an oath as solemn and as
binding as any oath ever taken?  You, surely, are
not forgetting it."

"No, but I ought to.  My heart cries for permission
to tell Howard.  His distress reproaches me."

"But your oath."

"Oh, I shall not forget it, sir," she said, almost
savagely.  "But, it was not generous of you—not
generous."

"What wasn't?"

"Swearing me to secrecy.  You took advantage
of what you conceive to be my honor, my strength
of character; and you would have me break his
heart by refusing to marry him.  You have a
far-reaching cruelty."

"Florence—my daughter, you must not say that.
You know why I would keep you from marrying
him.  Have I been a judge all these years, to find
that I am now incapable of pronouncing against
my own affections and my own flesh and blood?  I
am broader than that."

"You mean that you are narrower than that.  It
is noble to shield those whom we love."

"No, it is selfish.  You are a woman, and
therefore cannot see justice as a man sees it."

"My eyes may not be clear enough to see justice,
but they have never beheld a vision to—"

"Don't, Florence—now, please don't.  You know
how I held him in my heart; you know that no
vision could have driven him out.  But it is useless
to argue.  I have knowledge and you have faith.
Knowledge is brightest when the eye is opened
wide; faith is strongest when the eye is closed."

And thus she replied: "Ignorant faith may save
a soul; knowledge alone might damn it."

"Very good and very orthodox, my child; a saying,
though, may be orthodox, and yet but graze the
outer edge of truth."

"But if there be so little truth in things orthodox,
why should there be such obligation in an oath?"

"Ah, you still have that in your mind.  Look at
me.  I hold you to that oath.  Will you keep it?"

"Yes, but if I did not believe that within a short
time something might occur to clear this mystery,
I would break it in a minute."

"And let your soul be damned?"

"Now, you are orthodox.  Yes, I would break it.
But I will wait, in the belief that something must
occur."

"There is no way too tortuous for a faith to
travel," the old man murmured, but then he
bethought himself that to encourage waiting was a
furtherance of this humane plan of protection, and
then he added: "Yes, wait; we never know, of
course.  Something might occur.  But make me a
promise, now in addition to your oath—that if,
finally, when nothing does occur and you are
resolved to break it, that you will first come to me."

"I will make that promise."

Agnes tripped in with a tune on her lips.  The
Judge wondered why George Bodney had not fallen
in love with her.  She was bright enough and pretty
enough to ensnare the heart of any man.  But Bodney
was peculiar, and susceptibility to the blandishments
of a bewildering eye was not one of his traits;
his nature held itself in reserve for a debasing
weakness.  Agnes asked Florence why everyone seemed
to drift unconsciously into that mouldy old office.
Florence did not know, but the Judge said that it
was attractive to women because it was their nature
to find interest in the machinery of man's affairs.
Business was the means with which man had
established himself as woman's superior, and there
was always a mystery in the appliances of his work-shop.

"What nonsense, Mr. Judge," said Agnes.  "It is
because there is so much freedom in here.  You
can't soil anything in here—never can in a place
where men stay."  Howard passed the door, and
the Judge's face darkened.  Florence looked at him
and her eyes were not soft.

"Now, what are you frowning at, Mr. Judge?"
said Agnes.  "Do you mean that I haven't told the
truth?"

"You always tell the truth, Agnes."

"No, I don't.  I told Mr. Bradley a fib—a small
one, though; a little white mouse of a fib.  But you
have to tell fibs to a preacher."

"It is the way of life.  Fibs to a preacher and lies
to a judge," said the old man.

"Lies *for* a judge," Florence spoke up.

"What's the matter with everybody!" Agnes
cried, looking from one to another.  "You people
talk in riddles to me.  I'm not used to it.  And,
Florence, you are getting to be so sober I don't
know what to do with you.  You and the Judge are
just alike.  What's the matter with everybody?
Mr. Howard mumbles about the house and Mr. Bodney
acts like a man with—with the jerks, whatever
that is, for I don't know.  There, I'm glad
breakfast is ready.  Come on, Mr. Judge."





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.. _`WILLIAM AGREED WITH THE JUDGE`:

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   CHAPTER X.


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   WILLIAM AGREED WITH THE JUDGE.

.. vspace:: 2

The Judge took his accustomed seat at the head
of the breakfast table, Howard on his right and
Bodney's vacant chair at his left; but there was no
disposition on the part of the worry-haunted father
to enter into conversation with the son.  Howard
was talkative; his mind might have been termed
dyspeptic instead of digestive.  The books, stories,
sketches, scraps that he read, ill-stored, appeared
as a patchwork in his talk.  He spoke of a French
author, and Florence saw the Judge wince.  She
was sitting beside Howard, and she pulled at his
coat sleeve as a warning to drop the disagreeable
name.  He understood and changed the subject,
but the fire had been kindled.

"It is no wonder that the French could not whip
the Germans," said the Judge, not addressing
himself to Howard, but to the table.  "It was the
literature of France that weakened her armies.  Morality
was destroyed, and without morality there can be
no enduring courage."

"I think Victor Hugo is just lovely," said Agnes.
The Judge nodded assent.  "A great genius—and,
by the way, he said that there were but three
men worthy to be estimated as memorable in all the
history of this life—Moses, Shakespeare and Homer.
He belonged to older and better France, at the
dying end of her greatness.  And you will observe that
he did not include a Frenchman in his list."

"But I warrant you," said Howard, "that in his
secret mind he put himself at the head of it."

The Judge looked at him.  "Warrants issued by
you, sir, are not always returnable accompanied by the facts."

"No, I wouldn't issue a warrant for the arrest of
a fact.  Truth ought to be at large."

Florence glanced at the Judge and saw him slowly
close his eyes and slowly open them.  "You think
Hugo lovely," said the old man, speaking to Agnes.
"But what do you think of Zola?"

"I don't know anything about him.  But some
of the girls said he was horrid," she answered.

"It is a good thing for you that you don't know
anything about him, and it reflects credit upon the
judgment of the girls who pronounced him horrid,"
said the Judge.  "His influence upon his own
country, and upon this country, too, has been most
pernicious."

William was usually most prompt at meal time,
but now he was for some unaccountable reason
delayed; but he came in just as the Judge closed his
remark concerning Zola, sat down and began to
tuck a napkin under his chin.  The Judge had more
than once hinted his displeasure at this vulgarity,
but his brother continued to practice it, not without
heeding the hint, but with a defense of his custom.
He had elected governors, and was not to be ruled
into discomfort by a woman who had written a
book on etiquette.  He knew politeness as well as
the next man or next woman, for that matter.
Many a time had he seen Senator Bascomb, who
owed his election to him, sit down to table in his
shirt sleeves, with a napkin tucked into his bosom,
and Washington City was compelled to acknowledge
him a man of brains.  The Judge stared at
William, and was doubtless about to repeat his hint,
when Florence said something to attract his eye,
and shook her head at him.

"What have we under discussion this morning?"
said William, squaring in readiness to defend
himself, for he ever expected an attack.

"French literature," Howard answered.

"French fiddlesticks," William replied.  "There
is no French literature.  They have slop that they
call literature."

"I thank you, William," said the Judge, forgetting
the napkin.  This was received by the former
owner of Montana as proof that the Judge's
ill-nature had been cured; and, bowing, he pulled the
napkin from about his jowl and spread it upon his
knees.  And then arose a spirited discussion
between the political Warwick and Howard, the
former snatching a cue from his brother, affirming
that the influence of France had always been bad,
the latter maintaining that France had civilized and
cultivated the modern world.  Florence pulled at
Howard's coat sleeve; and the Judge, observing
her, and irritated that she was moved to employ
restraint, threw off all attempt at an exercise of his
patience.  "Let him proceed!" he roared, and
everyone looked at him in surprise.  "Let him
proceed to the end of his disgraceful advocacy of
corruption.  But I will not stay to hear it."  And,
getting up, he bowed himself out.

"Howard," said Mrs. Elbridge, "you ought not
to talk about things that irritate your father.  He
is not well."

"You are wrong, Howard, to oppose him," Florence
spoke up.

"I suppose I am," the young man admitted, "but
he has always taught me to form an opinion of my
own and to hold it when once well formed, and until
recently he seemed pleased at what he termed my
individuality and independence.  But now I can't
do or say a thing to please him.  I'm no child, and
not a fool, I hope; then, why should I be treated
as if I had no sense at all?  What have I done that
he should turn against me?  He treats everyone
else with consideration and respect.  He even has
toleration of Uncle William's dates," he added,
mischievously thrusting at the old fellow for the recent
stand he had taken, knowing that, with him, it
was the policy of the moment rather than the
conviction of the hour.

"What!" exclaimed William, with a bat of eye
and a swell of jaw.  "Turned loose on me, have
you?  Well, I want to tell you, sir, that I won't
stand it.  I am aware that my forbearance
heretofore may have misled you with regard to the
extent of my endurance, but I want to say that you
have made a mistake.  I am treated with consideration
and respect everywhere except in this household,
and I won't stand it, that's all."

"Thank you," Howard replied.

"Thank me!  Thank me for what?"

"You said, 'that's all,' and I thank you for it."

Mrs. Elbridge interposed with a mild and smiling
admonition.  She shook her finger at Howard.
"Let him go ahead, Rachel," the old fellow spoke
up.  "Let him go ahead as far as his strength will
permit him.  He's—he's set himself against us, and
as he runs riot in the privilege of the spoiled heir,
why, I guess we'll have to stand it—as long as we
can.  Of course, there'll come a time when all
bodily and moral strength will fail us, but until then
let him go ahead.  Yes, has set himself against us."

"Us, did you say, Uncle Billy?  You are
evidently one of the us.  Who's the other?" Howard
asked, immensely tickled, for the warmth of the
family joke was most genial to him.

"I don't want any of your Uncle Billying.  I
always know what to expect when you begin that."

"I began it the other night and ended by giving
you a meerschaum pipe, didn't I?"

"Oh, meerschaum.  Chalk—if there ever was a
piece used by a tailor to mark out the angles of a
raw-boned man—that pipe's chalk.  You could
no more color it than you could a door-knob."

"A friend of mine brought it from Germany, Uncle Billy."

"Did he?  He brought it from a German beer
garden, where they peddle them in baskets and sell
them by the paper bag full, like popcorn.  I had
my suspicions at the time."

"But you were willing to run the risk of
acceptance because your pipe was so strong."

The old fellow put down his knife and fork and,
straightening up, looked at Howard as if he would
bore him through.  "I deny your slander, sir."

"So do I," said Howard.

"You do what?"

"Deny the slander—unless there is slander in
truth."

"Howard, you remind me of a cart-horse, treading
on his trace chains.  You remind me—I don't
know what you remind me of."

"Of a cart-horse, you said."

Again Mrs. Elbridge admonished him not to irritate
the old fellow, but did it so laughingly that he
accepted it more as a spur than as a restraint; and
Florence pulled at his sleeve, but more in
connivance than in reproof.  Agnes laughed outright.
She declared that it was better than a circus.  The
old man turned his eyes upon her, giving her a long
and steady gaze, and she whispered to Florence that
even the pin-feathers of his dignity had begun to
rise.  "Better than a circus," he replied.  "I don't
see any similarity except that we have a clown."  He
winked at Mrs. Elbridge, as if he expected her
to rejoice in what he believed to be a victory over
the young man.  Marriage may cripple a man's
opportunities—in some respects it may restrict his
range of vision, but it renders his near view much
more nearly exact.  Having never known the
repressions of the married state—ignorant of the
intellectual clearing-house of matrimony—William was
blind to many things, and particularly to the fact
that the mother hated him at that moment, though
she smiled when he winked at her.

"Not much like modern circuses," Howard admitted.
"They have a whole group of clowns, while
we have but two, at most."

"Howard," said the old fellow, "do you mean to
call me a clown?"

"Not a good one, Uncle William."

"Not a good one.  Well, sir, I want to say that
I'd make a deuced sight better one than you."  When
emphasis was put upon the word, it meant,
with Uncle William, not the opprobrious, but the
commendable.  During his boyhood, to be a clown
was to be greater than a judge, greater, if possible,
than the driver of a stage-coach.  In the old day,
it was a compliment to tell a boy that he would
make a good clown.

"I don't doubt you'd make a good clown, Uncle
Billy.  Aspiration is, within itself, a sort of fitness."

"What do you mean by that?"

"There is a certain genius in mere ambition,"
Howard went on.  "If we yearn—and yearn, only,
we come nearer to an achievement than those who
don't yearn.  Who knows that genius is not
desire—just desire, and nothing more.  I know a man over
at St. Jo that can eat more cherries than any man in
Michigan, not because he is larger than any of the
rest, but because he has a broader appetite for
cherries—more yearning."

William turned to Mrs. Elbridge.  "Rachel, do
you think he's lost what little sense he ever had."

"William," she said, "you must not talk to me
that way.  I won't put up with it, sir.  I am sure he
has as good sense as any—"

"Oh, if you are going to turn against me I guess
I'd better go," he broke in, getting up.  "I'll go to
my brother.  He at least can understand me."

The Judge was in the office.  William entered,
and, going up to the desk, began to rummage
among some papers.  "Trying to swim?" the Judge
asked, looking up from a document spread out
before him on the table.

"No, I'm looking for a cigar."

"I thought you were trying to swim."

William stepped back from the desk.  "John, I
didn't expect such treatment after our hearty agreement
at the breakfast table.  But it's what I get for
taking sides.  The neutral is the only man that gets
through this life in good shape."

"And is that the reason, William, that you didn't
preach—didn't want to take sides against the devil?"

"If I'm not wanted here, I can go to my own room."

"I wish you would.  I am expecting an old client."

"Oh, I can go."

"Can you?"

"John, your irritability has irritated everybody on
the place.  You have poisoned our atmosphere.  I
will leave you."

"Thank you," said the Judge, examining the
document before him.  After a time, and still
without looking up, he added: "Still here?"

"I have just come in, sir," said Howard.  The
Judge looked up.

"I thought it was William."

"He has just gone out.  And I have come to beg
your pardon for what I said at breakfast.  I didn't
mean to worry you; I—"

"It is unnecessary to beg my pardon, sir."

"I hope not."  He moved closer, with one hand
resting upon the table.  "Father, something is
wrong, and—"

"Most decidedly."

"But won't you please tell me what it is?  If
the fault is in me and I can reach it I will pull it
out.  I could bear many crosses, but your ill-opinion
is too heavy."

The old man looked up at him.  "To your lack of
virtue you have added silly reading."

"But I am playing in a farce worse than any I
have ever read.  Be frank with me.  You have
taught me frankness."

"And tried to teach you honesty."

"Yes, both by precept and example.  But what is
to come of it all when you treat me this way?  Why
don't you go to some springs?"

"Why don't you leave me to myself?"

"I am almost afraid.  You rake up enmities
against me when you are alone, it seems; and you
pour them out upon me when we meet.  Why is it?"

The Judge waved him off.  "Go away," he said.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE OLD OFFICE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE OLD OFFICE.

.. vspace:: 2

The office in La Salle Street was in an old-fashioned
building, with heavily ornamented front.  The
room was large, high of ceiling, with a grate and a
marble mantlepiece.  It was on the first floor, after
the short flight of iron steps leading from the
pavement.  Once it had been active with business, but
now few clients found their way into its dingy
precincts.  Occasionally some old-timer would come
in, but upon seeing Howard or Bodney, faces
offensively young to him, would go out again, sighing
over the degeneracy of the day.  The young men
had often advised a change of quarters, apartments
in a steel building, but the Judge would not
consent.  The old room was sentiment's heritage.
Many a famous man had trod the rough carpet on
the floor; many a time had the dry eye of the tired
lawyer watered at the wit of Emery Storrs; and
Ingersoll, warm with fellowship and wine, walking up
and down, had poured out the overflow of his magic
brain.  How intellectual were its surroundings then,
and now how different!  The great advocate was
gone, and in his stead sat the real-estate lawyer,
emotionless, keen-eyed, searching out the pedigree
of a title to a few feet of soil—narrow, direct,
dyspeptic, money-dwarfed.

After leaving home, Howard went straightway
to the down-town office, and there, amid the dust
raised by the negro who was sweeping, he found
Goyle, waiting for Bodney.  "I have taken
possession," said Goyle.

"All right.  And you are taking more dust than
is good for you."

"I don't mind that.  Where is Bodney?"

"He hadn't got up when I left home.  He was
up all night with a sick friend, I believe, and is not
likely to be down before the afternoon."

Goyle looked at his watch.  "I will come in again
about three o'clock.  How is business with you?"  He
did not get up.

"The business of waiting is good.  It is about all
a young lawyer need expect."  Howard sat down,
telling the negro to leave off sweeping; and Goyle,
leaning back, put his feet upon the window ledge.
He was never in haste to leave.  It was one of his
sayings that he was looking for a soft seat, and he
appeared now to have found one.  He gazed out
into the rumbling thoroughfare, at men of all ages
passing one another, pushing, jamming, limping,
some on crutches, some tottering, some strong of
limb, all with eager faces.  "Rushing after the
dollar," said Goyle.

"Or fleeing from necessity," replied Howard.

"Yes, and hard pressed by the enemy.  But they
have made their enemy powerful—have built up
their necessities.  Once a shadow lay upon the
ground, a harmless thing; but they breathed hot
breath upon it and it became a thing of life, jumped
up and took after them.  I hate the whole
scheme."  He waved his hand, and Howard sat looking at
him—at the hair curling about his forehead, at his
Greek nose; and he wondered why one so seemingly
fitted for the chase should express such
contempt for it.  He spoke of it, and Goyle turned
toward him with a cold smile.  "You have heard,"
said he, "of the fellow who would rather be a cat
in hell without claws.  Well, that's what I am, and
where I am when thrown out there."  He nodded
toward the street, and then lazily taking out a
cigarette, lighted it.

"I don't believe that," said Howard.  "I believe
that you are well fitted, except, possibly, by
disposition.  You lack patience."

"Patience!  It doesn't admit of patience.  Do
those fellows out there look patient?"

"A man may run and be patient."

"And he may also run and be a fool."

"Or be a bigger fool and not run.  I am a
believer in the world—in man."

"I'm not," said Goyle.  "I know that the world
is a trap and that man is caught.  Puppies play, but
the old dog lies down.  He knows that life is a
farce."

"The old dog lies down, it is true," Howard replied,
"but he dreams of his youth and barks in his
dream."

"And calls himself a fool when he awakes.  It is
the same with the old man.  There comes a time
when he loses confidence even in those who are
nearest him."  Out of the sharp corner of his eye
he shot a glance at Howard and saw his countenance
change.  An old man, shriveled and wretched,
with feather dusters for sale, came shambling into
the room.  Goyle glanced at him, and when he was
gone, turned to Howard and said: "Ask his opinion
of the world.  He is your old dog who dreamed
and barked in his dream."

"Goyle, I don't like the position you take.  My
experience and my reading teach me better."

Goyle glanced at him again.  "Your reading,
because what you read was written to flatter hope—to
sell.  Your experience is not ripe.  It is not even
green fruit.  It is a bud.  Oh, of course there are
some old men, your father, for instance, who—"

"Well, what about him?"

"Nothing, only he is by nature fitted to smile at
everything."

Howard got up, went over to a bookcase, took
down a book, put it back, went to the open door,
and stood there looking at a doctor's sign, just
across the hall.  Goyle got up with a yawn, came
walking slowly toward the door, and Howard,
hearing him, but without looking round, stepped aside
to let him pass out.  In the hall he halted to repeat
that he would return during the afternoon.

"You have the privilege to come and go as often
as you like, being George's friend," said Howard,
"but, so far as you and I are concerned, I don't
think we are suited to each other."

Goyle laughed and stepped back a pace or two.
"Why, on account of my nonsense just now?  That
was all guff; I didn't mean it.  It is the easiest thing
in the world for a man to condemn the whole of
creation, and I talk that way when my mind is too
dull to act.  Why, I am going out now to knock an
eye tooth out of the wolf."

"And you didn't mean what you said about old men?"

"Not a word of it."

"Why did you happen to speak of my father?"

"Merely to refute what I had said about old men
in general.  Well, so long."

Howard went into the doctor's office, as musty a
den as ever a fox inhabited.  The physician was an
old man, who had no future and who prescribed in
the past.  During the best years of his life he had
dozed or talked under the influence of opium, so
given to harmless fabrication when awake that it
followed him into his slumber, snoring a lie; now
cured of the habit but not of the evil it had wrought.
When Howard entered the old man was reading a
medical journal of 1849, and he glanced up disappointed
to see the visitor looking so well.  He had
met Howard many a time, but his memory was short.

"Ah, come in, sir.  Have a seat.  You are—let
me see.

"My office is just across the hall."

"Yes, yes, I remember.  You are in the—the
brokerage business.  And your name is—"

"I am trying to be a lawyer.  Elbridge is my name."

"Of course it is.  I used to know your father—was
called in consultation just before he died."

"Then it must have been since I left the house
this morning."

"Ah, let me see.  Elbridge—the Judge.  I'm
wrong, of course.  It was Elsworth.  How is your
father?"

"That's what I wanted to talk about, and I am
sorry that you do not recall him more vividly.  I
wanted to ask your opinion."

"Why, now I know him as well as I know myself.
What is it you wish to consult me about?  His
health?"

"Well, I hardly know how to get at it.  You know
he has been a very busy man—working day and
night for years; and I wanted to ask if a sudden
breaking off isn't dangerous—that is, not exactly
dangerous, but likely to induce a change in
disposition?"

The doctor looked wise, with his hand flat upon
the medical journal, and as it had been printed in
the drowsy afternoon of a slow day, seemed to
inspire caution against a quick opinion.

"I hold, and have held for years," said he, "that a
complete revolution in a man's affairs, sudden riches
or sudden poverty—the er—the withdrawing of vital
forces necessary to a continuous strain, is a shock
to the system, and therefore deleterious.  It is
unquestionably a fact, not only known to the medical
fraternity, but to ordinary observation, that
incentive in the aged is a sort of continuance of youth, in
other words, to make myself perfectly clear, the
impetus of youth when unchecked, goes far into old
age—when the pursuit has not been changed; and
therefore a sudden halting is bad for the system.  Is
your father's health impaired?"

"I can't say that it is.  He appears to be strong,
but his temper is not of the best—toward me.
Toward the others he is just the same."

"Ah, not unusual in such cases.  It so happened
that a sudden change must have taken place in him,
and as you were doubtless the first one to come in
contact with him after the change, his—his displeasure,
if I may be permitted the term, fell upon you."

"But I was not the first one."

"Um, a complication.  I shall have to study that
up a little.  Perhaps I'd better see him."

"Oh, no, don't do that.  It really amounts to
nothing.  I consulted you because you were well
acquainted with him.  And I am now inclined to
think that I have made more of it than it really is.
How are you getting along?" Howard asked, to
change the subject.

"Never better, sir, I am pleased to say.  Of course
medicine has degenerated, splitting up into all sorts
of specialties, but there are a few people who don't
want to be humbugged.  Well, I am glad you
called," he added as Howard turned to go.  "Give
my regards to your father."

Howard returned to the office, took up a book
which held in closer affinity the laws of verse than
the laws of the land, and lying down upon a leather
lounge, was borne away by the gentle tide of a
rhythmic sea.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WALKED AND REPENTED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   WALKED AND REPENTED.

.. vspace:: 2

A man can be more repentant when he walks than
when he rides.  The world's most meditative
highway is that road which we are told is paved with
good intentions; and strolling along it, our
determination to reform becomes stronger at each step
until—until something occurs to change it all.
Bodney walked down town.  And for the first time
in his life he fancied that he found the very bottom
of his mind, and thereon lay a resolution, an oath
self-made, self-sworn to tell Howard the truth and
to take the consequences no matter what they might
be.  He had intended, upon getting out of bed to
make his confession to the old gentleman, and he
would have done so, he fully believed, had not the
Judge been engaged with a client.  But perhaps
after all it would better serve the purposes of justice
to confess to Howard.  He was the one most
deeply injured.  Yes, he would go at once to Howard
and tell him the truth.  It would of course involve
Goyle, but he ought to be involved; he was a
scoundrel.  Perhaps they might both be sent to the
penitentiary.  No matter, the confession must be made.
He passed the building wherein the night before he
had agonized under the frown of hard luck; he
halted and looked into the entry-way, at the stairs
worn and splintered by the heavy feet of the
unfortunate.  Some strange influence had fallen upon him,
some strength not gathered by his own vital forces
had come to him, and now he knew that no longer
could he be a slave held by chains forged in that
house of bondage.  As he turned away he met a
man who had been in the game the night before.
His face was bright and he did not look like a slave.

"How did you come out?" Bodney asked.

"I was ninety in when you left, and I pull out
sixty winner."

"You did?  You were losing when I left."

"Yes, but they can't beat a man all the time.  I
tell you it would put me in the hole if I didn't win.
I owe at three or four places, and I go around today
and pay up."

Then, with a feeling like a sudden sickness at the
stomach, came the recollection of the druggist and
the preacher, obligations not to be discharged that
day.  Long after the moral nature has been
weakened, the poker player may continue to respect his
own word, or rather he may not respect it himself
but may desire others to do so.  Unless his income
is large he must operate mainly upon borrowed
capital, and breaking his word cripples his resources.
And then, after having lost, there is a self-shame in
having borrowed, a confession of weakness.  He
condemns himself for not having had strength
enough to quit when he found that there was no
chance to get even.  "There never is a chance to get
even," Bodney mused as he walked on toward the
office.  "The old fellow who has worn himself out
at the cursed game says so and I believe it.  I will
tell Howard—nothing shall shake my resolution.
I will simply cut my throat before I'll sink myself
further in this iniquity.  By nature I am not
dishonest.  If I hadn't met that fellow Goyle I might—but
I'll not think of him.  Now that fellow didn't play
any better cards than I did, was nearly a hundred
in and pulled out sixty ahead.  And he has paid his
debts while I must dodge.  I wonder how much I
have lost within the past two months.  On an average
of fifty dollars a sitting.  That won't do.  I had
money enough to—but I won't think about it—won't
do any good, and besides it is over with now."

He found Howard in the office writing.  "A
brief?" said Bodney, sitting down.

"In one sense—short meter," Howard replied.

"What, poetry?"

"Rhyme.  I come by it naturally, you know.
Have you heard from your friend today, the one
you sat up with?"

"Yes, he's better."

"Goyle was here—said he'd be back this afternoon."

"Didn't leave any money—didn't say what he
wanted, did he?"

"No.  I think he wants to talk more than anything
else.  He is a smart fellow, George, but I am
beginning to find fault with him.  I don't like his
principles."

"Perhaps he has none," Bodney replied.

"What, have you begun to—"

"Oh, no, I merely said that."

"That's the way he talks—makes a statement and
then declares he didn't mean it.  By the way, I'm
going to get out of this office.  There's no use
staying here.  If father wants to keep it, let him; but
you and I ought to be in a more modern building.
We have played at the law long enough.  What do
you say?"

"I don't know but you are right.  I would like to
do something.  Has anyone else called?"

"Yes, Bradley was here."

"Bradley!  What did he want?"

"He didn't say what he wanted."

"What did he say?"

"He inquired about your friend—the divinity
student."

Bodney was silent, and to him it seemed that
he was groping about in his own mind, searching
for his resolution, but he could not find it.  The
preacher might have asked about the divinity
student, the wretch mused, but of course he wanted
ten dollars; and what if it should be known at the
house that he had borrowed the money?

"Howard, can you let me have twenty-five dollars?"

"What, haven't you—you any money?"

"None that I can get hold of.  I haven't said
anything about it, but the fact is, I have invested
in suburban lots, and can make a good profit any
time I care to sell out, but I don't want to sell just
now."

"Ah, business man, eh?" said Howard, crumpling
the paper which he had covered with rhymes and
throwing it into the waste basket.  "Well, I am
going to do something of that sort myself.  I am
glad you told me.  Yes, I'll let you have
twenty-five.  I have just about that amount with me."

Bodney took the money and seized his hat.  "If
Goyle comes in, tell him I don't know when I'll
be back.  By the way, do you suppose Bradley
went home?"

.. _`Bodney took the money`:

.. figure:: images/img-138.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Bodney took the money.

   Bodney took the money.

"Yes, I think so—in fact, he remarked that he
was going home to do some work.  Why?"

"Nothing, only he seemed interested in the
young fellow I sat up with—wanted to go with me
to see him, in fact."

With a determination to pay the druggist and to
go at once to Bradley's house, Bodney left the
office, still wondering, though, what had become of
his resolve to make a confession to Howard.  But
he would fortify himself against trivial annoyances
and then, morally stronger, he could confess.  As
he was crossing the street he thought of the fellow
who had won sixty dollars.  "No better player than
I am," he mused.  "He hung on, that's all.  Now,
when I pay the preacher and the druggist I'll have
five dollars left.  And with that five dollars I might
win out.  If I had held to my resolution not to
stay in on so many four flushes I might have won
out anyway.  But the other fellows filled flushes and
straights against me.  Why couldn't I against
them?  Simply because it wasn't my day.  But this
may be my day.  My day must come some time.
As that fellow said, 'they can't beat a man all the
time.'  Why not go to the club first?  Then, if I
win, I can easily meet my obligations."

He went to the club.  The game was full, but a
"house" player got up and gave him a seat.  He
bought ten dollars' worth of chips, and the first
hand he picked up was three queens.  The pot was
opened ahead of him and another man came in.
Bodney raised; they stood it, and drew one card
each.  To disguise his hand, Bodney drew one,
holding up a six.  He caught a six.  The opener
bet a white chip.  The next man raised him three
dollars.  Bodney raised all he had.  The opener
laid down; the other man studied.  "Is it that bad?"
he asked, peeping at the tips of his cards.  Bodney
said nothing; his blood was tingling, but in his
eyes there was a far-away look.

"It's up to you, Griff," said an impatient fellow.

"Yes, so I see; but I'm playing this hand.
Raised it and drew one card, then raised a
one-card draw.  Well, I've got to call you."

"Queen full."

"Beats a flush.  Take the hay."

And now Bodney's troubles all were luminous.
The wine of the game flowed through his veins and
made his heart drunk with delight.  He held a pat
flush, won a big pot and felt a delicious coolness
in his mind, the chamber wherein he had groped
through darkness, searching for the lost resolution.
But now it was light, and was crowded with
charming fancies.  He bubbled wit and simmered humor,
and the look-out man said, "you bet, he's a good
one."  His stack was building so high that he could
hardly keep from knocking it over—did overturn it
with a crash, and a loud voice called to the porter:
"Chip on the floor."  The man attendant upon the
desk came over, put his hand on Bodney's shoulder
and said: "Give it to 'em; eat 'em up."

In the game there was a mind-reader, and they
called him Professor.  In his "studio" he told
marvelous things, brought up the past and read
the future.  Hundreds of persons consulted him,
race-track men looking for tips, board of trade
men wanting to know the coming trend of the
market; and in the twilight came the blushing
maiden to ask if her lover were true.  In deepest
secret you might write a dozen questions, put them
in your pocket and button your coat, but the
Professor could read them.  He was unquestionably a
mind-reader—till he sat down to play poker—and
then his marvelous powers failed him.  The most
unintuitive man at the table could beat him.
Bodney slaughtered him.  "Can you make those things
every time?" said the Professor, calling a
three-dollar bet.

"Not every time," Bodney replied, spreading a
straight, "but I made it this time."

"You can make them every time against me.
You are the luckiest man I ever saw.  Do you
always win?"

"I have lost more within the last two months
than any man that comes up the stairs."

"That's right," said the look-out.

One wretched fellow, who had been struggling
hard, got up broke.  He strove to appear unconcerned,
but despair was written on his face.  As he
walked across the room toward the door the man at
the desk called to him.  He turned with the light of
a vague hope in his eye.  In consideration of his
hard luck was the house about to stake him?
"Have a cigar before you go," said the man at the
desk.  The light went out of the wretch's eye.  He
took the cigar and drooped away, to beg for an
extension from his landlord, to plead with the
grocer, to lie to his wife.

At six o'clock Bodney cashed in one hundred
and four dollars.  He would eat dinner with them,
but he would not play afterward.  He had tried
that before.  His eye-tooth had not only been cut;
it had been sharpened to the point of keenest
wisdom.  While he was at the dinner table Goyle came
in and took a seat behind him.

"Understand you sewed up the game," said the master.

"I've got just about enough to pay up what I
owe," replied the slave.

"Come off.  Let me have twenty."

"I can't do it—swear I can't.  I owe all round
town.  I let you have ten yesterday, you know."

"That's all right.  You'll get it again—you know
that.  Let me have twenty."

"I can't possibly do it."

But he did.  Goyle got up and walked out into
the hall with him, put his hand on his arm and
stood a long time, talking, gazing into his eyes.  So
Bodney gave him the money and hastened away,
his spirits somewhat dampened.  But his heart was
still light enough to keep him pleased with himself.
Luck had surely turned.  He would win enough
to replace the money taken from the safe, and
then he would make a confession.  But, that
fellow Goyle!  What was the secret of his infatuating
influence?  How did he inspire common words
with such power, invest mere slang with such
command?  But his influence could not last; indeed, it
was weakening.  And when thus he mused his
heart grew lighter.  "He couldn't make me aid and
abet a robbery now," he said.  "I would turn on
him and rend him.  Let him take the money.  The
debt is now large enough to make him shun me."  With
a smile and a merry salutation he stepped
into the drug store, and handed the druggist ten
dollars, apologizing for not having called during
the day, but he had been busy and did not
suppose that it would make any particular difference.
The druggist assured him that it did not.  Good
fortune in its many phases may be taken as a
matter of course, but the return of borrowed money
is nearly always a surprise.  The druggist gave him
a cigar.

"Thank you," said Bodney.  "By the way, have
you an envelope and stamp?"

He found an envelope, but no stamp.  A young
woman who had held his telephone for ten
minutes had bought the last one.  It was of no
consequence; Bodney could get one at the next corner.
Tearing a scrap of paper out of his notebook and
putting it upon a show case, he scribbled a few lines
upon it, folded a ten dollar note in the paper,
enclosed it in the envelope and directed it to Bradley.

"I guess that ought to be safe enough," he said.

"I don't know," replied the druggist.

"Well, I'll risk it.  Again let me thank you for
your kindness.  It isn't often that I am forced to
borrow, and wouldn't have done so last night but
for—"

"Oh, that's all right.  Come in again," he added,
as Bodney stepped out.  At the next corner he
stamped his letter and went out to drop it into a
box, but before reaching it was accosted by
someone, the Professor whom he had slaughtered in the
game.

"How did you come out?" Bodney asked.

"You broke me."

"Didn't you sit in after dinner?"

"For about three minutes—first hand finished me.
I see you have a letter there with ten dollars in it."

"What!  How do you know?"

"And a note written with a pencil."

"Why, that's marvelous.  How do you do it?"

The Professor smiled.  "It is the line of my
business.  Why don't you come up to my place some
time?  I can tell you many things."

It flashed through Bodney's mind that he might
tell him many things, and he shrank back from him.
"I will, one of these days," he said, and strode off
without dropping his letter into the box.  He put
it into his pocket, intending to stop at the next
corner, but forgot it.  "Now, what?" he mused.
"Believe I'll go home."  He got on a car, but
stepped off before it started.  He went to a hotel,
into the reading room, and took up a newspaper,
but found nothing interesting in it.  His thoughts
were upon the game.  In his mind was the red glare
of a pat diamond flush.  He could see it as vividly
as if it had been held before his eye.  Was it
prophetic?  He strolled out, not in the direction of the
Wexton Club; but he changed his course, and was
soon mounting the stairs.  There was no seat, but
the man at the desk said that there were enough
players to start another game.  The game was
organized with four regulars, Bodney and another
fool.  The regulars took twenty dollars' worth of
chips apiece; the two fools took ten, and within
ten minutes Bodney was buying more.  A man got
up from the other table, and Bodney returned to
his old seat, where he knew that luck waited for
him.  The desk man came over to him.  "That
other gentleman is number one," said he.  Just
then a new arrival took the seat which Bodney had
vacated and number one called out: "Let him go
ahead.  I'll stay here."  And there, sure enough,
was the pat diamond flush.  Wasn't it singular that
he should have seen it glowing upon the surface of
his mind?  And wasn't it fortunate that the pot
was opened ahead of him?  He raised and the
opener stayed and drew one card.  He bet a white
chip and Bodney raised.  The opener gave him
what was termed the "back wash," re-raised.  Then
the beauty of the flush began to fade.  Could it be
that the fellow—the very same offensive fellow, who
had beaten him before—could have filled his hand?
Or, had he drawn to threes and "sized" Bodney for a
revengeful "bluff?"

"Well, I'll have to call you," said Bodney.  He
put in his money and the offensive fellow showed
him a ten full.

"You always beat me."

"I do whenever I can."

"But you make it a point to beat me."

"Make it a point to beat anybody."

"Well, I don't want any abuse and I won't have it."

"Play cards, boys," said the look-out.

"What's the matter with you, worms?" said the
offensive fellow, looking at Bodney.

"Play like brothers," spoke up the look-out.

At a little after eleven o'clock Bodney came down
as heavy as a drowned man.  His heart was full of
bitterness.  He cursed the world and all that was
in it.  He called on God to strike him dead.  Then
he swore that there could be no God; there was
nothing but evil and he was the embodiment of it.
But if he had only ten dollars he could win out.
He had won, and it was but reason to suppose
that he could win again.  Any old player, imbued
with the superstitions of the game, would have
told him that to go back was to lose.  "I'll go over
and see that druggist again," he mused.  "Strange
that I have lived in this town all my life and don't
know where to get money after eleven o'clock at
night.  I ought to have set my stakes better than
that.  And now, what excuse can I give for coming
back to borrow again so soon?  Perhaps he isn't
there."  Nor was he there.  Bodney looked in with
anxiety toward the show case behind which he
expected to see his friend, and with contempt at the
soda-water man.  He thought of the envelope.  He
pictured himself standing there, smiling, a few
hours before—and like an arrow came the recollection
of the note directed to the preacher.  He
wheeled about, rushed across the street, jostling
through the crowd which was still thick upon the
sidewalk, raced around the corner, swam through
another crowd, bounded across another street just
in front of a cable train, and, breathless, panted up
the stairway leading to the Wexton.  Before
touching the electric button he tore open the envelope,
took out the money, destroyed the note; he
touched the button and wondered if the black porter
would ever come.  Undoubtedly the game must
have broken up.  No, there was the black face, grim
in the vitreous light.  And there was a vacant seat,
his old, lucky seat.

"Bring me ten," he called, as he sat down.  And
addressing the look-out, he asked if Goyle had
been there.  He had played a few pots after
dinner, but had quit early.

"Did he win?"

"I think he win a few dollars.  Said he had an
engagement on the West Side."

"Leave me out," said a man, counting his imposing
stack of chips.  "Never mind, I'll play this
one."  A hand had been dealt him.  "But I've got to
go after this hand; oughtn't to stay as long as I
do.  Got to catch a train.  Who opened it?"

"I did," replied a regular.

"Raise you."

"So soon?  Well, I'll have to trot you.  Tear
me one off the roof."

"I'll play these," said the man who had to catch
a train.

"You'd better take some.  He won't come round
again.  Well, I'll chip it up to you."

"Raise you three."

The regular raised him back.  The man who had
to go raised, and the regular fired back at him, nor
did the contest end here, but when it did end the
regular spread an ace full to overcast with the shade
of defeat three queens and a pair.  And the man who
had been in a hurry continued to sit there.  At short
intervals, during half an hour or more, he had
snapped his watch, but he did not snap it now.
Trains might come and trains might go, but he was
not compelled to catch them; he lost his last chip,
bought more, lost, and, finally, accepted carfare
from the man at the desk.  Bodney won, and the
world threw off its sables and put on bright attire,
and at two o'clock he thought of cashing in, though
not quite even.  He lacked just seventy-five cents—three
red chips.  He would play one more pot.  He
lost, and now he was two dollars behind, the pot
having been opened for a dollar and twenty-five
cents.  Pretty soon he had a big hand beaten.

"I see my finish," he said.

"You can't win every pot," replied a railway
engineer, who had failed to take out his train.  "I
have four pat hands beat and every set of threes I
pick up.  Serves me right.  Pot somebody for a
bottle of beer."

"You're on," replied the dealer, a comical-looking
countryman, known as Cy.  "Deal 'em lower,
I can see every card," someone remarked; and
just at that moment Cy turned over a deuce and
replied: "Can't deal 'em much lower than that,
can I?"

But who is this going down the stairs just as
daylight is breaking?  And why is he making such
gestures?  It is Bodney, and he is swearing that he
will never play again.





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.. _`WANTED TO SEE HIS SON`:

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   CHAPTER XIII.


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   WANTED TO SEE HIS SON.

.. vspace:: 2

Howard had shared his father's sentiment with
regard to the old office, for then the sky was clear,
but now a cloud had come the atmosphere was
changed.  And on his way home to dinner, after
a day spent without progress, he formed a resolve
to tell the old gentleman that he needed a fresher
and a brisker air than that blown about the ancient
temple of lore.  It ought not to hurt him now since
he had begun to look upon his son with an eye so
dark with censure.  Even if his affection had been
withdrawn his blood-interest must surely still
remain, the young man mused; even though sentiment
were dead, there must remain alive a desire to
see him prosper, and to prosper in that old place
was impossible.  He believed that his father was
losing his mind; years of dry opinion, of unyielding
fact and the dead weight of precedent growing
heavier, smothered his mental life.

The household, with the exception of the Judge,
was at dinner, and when Howard entered the dining
room his mother arose hastily and came to meet
him.  "Your father wants to see you in the office,"
she said, and putting her hand on his arm, she
added: "I don't know what he wants, but no
matter what it is, please bear with him—don't say
anything to annoy him."

"Has anything happened?" Howard asked.

"Something, but I don't know what.  Someone
called, I heard loud talking in the office, and after
the caller had gone, your father came out and said
that he wanted to see you as soon as you arrived.
Be gentle with him, dear."

The old gentleman was sitting at his desk when
Howard entered the office.  He got up and for a
time stood looking at the young man with no
word of explanation.  "Well, sir," he said, after a
time, "what will you do next?"

"What have I done now?"

"No quibbling, sir.  You know what you have done."

"I pledge you my honor I do not."

"Pledge me your what!  Pledge me your old
clothes, but not your honor."

"You wanted to see me, so mother says, and now
I should like to know why."

"I suppose that you are so innocent that you
can't even guess.  Or is it that you are so forgetful
of your deeds that you cannot remember?  Why
did you send that old fool out here?"

"Send an old fool out here!  I didn't send anyone."

The old man took a step toward him with his
finger uplifted.  His eyes were full of anger and
his finger shook, a willow in the wind.  "How can
you deny it?  You sent old Dr. Risbin, the
morphine eater, out here to see me."

"Oh, did he come out here?  But I swear I did
not send him.  In fact, I told him not to come."

"Ah, and is that the reason he came—because
you told him not to?  He was never here before
in his life, and why should he say that you sent
him?"

"Because he is a poor old liar, I suppose.  I
admit that I saw him in his office and—"

"A gradual acknowledgment is better than no
acknowledgment at all.  Why did you see him in
his office, or why did you speak of me?"

"Father, if you'll only be patient with me I will
tell you.  Your bearing toward me has been
distressful.  I was afraid that your mind—"

"Enough of that.  My mind is sounder, sir, than
yours will ever be.  But, suppose something were
wrong.  Is he the physician to consult?  Why, his
mind has been dead for years.  Why did you
consult him if it were not in contempt of me?  I ask
you why?"

"I was standing in the door of our office and
happened to notice his sign just across the hall;
and I thought that as he knew you well, I would
speak to him.  I soon saw that he didn't know
what he was talking about, and when he suggested
that he ought to see you, I told him no, and
changed the subject.  That's my offense, and I beg
your pardon."

"I will try to believe you," said the Judge,
sitting down.  "Your office is down town.  This one
is mine."

"Yes, sir, and I will not intrude.  I wouldn't have
come in but you wanted—"

The Judge waved his hand.  "Our business has
been transacted."

"Yours has, but I have something to say.  I don't
want to occupy that musty old den any longer.  It
doesn't make any difference to me if there are a
thousand javelins of wit sticking in the walls, or a
thousand ghosts of oratory floating in the air, I
can't make a living so long as I stay in it.  I don't
want to be of the past, but of the present.  Your
success was not a past but a present, and my
present is as valuable to me as yours was to you."

"You are at liberty to get out of that office as
soon as you like.  But before you go, put up some
sort of emblem expressive of your contempt of all
its memories.  Stuff out a suit of old clothes with
straw, a scarecrow of the past, set it at the desk
and call it—me."

"Please don't talk to me that way.  I don't
mean any disrespect—I want to establish myself on
a modern footing.  You know that Florence and I—"

"Don't speak of her."

"Why not?  She is to be my wife."

"Not with my consent."

"Your consent is desirable, but not absolutely
necessary.  I don't mean this in impudence; I
mean it merely to show my—our determination.
I don't know why you should oppose our marriage,
and I have no idea as to what extent you will
oppose it, but I wish to say that no extreme will have
any effect.  You say that you are not ill; you
swear that your mind is not affected, and yet you
refuse to tell me the cause of your change toward
me.  I must have done something, either consciously
or unconsciously, and now again I beg of
you to tell me what it is."

The old man leaned forward with his eyes bent
upon the floor.  "I have seen great actors, but
this—go away, Howard.  Leave me alone."

"Am I ever to know, sir?"

The old man pointed toward the door, and
Howard walked slowly out.  His mother stood in the
hall.  Her eyes were tearful, and taking his arm
she held it as if she would say something, but
liberated him, motioned him away, and went into the
office.  The Judge got up, forcing a change upon
his countenance, smiled at her, took her hand and
led her to a chair.  "Now, don't be worried," said
he.  "I merely reprimanded Howard, as I had a
right to do, for sending an old fool, who calls
himself a doctor, out here to see me.  That's all."

.. _`The old man pointed toward the door, and Howard walked slowly out`:

.. figure:: images/img-162.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
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   :alt: The old man pointed toward the door, and Howard walked slowly out.

   The old man pointed toward the door, and Howard walked slowly out.

"But what did you mean by calling him an
actor?  What has he done that he should be acting
now?"

"Nothing—nothing at all, I assure you."

"You said he was acting," she persisted.

"Perhaps I did, but I didn't mean it.  Oh, yes,
acting as if he didn't care for the memories of the
old office."

"But, dear, something has come between you
and Howard.  What is it?"

"Between us, my dear?  Surely not.  We don't
agree on all points; he has his opinions and I have
mine; but there is no serious difference between
us.  Come, I will show you.  He and I will eat
dinner together."

He led her to the dining room, where Howard
sat moodily looking at the table.  He glanced up,
and the Judge waved his hand with something of
his old-time graciousness.  "Any callers today,
Howard?" he asked, sitting down.

"Goyle, whom I am beginning not to like, and
Mr. Bradley."

"Whom you cannot help but like.  A good man,
conscientious and yet not creed-bound."

"He is building up a great church," said Mrs. Elbridge.
"It is almost impossible to get a seat."

"Ah, I don't attend as regularly as I should,"
remarked the Judge, "but I am going to mend my
ways.  Howard, shall we go together soon?"

"I shall be delighted, sir."

"Then let us appoint an early day."

The father and the son laughed with each other,
and to the mother it was as if new strings, to
replace broken ones, had been put upon an old
guitar, and she was happy merely to listen; but
soon she was called away, attendant upon some
duty, and then a darkness fell upon the old man's
countenance.  "Enough of this," he said.  And
there was more than surprise in the look which
Howard gave him—there was grief in it.  "Then
your good humor was assumed," he replied.

"We may assume good humor as we assume
honesty—for policy," the Judge rejoined.

"I swear I don't understand you."

"Then don't strive to do so when your mother
is present.  At such times, take me as you find me."

"My pleasure just now was real.  It is a grief to
know that yours was not.  I was in hopes that our
difference, whatever it is, for I don't know, was at
an end.  You led me to believe so."

"Lay no store by what you suppose I lead you
to believe.  When our difference shall reach an end,
if such a thing is possible, I will tell you."

"Then you acknowledge a difference."

"I have not denied it."

"And you will not tell what it is?"

"Now, you are mocking me.  Ah, come in, my
dear."  Mrs. Elbridge had returned.  "Yes, we will
go to hear Bradley preach.  And I warrant I can
remember more of the sermon than you."

"Mr. Bradley is here now," said Mrs. Elbridge.

"Ah, is he?  Did you tell him I would be in
pretty soon?"

"He has come to see Agnes, I think.  He asked
for her."

"Ah, the sly dog.  Well, he couldn't ask for a
better girl.  Are you going, Howard?"

"Yes, sir, to take a walk with Florence, if she
cares to go."

The Judge frowned, but his wife did not notice it.
Howard did, however, and was sorry that he spoke
of his intention, but he had no opportunity to
apologize, if indeed he felt an inclination to do so.  It
was a sorrow to feel that his father was set against
him, but to know that he was trying to influence the
girl was more than a sorrow—it was a grief
hardened with anger.  He found Florence and they
went out together, walking southward.

"How soft the air is," she said.

"Nature is breathing low."

They walked on in silence beneath the cottonwoods
and elms.  Laughter, the buzz of talk and
tunes softly hummed came from door-steps and
porticos where families and visitors were gathered,
to the disgust of Astors and flunkies from over the sea.

"Florence," said Howard, "before I came home
this evening I was determined to move out of that
old building down town, and to get an office in a
modern building.  But now I have decided upon
something else."

"To remain there out of respect for your father
and his memories?"

"No.  To get away from this town—out West,
to build a home for you.  I hope you don't object."

"Object.  I am pleased.  I think it is the very
wisest thing you could do.  And as soon as you are
ready for me, I will go."

He took her hand and held it till, passing under
a lamp, near a group of persons on a flight of steps,
he gently let it fall.  "Yes, it is the wisest thing I
can do.  The law is altogether different from what
it was when father was in his prime—the practice
of it, I mean—and I don't believe I could ever build
up here.  Oh, I might.  The fact is, I don't want to
practice here.  I am disheartened.  The idea of a
man, at his age, turning against—do you know
what he holds against me, Florence?"

"Howard, you must not ask me."

"Must not ask you?  Then you know."

"Please don't ask me."

They were in the light, amid laughter and the
humming of tunes, and he waited till they reached
a place where there was no one to hear, and then he
said: "If you know and love me, it would be
unnatural not to tell me."

"Howard, Peter may have denied his Lord, martyrs
may have denied their religion, but you can't
deny my love."

"No, I can't; but how can you keep from me
a secret that concerns me so vitally?  Do you
suppose I could hold back anything from you?"

"Not if your mother were dead and you had taken
an oath upon her memory?"

"Not if God were dead and I had sworn—"

"Howard, you must not talk that way."

He was holding her hand and he felt the ripples
of her agitation.  "I think I know your secret," he
said.  "You have cause to believe that his mind is
giving way and you don't want to distress me by
confessing it—have been sworn to silence, as if it
could be kept hidden from me."

She admitted that she did not believe that his
mind was sound, and he accepted it as the secret
which she had at first held back, but her conscience
arose against the deception of leaving him so
completely in the dark.  "Howard, you have often said
in your joking way that I have the honor of a man."

"Yes, the honor of the Roman famed for honor.
But honor can be cool, and I need something
warmer, now—love.  I am, as you know, deeply distressed
at father's condition; it has changed nearly all my
plans—every plan, in fact, except the one great
plan—our plan.  Mother begs me to be patient.
But for what end, if there is to be no improvement
in his treatment of me?  I took a hint from Uncle
William, not intended for me, that there has been
insanity in the family.  That's a comforting thought,
now, isn't it?  Why do you tremble so?"

"Because I believe that there is truth in Uncle
William's hint."

"But it should not have any effect upon our
plans—our marriage."

"I would marry you, Howard, if you were a maniac."

They were in the dark, and he put his arm about
her.  "Then, let the whole world go insane," he said.

The soft air murmured among the leaves of the
cottonwood.  A band of happy children danced
about an organ grinder in the street.  A fraudulent
newsboy cried a murder in Indiana Avenue, and
from afar came as if in echo, "All about the murder
on Prairie Avenue."

"Howard, knowing me as you do, and supposing
that I had not told all I know, and I were to ask
you to wait, what would you say?"

"Not knowing you so well I would say, 'out with
it,' but knowing you, I would say, 'wait.'  But what
do you mean?"

"I mean to wait four weeks and no longer."

"Now you begin to mystify me.  But we'll not
think about it.  I wonder what's the trouble with
George.  I never saw a fellow change so.  I
believe that fellow Goyle is having a bad influence on
him.  There is something uncanny about that chap.
Did you ever notice his eyes?  They have a sort of
a draw, like a nerve.  Have you noticed it?"

"I have noticed that I don't like him.  He looks
like a professional spiritualist."

"I guess he is in one sense—in slate writing—guess
he has most everything put down on the slate."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Has everything charged that he can.  He's a
fraud, no doubt."

"Agnes says so."

"Oh, well, what Agnes says couldn't be taken as
evidence.  She sees a man and has a sort of flutter.
If the flutter's pleasant the man's all right; if it
isn't, he's all wrong."

"But there might be intuition in a flutter," she said.

"Yes, or prejudice.  But George has always been
a good judge of men.  He has excellent business
sense—has invested in lots and can make a fair
profit on them at any time he cares to sell.  Shall
we turn back here?"

Agnes and the preacher sat in the drawing room,
she flouncing about on a sofa, and he dignified on
a straight-back chair.  It is rather remarkable that
a preacher is more often attracted by a mischief-loving
girl than by a sedate maiden; and this may
account for the truth that ministers' sons are
sometimes so full of that quality known, impiously, as
the devil.  In the early days of the English church,
when the meek parson, not permitted to hope that
he might one day chase a fox or drink deep with
the bishop, and who was forced to retire to the
servants' hall when the ale and the cheese cakes came
on, had cause in secret to offer up thanks that not
more than two of his sons were pirates on the high
seas.  And Bradley sat there watching a cotillion of
mischief dancing in the eyes of the girl.

"You have never been connected with any
church, have you?"

"Once," she replied, with a graceful flounce.
"But I danced out."

"Danced out, did you say?"

"Yes.  I got religion in the fall and lost it in the
winter—by going to a ball and dancing."

"Why," said the preacher, slowly, patting his
knee, "that did not cause you to lose it."

"Well, that's what they said, anyway.  And I
know I cried after I got home because my religion
was gone."

"It is a crime to teach such rubbish."

"Then you don't think I lost it?"

"Surely not."

"Then I must have it yet," she cried, clapping her
hands.

"Miss Agnes, your purity is of itself a religion."

"I don't know about that.  I am wicked
sometimes—I say hateful things."

"But there is no bitterness in your soul."

"I don't know, but I think there is, sometimes.
I know once I wished that a woman was dead; but
she was the meanest thing you ever saw.  And she
did die not long after that and I was scared nearly
to death—and I prayed and sent flowers to the
funeral.  Wasn't that wicked?"

The preacher admitted that it was wayward, but
he could not find it in his inflamed heart to call
her wicked.  She was too engaging, too handsome
to be wicked.  Nature could not so defame herself,
he thought, though he knew that there was many a
beautiful flower without perfume.  But while
settled love condemns, love springing into life
forgives.  "Wayward," said the preacher, "Perhaps
thoughtless would be a better word."

"No, it wasn't thoughtless, because I was thinking
hard all the time.  Don't you get awfully tired
studying up something to preach about?"

He smiled upon her.  "All work in time becomes
laborious, and that is why congregations desire
young men—they want freshness.  An old man
may continue to be fresh, but his brain must be
wonderful and his soul must be a garden of flowers.
The wisdom of the old man often offends the
young and tires the middle-aged; human nature
demands entertainment, and the preacher who
entertains while he instructs is the one who makes
the most friends and the one who indeed does the
most good.  The unpoetic preacher is doomed; the
gospel itself is a poem.  The practical man may not
read poetry, may not understand it; but he likes it
in a sermon, for it breathes the gentleness and the
purity of Christ.  But poetry cannot be laborious,
cannot be dry with studied wisdom, and therefore,
when a preacher becomes a great scholar, he forgets
his simple poetry and the people begin to forget him."

"My!" exclaimed the girl, "what a sermon you
have preached.  And it's true, too, I think.  I know
we had an old man at our church—one of the best
old men you ever saw—but they got tired of him.
He—he couldn't hold anybody.  Even the old
men gaped and yawned.  He was giving them dry
creed.  Well, a young man came along and
preached for us.  And it was like spring time
coming in the winter.  He made us laugh and cry.
People like to cry—it makes them laugh so much
better afterward.  Well, the old man had to go."

"And after a time, the young man, grown old,
will have to go.  We must keep this life fresh; we
must look for incentives to freshness.  A preacher
ought to be the most genial of men.  And his wife
ought to be genial; indeed, innocent mischief
would not ill become her."

He looked at her, but she did not look at him.
She was leaning back with her eyes half closed.  "I
hear Mr. Howard and Agnes coming," she said.





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.. _`A PROPOSITION TO MAKE`:

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   CHAPTER XIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A PROPOSITION TO MAKE.

.. vspace:: 2

Two weeks passed, and during the time Howard
busied himself with the writing of letters to
numerous real-estate men and postmasters in the West.
Sometimes he would put down his pen to muse
over what Florence had said, that she might tell
him something after the lapse of four weeks, and
more than once had he spoken to her with regard
to what seemed to him as her vague information,
but she had told him to wait.  He knew her well
enough not to persist.  One of his earliest memories
was a certain sort of stubbornness which formed a
part of her character.  She was gentle and lovable,
but strong.  He fancied that had she been reared
in a different sphere of life she would have become
a leader in the Salvation Army.

Bodney came to the office every day, but was so
restless that he rarely remained long.  Once he
came to the door, saw the preacher within, and
stole away without speaking.  And one
afternoon Howard heard him and Goyle tossing high
words in the hall, but a few moments later they went
out, arm in arm.  One morning the Judge came in.
"I didn't know but you had left this place," he said,
standing near the door and looking about to search
for the old memories, Howard mused.

"No, sir.  The fact is I may not move to any
other office in this town."

"In this town!" the old man repeated.  "What
other town is there?"  To a Chicago man that
ought to have established his complete soundness
of mind.  "I can give you credit for all sorts of—let
me say, weakness—but I cannot see why you
should be so foolish as to leave this city."

"You came at an early day," said Howard.  "I
might better my prospects by going to a town that
is still in its early day."

"Um, and come back broke.  You haven't stuffed
that old suit of clothes yet."

"There's time enough for that, sir?"

"What!  Then you really intend to do it?"

"Didn't you command me?"

"None of your banter."  The Judge walked over
to the old iron safe, with the names Elbridge &
Bodney slowly rusting into the invisible past, put
his hand upon it and stood there with his head
bowed.  From the street came the sharp clang of a
fireman's gong, and the old man sprang back.

"There is a fire somewhere," said Howard.

"There is, sir; it is here," the Judge replied,
putting his hand on his breast.  Yes, it was now only
too evident that his mind was diseased.  The young
man went to him, took his hand, looked into his
eyes.  "I beg of you to believe that my love for
you is as strong as ever.  I don't know how to
humble myself, for you have taught me independence,
but I would get down on my knees to you
if—"  The old man threw his hand from him and
hastened from the room.  In the hall he
encountered the opium eating doctor.  "Why, my
dear Judge, I am surprised to see you out."

"And you will be still more surprised if you don't
get out of my way."

"But won't you stop a while for old-time's sake?"

"I will do nothing, sir, but attend to my own
affairs, and I request you to do the same."

"Of course, yes, of course.  Well, drop in when
you are passing."

The old doctor stepped up to the door of
Howard's office.  The young man stood confronting
him.  "I have thought over what you said the other
day concerning your father, and have come to the
conclusion that you are right," said the doctor.
"There is something wrong with him."

"But I wish you wouldn't irritate him.  And, by
the way, why did you tell him that I told you to go
out to the house?"

"Didn't you request me to go?"

"I certainly did not."

"Well, really, I misunderstood you.  By the way,
someone told me that you intended to give up this
office.  It is a better one than mine, having the
advantage of a better view, and I don't know but I
might take it."

"I am not going to give it up yet a while."

Bodney came into the hall and the old doctor
shuffled into his own den.  "I guess he wants to
poison someone," said Bodney, nodding toward
the doctor's office.  "Anybody with you?" he asked.

"No," Howard answered, as they both stepped
into the office.  "Why?"

"Oh, I am getting so I don't want to see anybody.
I feel as if I were a thousand years old," he
added, dropping upon a chair.

"You don't look well, that's a fact.  What seems
to be the trouble?"

"I don't know.  Liver, perhaps.  Goyle been here
today?"

"No, and I don't want him to come again.  Now,
look here, George, I believe that fellow has a bad
influence on you.  You are not the same man since
you became so intimate with him.  What's his
business?  What does he do?"

"I'd rather not talk about him, Howard."

"Then his influence must be bad.  Turn him over
to me the next—"

"No," Bodney quickly interposed.  "Let everything
go along as it is till the proper time and
then—then I will attend to him.  I am not in a
position now to do anything, but one of these days I
am going to tell you something that will open your
eyes to the perfidy of man—man close to you.
Don't say anything more now; I am crushed.  I am—"

He leaned forward with his arms on a table and
his head on his arms, his eyes hidden from the
light.  "Why, my dear boy," said Howard, going
to him, touching him gently, "don't look at it that
way.  It is not so bad as that."

"It is worse," said Bodney, in a smothered voice.
"It is worse than you can possibly picture it.  And
when I tell you, you will hate me as you never
hated a human being on the earth.  Don't ask me
now, for I can't tell you.  Just simply don't pay
any attention to me.  But I beg of you not to say a
word at home.  I have been led into hell, Howard,
and there is no way out."

"Oh, yes, there is, my boy.  There is the door
through which you went in.  Go out at it."

"I can't.  You don't know."

"Are you in financial trouble?  Has that fellow
led you—"

"Worse than that, Howard.  But I can't tell you now."

Once his long-delayed confession flowed to the
very brim of utterance, but he forced it back and
sat in silence.  Howard went out and Bodney was
thankful to be alone with his own misery; but
he was not to be long alone—Goyle came in.

"Why, what's the matter, old chap?  You seem
to be in the dumps.  Come, cheer up now.  You've
got no cause to be so blue?  You don't see those
fellows over yonder in the bank blue, do you?  I
guess not.  And they are the biggest sort of
robbers.  I beat the horses today.  And here's thirty of
what I owe you.  Oh, it's coming around all right.
You can't keep a squirrel on the ground, you know."

"That's all right," replied Bodney, brightening
as he took the bank notes.  "Can't keep a squirrel
on the ground, but you can shoot him out of a
tree."

"But we haven't been shot out of the tree yet.
Things will begin to come our way now, you see
if they don't.  I've got a proposition to submit to
you that will make us both rich—regular gold mine,
with not a dull moment in it—life from beginning
to end.  I can't, tell you now, but hold yourself in
readiness for it.  You can take that thirty and
maybe win a hundred at the Wexton.  In the
meantime I'll be perfecting my plans.  We shall need
four or five agents, but I can get them all right,
and if we don't live in clover a bumble bee never
did.  Now, don't you feel better?  Look at me."

"Yes, I feel better."

"And don't you believe we'll pull out all right?
Hah?"  He put his hand on Bodney's shoulder and
looked into his eyes.

"Yes, I do."

"Of course you do.  We have been living in the
night, but the sun is rising now.  Let's go over to
the Wexton and eat dinner."

"I ought to stay here till Howard comes back."

"Why, just to tell him you are going out?  If
you go out he'll know you are gone, won't he?"

"You go on and I will come pretty soon.  I said
something to Howard just now that I want to correct."

"All right," said Goyle.  "But come over as soon
as you can."

When Howard returned he found Bodney idly
drawing comic pictures on a sheet of paper.  He
looked at him in astonishment.  "Why, what has
happened?" Howard asked.

"My fit's passed, that's all.  I must have talked
like a wild man."

"I rather think you did.  You alarmed me—said
you were worse than ruined.  What has occurred
to change it all?"

Bodney laughed as he looked about, making
ready to take his leave.  He was beginning to be
restless, for the fever was rising fast.  He turned his
eye inward to look for full hands and flushes.

"Nothing has occurred," said he.  "The fit of
melancholy has simply passed.  That's all."  He
was moving toward the door.

"Don't be in a hurry," said Howard.  "There is
something I want to talk about."

"I haven't time now," Bodney replied.  "I have
thought of something that must be attended to
at once."

"Just a moment, George.  Hasn't Goyle been here?"

"Goyle?  No, not today.  And, by the way," he
added, turning toward Howard, "I think I must
have spoken rashly about him just now.  There is
nothing wrong in his make-up; he may appear
queer, but he's all right when you come down to
principle.  He thinks the world of you."

"I don't want him to think anything of me."

Bodney did not stay to reply.  His fever was
now so strong that it would have taken two giants
to hold him.  He fought his way through the
crowd, and, panting, rushed into the poker room.
They greeted him with the complimentary encouragement
usually poured out upon the arrival of the
"sucker."  "He'll make you look at your hole
card."  "Cash my chips."  "None of us got any
show now."  It was nearly dinner time when
Bodney sat down to the game, and when the meal was
announced he was winner.  Goyle came in and sat
beside him at the dinner table.  "The scheme I
spoke to you about is a sure road to fortune," he
said, in a low tone.

"Bank robbery?" Bodney asked, smiling with the
brightness of a winner.

"No, it's not the robbery of the robbers.  It is less
dangerous and more profitable—almost legitimate."

"Almost!"

"Yes—but full of sauce."

"Don't you think you'd better tell me what it is?"

"Not now.  I want to see you alone—tomorrow.
In the meantime make up your mind."

"How can I make up my mind to do something
that hasn't been proposed?"

"Make up your mind to agree to my plan no
matter what it may be.  We are going to ride in
carriages."

"Or in a police van, which?" said Bodney, smiling.

Goyle put his hand on Bodney's shoulder.  "I
see you are in a hurry to get back to the game.
All right, but keep your mind on my proposition."

"A proposition that hasn't been made," replied
Bodney, getting up from the table.  The game was
re-forming, for the poker player does not dawdle
over a meal; he eats just as a pig does—as fast
as he can.

It seemed that Bodney's luck had come to stay.
"You make your third man every time," said a
losing wretch whose rent was past due.  A kindlier eye
might have seen through him his ragged children,
but the eye of the winner looks at his stack—no
poverty and no wretchedness softens its glitter.

The offensive fellow was there, sitting to the left
of Bodney, but he was not offensive now; defeat
had subdued him; and the Professor was present,
in the darkness of hard luck, and with his air of
mystery.  "You either made your hand or you didn't,"
he said to a man who had drawn one card.

"You ought to know," the man replied, looking
at him with a steady eye.  "You are a mind-reader."

"Yes, when there is a mind to read.  I will call
you."  He did so and lost his money.

"You knew what I had in my note," said
Bodney.  "Don't you remember, when I met you on
the corner?  You said it was written with a
pencil.  Why couldn't you tell what that man
held—whether or not he had made his flush?"

"Both science and psychology stop and grow
dizzy when they come to cards," the Professor replied.

Goyle came in and put his hand on Bodney's
shoulder.  "Slaughter 'em," he said.  "You've got
everything coming your way."

"But I don't know how long it will last," Bodney
replied.

.. _`180`:

"Don't scare away your luck with mistrust.  And
above all, don't forget that I have a proposition to
make.  Well, I'll see you tomorrow."  He went out,
humming a tune.  Bodney looked round to see
whether he was gone, and seemed to be relieved
upon seeing him pass out.  Now it was time to quit,
the slave thought.  He had not counted his chips,
for that was bad luck, but he must have won nearly
sixty dollars.  Still the cards kept coming, two
pairs holding good, and to quit was an insult to the
goddess of good fortune.  He remembered hearing
a gambler say, speaking of an unlucky player: "He
stays to lose, but not to win."  At ten o'clock he
felt that he had reached his limit, and counted his
chips—eighty-seven dollars.  "I'll have to quit you,"
he said, shoving back.  And now how bright and
spirited the streets were.  He threw a piece of
silver upon the banner of the Salvationists.





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.. _`DID NOT TOUCH HER`:

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   CHAPTER XV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   DID NOT TOUCH HER.

.. vspace:: 2

As Howard was going out he met Bradley
coming up the stairs.  "I have caught you in time,"
said the preacher.  "I want you to go to dinner with
me—at a place off Van Buren Street, where they
cater to the poor."

"It is rather a tough neighborhood for a dinner,"
Howard replied.  "Wouldn't you rather go to a
better place?"

"No, I would rather like to see how the
unfortunate dine."

They went to a restaurant that opened into an
alley.  The long room was furnished with plain
tables, without cloths, and not clean.  There was
sand on the floor, and on the whitewashed walls,
together with Scriptural texts, against one of
which some brute had thrown a quid of tobacco,
were placards which read, "Lodging ten cents."  They
took seats at a table and a girl came up and
put down a piece of paper, scrawled upon with a
pencil.  It was a bill of fare.  The price set opposite
each dish was five cents, and at the bottom it was
announced that any order included bread.  The
place was gradually filling up with a mottled crowd,
negroes, a sprinkle of Chinamen, Greeks, Polish
Jews, tramps—and off in a corner sat an American
Indian.  "The air is bad," said the preacher.

"No worse than the bill of fare," Howard replied.
"Let us get out.  Don't you see how they are eyeing us?"

"Let us at least make a pretense of eating.  I
like to watch these odd pieces of driftwood."

"Washed from the wreck of humanity," said Howard.

The preacher looked at him with a sad smile.
"Yes, and perhaps not all of them are responsible
for the wreck.  They couldn't weather the storm."

The crowd was noisy and profane.  The preacher
spoke to a waitress, a girl with a hard, unconcerned
face.  "I thought that this place was under
the auspices of the gospel," said he.

She did not look at him as she replied: "I believe
some sort of a church duck did start it, but a feller
named Smith runs it now."

"Then services are not held here."

She looked at him.  "What sort of services?"

"Church services."

"Well, I guess not.  These guys don't want
services—they want grub."

"I believe I will address them," the preacher
said to Howard.

"On the subject of foreign missions?" Howard asked.

"A merited sarcasm," the minister replied.  "Let
us go."

In the alley near the door a woman and a ruffian
were quarreling.  The woman held a piece of money
in her hand and the ruffian was trying to take it
from her.  A policeman passed down the alley, but
paid no attention.  The ruffian demanded the
money.  The woman refused.  He knocked her
down, took it from her hand and was walking off
when Bradley touched him on the shoulder.  "Give
her back that money," he said.  The man drew
back his ponderous fist.  At that moment Howard
ran up.  The ruffian looked at him and let his arm
fall.  Bradley called the policeman.  He turned and
came walking slowly back, swinging his club.
"What's wanted?" he asked.  Bradley told him
what had occurred.  "It's a lie!" exclaimed the
woman, stepping forward.  "You never hit me, did
you, Jack?"

"Never touched her," said Jack, and a group
about the door of the restaurant roared with
laughter.  "Move on," said the policeman, and
Howard and the preacher moved on, the crowd
jeering them.

"What put it into your head to go there?" Howard asked.

"I thought it was my duty."

"A man's duty lies mostly among his own people,"
said the young lawyer.

"No, among stricken humanity."

"A heroic idea, but fallacious.  The Lord takes
care of His own.  These people are evidently not
His own.  Pardon my slang, but here is a genuine
gospel shop.  Let us go in."

At the door of a room forbiddingly neat to the
class which it intended to feed, they were met by a
cool young woman and a ministerial man.  It was
a coffee house established to offset the influence
of the saloon.  At the rear end of the room a young
fellow played upon a wheezing melodion.  Girls
were serving coffee.  On the walls were pictures
of the Prodigal's Return, Daniel in the Lion's Den,
Jacob before Pharaoh, The Old Home, several cows,
a horse with his head over a barred gate, and a
child lamenting over a broken doll.  Howard called
attention to the fact that the sandwiches were thin
and that the coffee looked pale.  "It is charity," said
he, "and charity is pale.  Now, let me take you
to the enemy—the den against which these mild
batters are directed."

They went to a saloon.  The place was ablaze
with light.  The walls were hung with paintings,
some of them costly, some modest, others representing
figures as nude as Lorado's nymphs.  On
a side counter was a roast of beef, weighing at least
a hundred pounds.  "Look at that," said Howard.
"Vice sets us a great roast—and for five cents, a
glass of beer, the vagabond may feast."

"The devil pandering to the drunkard and the
glutton," replied the preacher.

"But the devil is not pale; he is not niggardly—he
is bountiful.  To cope with him, Virtue must
be more liberal—give more beef and better coffee."

"Good," said the minister.  "I am going to
preach a sermon on the Virtue of Vice."

"Red beef versus pale coffee," Howard said, as
they stepped out.  "And now," he added, "let us get
something to eat and then go home."

"Home," repeated the preacher.  "I have no
home—I have lodgings.

"I know, and I mean that you must go home
with me."

Bradley muttered a protest, but was delighted
at the thought of seeing Agnes again so soon.
He had spent the afternoon at the Judge's house,
had left to unite in marriage a servant girl and a
hackman, and now wanted an excuse to return, not
that he needed one, for the Judge had urged upon
him the freedom of the house; but timid love must
show cause, or rather must apologize to appearances.
And, though the cause now was not strong,
yet he argued that the fact of meeting Howard
would make it valid enough.  He felt that his
secret was not known to the Judge, as if that would
have made any difference; and he was sure that the
girl did not more than suspect him.  He wanted
her to suspect him, for there was a sweetness in it,
but he wanted it to be as yet only a suspicion.  He
did not acknowledge that he had quite made up
his mind regarding her fitness as a wife; and when
a man thus reasons he is hopelessly entangled.
When a man decides that a woman is not fitted to
be his wife he may have arrived at reason but has
stopped short of love.

They went to a place that makes a specialty of
crabs and sat down in the cool breath of an electric
fan.  "Quite a difference in our bill of fare," said
Bradley, taking up a long card framed in brass
edged wood.

"And quite as much difference in our company,"
Howard replied.

"The old saying, Howard: 'One half the world
doesn't know how the other half lives.'"

"Doesn't know how the other half dies," said
Howard.

"You are sententious tonight.  I have led you
into a place that has sharpened your wits."

"But not into a place that sharpened my appetite.
But it makes a meal all the more enjoyable afterward.
Do you find anything that hits your fancy?"

During the meal the preacher talked of the vices
of a great city.  A truthful farmer could have told
him that there are almost as many vices in the
country, and an observant moralist could have
assured him that the great mass of women parading
the sidewalks at night were sent thither by the
rural reprobate, proprietor of a horse and buggy.

"Vice is in man," said Howard.

"Ah, but how are we to eradicate it?"

"By educating woman."

"I don't know that I fully comprehend you."

"Were you ever in a place where women are shameless?"

"No," said the preacher.  "The only shameless
women I ever met are those who accost me in the
street."

"And if," said Howard, "you were to go into a
thousand such places you would not meet a
well-educated woman.  Some of them are bright; some
speak several languages, but I have yet to find one
who speaks good English.  But we are on a subject
that is as old as the ocean.  It is, however, always
new to one in your profession, I suppose.  You
preach about it, and innocence wonders at your
insight, but the young fellow who reports your
sermon laughs in his sleeve."

"But, my gracious, Howard, what must we do,
ignore it all?"

"I give it up."

"You are young to take so gloomy a view."

"Oh, I don't view it at all," said Howard.  "I
shoulder my way through it."

An elderly woman, handsomely dressed, came up
and held out her hand to the preacher, who arose,
bowed over it and declared his pleasure at
meeting her.  Then he introduced her to Howard, a
woman noted for her work in the slums.  A part
of her labor was to talk morality to the girls in
department stores, to make them pious and virtuous
on three dollars a week.  She kept a house of refuge
which she visited once a day, to talk to the women
who had been gathered in from the streets and
the dens rented to vice by the rich.  Her register
showed that within the past ten years thousands of
women had been reclaimed.  But the register did
not show how many had gone back to loud music
and shame, preferring the glare of infamy, tired out
with the simmer of the tea-kettle and the shadows of
the kitchen.  The preacher had visited her place
and had complimented her upon the work she was doing.

"Oh, what has become of Margaret, the blonde
girl?"

The matron shook her head.  "She became
dissatisfied and left us."

"And the one called Fanny.  Where is she?"

"Oh, she was too pretty and went away."

"And Julia?"

"Didn't you hear about her?  Well, well.  Why,
the newspapers were full of it.  She left us and
shortly afterward married a rich man.  He took her
to his mansion and gave her everything that heart
could wish, but it did not suffice.  He returned home
after an absence from the city to find a drunken
crowd in his house, and he turned her out.  I am
so glad to have met you again.  Good-bye."

Bradley began to talk of something foreign, to
lead Howard's mind away, but the young man
looked at him with a smile and said: "You see that
a palace is not even sufficient.'

"Her moral nature had not been trained," Bradley
replied.

"It is not that, Mr. Bradley.  Her miserable
little head had not been trained.  Morality without
intellectual force is a weakness waiting for a temptation."

"Don't say that, Howard; it is a monstrous
thought.  Brain is not the whole force of this life.
There is something stronger than brain.  Love is
stronger."

"Yes, it overturns brain.  And I will not argue
against it, though it might be the cause of thousands
of wretched feet on our thoroughfares tonight.  It
is a glory or a disgrace.  But we have been
moralists long enough.  Let us go home."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WITH AN EAR TURNED TOWARD THE DOOR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   WITH AN EAR TURNED TOWARD THE DOOR.

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Elbridge met Howard and the preacher in
the hall.  She told them that the girls had gone to
a meeting of the Epworth League, a short
distance away.  They had gone to a religious
gathering held in the interest of the young, but the
preacher felt a deadening sense of disappointment.
"They will be back soon," said Mrs. Elbridge,
seeming to divine the effect her information had made
upon him.  Howard heard his father and Uncle
William talking in the office.  "We will wait for
the girls in here," he said, leading the way into
the drawing room.  Mrs. Elbridge went in to tell
the Judge, and shortly afterward entered the
drawing room with him.  The old gentleman paid no
attention to Howard, but warmly shook hands with
Bradley, as if he had not seen him only a few hours
before.

"Delighted to see you, Mr. Bradley."

Howard glanced at his mother and she read a
communication in his eye.  It was that in the old
man's enthusiasm there was added evidence of
mental weakness.  The Latin may express delight
at seeing one a dozen times a day, but with an
Anglo-Saxon more than one "delight" within
twenty-four hours is an extreme.

Bradley looked embarrassed.  He said that he
was glad to see the Judge, which was hardly true,
as he was not prepared at that moment to be glad
or even pleased.  His heart had gone over to the
Epworth League, not to worship God, but one of
God's creatures, which, after all, is a pardonable
backsliding.  He remarked that he and Howard
had encountered quite an adventure, giving it in
detail, but to avoid any moralizing, having had
enough of that for one evening, hastened to change
the subject, asking if Mr. William had become any
nearer settled as to his dates.  This brought a flow
of good humor.  The Judge looked toward the
door.  "He has so far improved," said he, "as to
admit that at times he may possibly be wrong.  I
asked him if it were possible to be right, and then
we had our battle to fight over again."  He offered
the preacher a cigar, but ignored his son.  The
mother noticed it and sighed.  Howard smiled at
her sadly, and shook his head.  Bradley took the
cigar abstractedly and after holding it for a time,
offered it to Howard, who declined it.  The Judge
glanced at him but said nothing.  William came in.
"John," said he, after speaking to Bradley, "I saw
old Bodsford this morning."

"Not old Bill Bodsford."

"Yes, sir, old Bill."

"I thought he died years ago."

"No, he has been out in Colorado.  I haven't
seen him since seventy-eight."

"Are you sure?" the Judge asked, winking at
Bradley.

"I ought to know.  I met him in St. Louis in
seventy-eight—seventy-eight or seventy-nine—in
July, about the fifth."

"About the fifth.  How can a date be about the fifth?"

"I mean that it was either the fourth, fifth or
sixth.  He told me then that he was on his way
to New Orleans, by boat.  It was during that
intensely hot weather when so many people were
sun—but that was in seventy-nine, wasn't it?"

"I don't remember," said the Judge, winking at
Howard by mistake and then frowning to
undeceive him.

"Yes, I think it was."

"Seventy-nine," said the preacher, at a venture.

"Then I couldn't have seen old Bill in seventy-eight.
But I saw him today—and he looks like a
grizzly bear.  And he didn't seem to be in very good
circumstances.  But the last time I saw him before
that—"

"In seventy-nine," interrupted the Judge.

"Well, I'm not so sure about that, John.  Let me
see.  I was in St. Paul and went from there directly
to St. Louis.  Yes.  Now, I haven't been in St. Paul
but once since seventy-eight and that was year
before last.  Went directly to St. Louis.  It must
have been seventy-eight, John.  Yes, it was."

"Well, go ahead with your story," said the Judge.

"Oh, it's no story.  I was simply telling you
when I met old Bill the last time."

"And is that all there is to it?"

"All!  Isn't it enough?  I didn't start to tell a
story and you know it well enough.  Look here,
Howard," he added, turning upon the young
lawyer, "are you fixing to jump on me, too?"

"Not at all, Uncle Billy."

"Oh, Uncle Billy, is it?  Then I know you've
got it in for me.  Mr. Bradley, I studied for the
ministry—not very hard, I admit—but I studied,
and I am sorry sometimes that I didn't go so far as
to put on the cloth.  It would have at least protected
me from ridicule."

Bradley smiled upon him in a lonesome sort of
way, with his ear turned toward the front door,
listening for the coming of Agnes.  The family joke,
so eternally green for the Judge, was but dry grass
to him.  His soul was panting for the sweet waters
of love, the babbling brook of a girl's delightful
mischief.  But the mind can talk shop while the
soul is panting.  "You no doubt would have added
strength to our profession," he said.  "I call it
profession in want at the present moment of a better
term.  Why did you give up your intention?  Not
want of faith, I hope."

Mrs. Elbridge shook her head as if to imply that
there could be no want of faith in one connected
with her family.  "Well, I don't know," said
William.  "But the scheme, if I may so express it,
struck me as being not exactly useless, but, let us
say, hopeless."

"Hopeless," echoed the preacher.

"Yes.  The warfare has been going on nearly
two thousand years, and the victory is not yet in
sight."

"At what date did it begin?" the Judge asked.

William began to puff up.  "Now, look here,
John, this is a serious discussion.  Is it possible that
there is nothing serious except in the law, in the
names of your old clients?  Do you keep everything
serious shut up in your safe?"

The Judge's countenance changed, like the
sudden turning down of a light, and he made a
distressful gesture.  "Don't, William; don't say that."

"Why, what did I say to shock you so?"

The Judge got up and slowly walked back into
his office.  William looked at Mrs. Elbridge.
"Rachel, did I say anything?"

"He isn't well, William, and we never know what
is going to displease him.  But he means nothing
by it, Mr. Bradley," she added.  "Sometimes he
begins to joke in its old way, but it has been long
since we heard his laugh in its old heartiness.  I
wish you would talk to him, Mr. Bradley.  I know
he is not well, but he won't permit a doctor to come
near him."

The preacher assured her that he would.  He did
not believe that there was any serious trouble; it
was the strain of former years now claiming its debt
of his constitution.  "Nature does not forget," said
he.  "But nature may be humored.  I have noticed
a change in him, but I am inclined to think that he
is gradually improving."

Howard was silent, though the minister looked at
him at the conclusion of his speech as if expecting
some sort of reply.  "He doesn't forget about my
dates, no matter how much of a change he has
undergone," said William.  "But, as to our
discussion: I read some little in those days, and my
mind led me into bogs and swamps—into doubts,
if I may say so.  It seemed to me that the whole
plan was marked out and couldn't be changed.  I
remember having come across this startling
question: 'If man can make his own destiny; if he can,
by his own free will, arrest the accomplishment of
the general plan, what becomes of God?'  That
struck me, sir, like a knockout blow."

"And yet," said Howard, "you say that the
French have a slop which they call literature."

"What!  I said so?  Well, what if I did?"

"You have quoted Balzac."

"Have I?  But, sir, do you appoint yourself
to preside over my conscience?"

"I didn't say anything about your conscience,
Uncle Billy."

"Oh, no, but you Uncle Billy me into a broil,
that's what you do."

The preacher's mind had caught the quotation,
relating as it did to the shop, and he smiled as he
said: "I am afraid, Uncle William, that the young
man has read too much for us.  In an argument
he is a porcupine with sharp quills."

"A pig with the bristles of impudence," said
William, and smiled an apology to the mother.

"Nevertheless," remarked the preacher, returning
to the subject, "I don't see how the eye of faith
could have been dimmed by such a mote.  Conscience—"

"Meaning education," Howard interrupted.

The minister bowed to Howard, but continued to
address himself to William.  "Conscience ought to
have pointed out the good you could do.  You
could at least have gone to a foreign country—"

"Or off Van Buren Street," said Howard.

Bradley braced himself for a debate.  Alone with
Howard he might have said, "let it pass," but in
the presence of a woman, a believer in his faith, a
preacher must not shun a controversy.  It would
be an acknowledgment of the strength of the doubt
and of the weakness of faith.  So he braced himself
against the wall of creed, and with polemic finger
raised was about to proceed when he heard the
front door open.

"The girls," said Mrs. Elbridge, glad enough to
break in.

"So soon?" remarked Bradley, looking at his
watch and meaning so late.  Florence and Agnes
came in, laughing.  Bradley got up with a bow.
"You here?" said Agnes, and then corrected herself
by saying that she was pleased to see him there.
"I never know how anything is going to sound,"
she continued, throwing her hat on a sofa.  "It's all
improvisation with me.  I never saw as awkward
a man in my life—" Bradley looked at her with
such a start that she hastened to exclaim: "Oh,
not you, Mr. Bradley—the young man who walked
home with us.  I couldn't for the life of me get it
out of my head that he wasn't on stilts."  She sat
down on the sofa.  Bradley made bold to go over
and sit down beside her, taking up her hat, looking
about for some place to put it and ending by
holding it on his knees, awkwardly pressing them
together.  He felt that Howard was laughing at him;
he knew that Agnes was.  But she didn't offer to
take the hat.  Florence, however, relieved him,
and then everyone laughed except William.  The
preacher had been placed in an awkward position,
though anyone might have made a grace of it—anyone
but a man whom custom almost forces to adopt
solemnity as a badge of office; and William gave
Howard credit for it all.  In certain humors he
would have charged the young man with a rainy
day, a frost or a cold wind.  He looked at him in
his reproachful way and cleared his throat.

"What is it now, Uncle William?" Howard asked.

"Oh, don't ask me.  You ought to know."

"But I don't.  I haven't said a word or done a
thing that you should give me the bad eye."

"Rachel," said the old man, "it seems to me that
the more he reads the more slang he uses.  The
'bad eye!'  That belongs to the police court."

"Then it is not a quotation from Balzac."

"Never you mind about quotations.  I have
quoted before you were born—and I knew, sir,
from what source.  But I won't stay to be
browbeaten.  I will leave you."

"By the way," Howard called after him, "if you
want a pipe of good tobacco step into my room.
You'll find a fresh can on the table."

"I don't want any of your tobacco, sir; I don't
want anything you've got."

Bradley might have thought that in this family
the joke was overworked, that is, had he been
prepared to think anything.  But he was not.  His
mind was aglow from the light beside him, and his
ideas, if at that moment he had any, were as gold
fishes in a globe, swimming round and round.

Florence went to the piano.  Howard stood beside
her.  Mrs. Elbridge went out.  It was time, and
she knew it.  William appeared at the door.  "I
thought you said that your tobacco was on the table
in your room.  What right have you got—what
cause have I ever given you to deceive me in that
way?"

"You said you didn't want any of my tobacco."

"You said it was on the table.  Of course I don't
want it—I wouldn't have it."

"You just wanted to see where it was."

"I don't care anything about it, sir.  I want you
to understand that as you go along."

"All right, but the can of tobacco, I remember
now, is in the closet on the shelf."

William went away, and the young man knew
that in the morning his tobacco can would be
empty.  Florence played the air of a slow, old love
song, and between the notes fell the soft words, her
own and Howard's; they looked into each other's
eyes, eyes so familiar to both, eyes they could no
more remember first seeing than we can remember
the first sky, the first star—love as old as
recollection and as young as the moment.

There is one thing we can always say, and Bradley
said it: "I shall miss you when you are gone."

"I'm not gone yet," Agnes replied.

"I hope you are not getting tired of us."

"Tired?"  She raised her eyes and he looked into
them, into the depth of their blue mystery.  "No,
I am having lots of fun."

"Fun!  Is that all?"

"Isn't that enough?  That's all I want."

"But life is not all fun."

"No?"  She raised her eyes again.

"Life is serious," he said.  "The greatest joy is
serious; the greatest happiness comes to the heart
when the heart is solemn."

"Oh, I don't think so.  I cry when I'm serious."

"There is joy in a tear."

"Not in mine."

He did not hear the front door open.  For him
all the world had come in.  He did not hear a step
at the door.  Bodney came in.  Florence left off
playing and turned about on the stool.  Bradley
arose and shook hands with him, said that he was
glad to meet him, and lied.  He would not at that
moment have been glad to see the glory promised
to the faithful.  But he lied, as we all of us are
compelled to lie, for to lie at times is the necessary
martyrdom of the conscience.  Bodney's face was
bright and his laugh was gay.  "You are as merry
as a serenade," said Florence.

"As happy as a lark," he replied.  The love-making
was spoiled.  Bradley said that it was time to
take his leave.  Bodney followed him to the door,
and beneath the hall light handed him a bank note,
apologizing for not having sooner returned the loan
of ten dollars.

"But you have given me twenty," said Bradley.

"Have I?  Then give the extra ten to the church."





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.. _`LYING ON THE SIDEWALK`:

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   CHAPTER XVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   LYING ON THE SIDEWALK.

.. vspace:: 2

Bradley lived in Aldine Square.  By the light of
the first gas lamp he looked at his watch and found
that it wanted but three minutes to midnight.  At
the corner of the street he waited for a cross-town
car, but as none was within sight, he walked on,
thinking little of the distance home, which was not
great, for his mind was on Agnes.  He had not
decided that she would make a good wife, but he
knew that he would ask her to marry him.  He
believed that his happiness depended upon her
decision.  This is a conclusion reached by nearly
every man.  His salary was not large, for his church
was poor, but it was growing rich in numbers and
that meant a popularity insuring larger pay.  But
why should he consider his income?  They could
live happily in Aldine Square.  It was a charming
place, and so romantic that one would scarcely
expect to find it in Chicago.  It might have been a
part of Paris.  It was come upon suddenly, its gate,
with two great posts of stone, opening into the
street.  There was a plastered wall, and it looked
as if it had been built for ages.  Through the gate,
which was always left open, the view was
attractive—there were trees, shrubbery, flowers, a pool, a
fountain and a carriage drive.  It would charm Agnes.

The street was deserted, with the exception of a
straggler here and there, turned out of a saloon.
"Vice shutting its red eye," he mused, as one place
closed its door.  Looking ahead he saw a man
leaning against a lamp post.  As Bradley came up the
man, stepping out, said: "Mister, will you please
tell me what time it is?"

Bradley halted and took out his watch, and, holding
it so as to catch the light, was about to tell
him when the man snatched the watch, broke the
chain and fled down an alley.  The preacher
shouted after him, ran a short distance down the
alley, but, realizing that pursuit was folly, if not
dangerous, returned to the street and continued his
way homeward, the piece of chain dangling from
his pocket.  He thought of going to the nearest
station to report the robbery, but his mind flew
back to Agnes.  How delicious it would be to have
her all to himself, sitting by the fountain in the
summer air.  The perfume of the flowers would
be sweeter, the falling of the water more musical.
They would read together till the twilight came,
read silly books, if she preferred them; and in the
twilight they would read a book in which God had
written—the book of their own hearts.  And in
cold weather they would sit in the warm light, at
the window, and look out upon the little park, the
shrubbery covered with snow, the statuary of
winter.  He would never seek to change the
current of her mind.  Nature had fashioned it a
laughing rivulet and it should never be a sighing wave.
With her in the congregation he could be more
eloquent, touch more hearts through his love for
her; he would be more akin to the young, for her
love would be as a stream of youth constantly
flowing into his life.  Nature might have shown her
power in the creation of man, but surely her glory
in the creation of woman.  He drew a contrast
between Florence and Agnes.  Florence was stronger,
and had more dignity; but, of course, he believed
that Agnes was more affectionate, and love was
more beautiful than strength.

He turned into the street leading to the Aldine
gate.  And how quiet everything was.  It was a
love night, the leaves murmuring.  But, what was
that lying on the sidewalk in front of the gate?  A
woman.  He stood looking down at her.  Could
she have been murdered.  The light was not strong,
but he could see that she was not ill dressed.  She
was lying on her right side.  He touched her
shoulder and she turned upon her back with a
moan.  He leaned over her and caught the fumes
of liquor.  But he got down upon his knees, raised
her head and spoke to her.

"What are you doing here, poor girl?" he said.
The light falling upon her face showed that she
was young.  She moaned and mumbled something.
He asked her where she lived, but she could not
tell him.

"I don't know what to do with you," he said.

"Don't leave me," she mumbled.

"I will be back in a moment," he said, placing
her with her back against the wall.  Then he ran
to the fountain, wet his handkerchief, and returning
with it dripping, bathed her face.  It was hot and
feverish.  The cold handkerchief appeared
somewhat to revive her.

"Don't you know where you live?"

"I can't—don't know the number."

"Nor the street?"

"Nothing."

Again he bathed her face, and taking his hat
fanned her with it.  "How did you come here?"

"They must have left me."

"Then you were with someone."

"Yes—three."

"Where had you been?"

"Wine room.  Don't turn me over to the police.
I won't go there again."

"Can't you remember now where you live?"

"It is a long ways from here—over on the West
Side.  I won't go there in this fix.  I would rather die."

"Then I don't know what to do."

"Don't turn me over to the police," she moaned.

He stood with his hat in his hand, looking up
and down the street.  From the corner came the
whack of the policeman's club against a lamp post.
Not far away the fountain splashed its music.  "Can
you walk?" he asked.

"I'll try.  But where are you going to take me?"

"To my home."

"No," she cried piteously.  "I don't want a
woman to see me this way."

"No woman is there to see you.  Come on."

He led her along, supporting her with his arm.
He did not look to see if there were any windows
lighted about the square; he did not think of
scandal; he thought of the poor thing heavy upon his
arm, not as a preacher, but as a man.  He carried
her up the stone steps, unlocked the door and went
into the hall, into the red light falling from the
lamp.  Up the stairs he led her, into a front room,
striking a match as he entered, lighted the gas and
eased her down upon a chair.  She was deathly pale.

"Let me lie down," she said.

He pointed to the bed, stepped out into another
room and drew the portières.  Then he lay down
upon a sofa, not to think of what he had done, but
of Agnes.

He was awakened by the housekeeper's tap upon
the door.  "Come in," he called, and as she entered
he thought of the woman.  The housekeeper was
fat and full of scandal.  She walked straightway
to the portières and drew them aside to enter the
room, and started back with a gasp of surprise.

"My sister," said Bradley.  "She came on a late
train, and is going out early.  Don't disturb her.
She brought me bad news from home, and must
go on further to see my other brother.  She could
not explain by telegraph.  It involves the settling
of an estate."

He was now standing beside the housekeeper
and could see into the adjoining room.  The girl,
with a remnant of modesty, had drawn the covering
over her.

Two days later, Sunday, at the close of services,
a woman came forward, held out her hand to
Bradley and said: "I want you to pray for me."

Her face was pale and there was true repentance
in her eyes.  "You are my sister," Bradley replied,
and this time he did not believe that he had told
a falsehood.  She went out, with tears on her
cheeks; and a lady who had come up to
compliment the preacher on his sermon, asked:

"Who is that girl?"

"I don't know her name."

"She met me just as I was coming in," said the
lady, "and was anxious as to whether or not this was
your church.  She was evidently not looking for
denominations."

She was not.  She was looking for something
nearer God—a man.





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.. _`MADE HIS PROPOSITION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   MADE HIS PROPOSITION.

.. vspace:: 2

The farmers have a saying to illustrate
restlessness: "Like a hen on a hot griddle."  And
Bodney thought of it the next day, as he sat about the
office waiting for the noon hour, for the game did
not start before then.  He tried to read, but the
words were as the echo of a pot that had been
played.  He attempted to write, but called it a
misdeal.  How swift was life, viewed from the window,
and yet how slow time was, limping, halting,
standing still, boulders between minutes and mountains
between hours.  Surely his watch was slow.  No,
for a bell confirmed it in its record of the forenoon's
slothfulness.  He thought of Goyle, and wondered
why he did not come to make his proposition, if it
were so important.  He went out to walk in the
cool air blowing from the lake, and the Wexton
stairs arose before him.  He rang the bell, and,
standing there waiting for the grim face of the
porter, reminded himself of an old horse at a stable
door.  Inside they were cleaning up, sweeping,
dusting, getting ready for another day and another
night.  From off in a bedroom came the snoring
of a man who had gone to sleep, drunk and broke;
but the porter would bid him a pleasant
good-morning and would give him a drink from a bottle
kept in ice all night.  Bodney sat down at a window
and took up a newspaper and glanced at the report
of a committee appointed to investigate gambling
in Chicago.  Numerous witnesses had been
summoned, some of them connected with the poker
clubs; and in a vague way they admitted under
oath that they might have seen men playing cards
for money, but could not recall exactly where.  "I
am looking for a fool," said the Legislature.
"What do you want with him?" the Governor
asked.  "I want to put him on an investigative
committee," the Legislature replied.  "For the city?"
the Governor inquired.  "Yes," answered the Legislature.
"Then," said the Governor, "take the first
countryman you come to."

Men with borrowed money burning in their
pockets began to arrive, and each one was asked
by an earlier comer if he wanted to play poker, and
though he had shouldered his way through the
crowd to get there, fearing that he might not find
a vacant seat, he answered in a hesitating way,
"Well, I don't know; haven't got much time—might
play a little while."  It was a part of the
hypocrisy of the game, recognized by all and
practiced by all.

The noon meal was munched and the game began.
Opposite Bodney sat a man whose liquor
lapped over from the previous day.  One eye was
smaller than the other, and on one cheek, red and
flaming, was a white scar.  He drew to everything,
won from the start and was therefore offensive.
Bodney opened a pot on a pair of aces.  All passed
but the man with the white scar, who said that he
would stay.  "You are a pretty good fellow," he
remarked to Bodney.  "I'll help you along."  Bodney
drew three cards and caught his third ace.  The
white scar drew two cards.  Bodney, to lead him
on, bet a chip.

"Well," said the scar, "I had a pair of sixes and
an ace here.  I'll go down now and see if I helped,
and I won't bet you unless I have.  Well, I'll have to
raise you three dollars."

"Raise you three," said Bodney.

"You must have helped.  Still, we never know.
Ain't that so, Jim?"

Jim said that it was so, and the scar, as if pleased
and reassured in thus finding his view confirmed,
raised Bodney.

It was wrong to take a drunken man's money;
it was robbery, but it was poker, and Bodney raised
him.

"Well, you play two pairs pretty hard, and I
don't believe you can beat three sixes.  Raise
you."  Then Bodney began to study.  "I'll call you," he
said.

"I drew to three little diamonds," said the fellow,
"and caught a flush."  He spread his hand.
Bodney swore.  "I never played with a drunken man
that he didn't beat me."

The fellow looked up at him as he raked in the
pot.  "Have to do it.  My pew rent's due.  Ain't
that right, Jim?"

"That's right," said Jim.

Bad ran into worse and rounded up in a heap of
disaster.  At three o'clock, just as the game was
getting good, as someone remarked, Bodney went
out, feeling in his pockets.  This becomes a habit
with the poker fool.  He continues to search
himself long after he has raked up the lint from the
bottom of his pockets.  In the street the air was
stagnant and the sunshine was a mockery.  At
several places he tried to borrow money, but failed;
his former accommodater, the druggist, told him
that he had a note to meet and could not spare it.
He was sorry, he said.  Bodney went out, muttering
that he was a liar.  He went to the office and
found the door locked.  Howard was not there, and
he could hide himself, the peacock whose tail
feathers had been pulled out.  But before going
into the office he thought of the old doctor across
the hall, and hesitated.  Perhaps he had money,
and, having ruined his mind, might be fool enough
to lend it.  The doctor was pleased to see him.  He
was astonished to find Bodney so much interested
in his affairs, and he wondered if a spirit of
reformation had come upon the youth of the land.
Bodney said that of late he had begun to hear much
of the old man's skill as a physician.  The old man
turned a whitish smile upon him and listened like
a gray rat, bristles resembling feelers sticking out
on his lip.  And after a time Bodney asked if he
would be so kind as to lend ten dollars till the
following morning?  He was sorry, but could not.
That part of the mind which takes account of money
is the last to suffer from disease.

Bodney went into the office to wait for
something, he did not know what.  He thought of
Bradley, and wondered if he could find him.  Just then
he discovered the something he had been waiting
for.  Goyle came in.

"Halloa, old man," said Goyle.  "I went up to
the club just now to look for you and they told me
that you had gone down stairs."

"Down stairs broke," Bodney replied.

"That's all right," said Goyle.

"It's not all right.  I'm broke, I tell you; and
a man that's broke is all wrong."

"He may think so.  I'm glad you are broke."  He
put his hand on a table, leaned forward, and gazed
into Bodney's eyes.

"Glad," said Bodney, blinking.

"Yes, glad.  It teaches you the need of money.
You are forced to shove back your chair, to give
your place to a brute standing behind you.  You
see the deal go on.  You are frozen out, but no one
cares.  That game is life, the affairs of man
epitomized; you put in your last chip, you lose, and
you have failed in business.  A fellow who hasn't
one-tenth the education has succeeded.  He stacks
up the chips that you have bought, and for consolation
he says that chips have no home.  Am I right?"

"Yes, you are.  But I want to get back into the
affairs of man.  Let me have ten dollars."

"Two weeks from now I can give you ten thousand.
Listen to me.  Wait a moment."  He closed
the door, came back, drew a chair in front of
Bodney, sat down and leaned forward.  "Now, I will
submit my proposition."

"I don't know that I can entertain any proposition.
I am in too desperate a fix to go into any
sort of an enterprise.  My blood is full of fever.
I've got this gambling mania on me and I'm
tempted to cut my throat.  One evening you took
me to a supper that was not to cost anything.  It
has cost everything, all the money I had, my honor,
my future, my—"

"That's rot, George.  I introduced you to a
supper that gave you experience—real knowledge of
the world.  You have met men without their
dress-coats—you know man as he is and not as he says
he is.  You were blind and I opened your eyes to
the fact that money is not the reward of the honest
and industrious.  It is the agent of hell, and must
be won by means of the devil.  You ought to have
been a rich man.  If there'd been any foresight you
would have been.  And whose fault was it that the
opportunity slipped?  Not yours.  Now to my
plan.  Look at me.  Child stealing."

"What!" Bodney exclaimed.

"I have laid my wires.  We will steal children
and gather in thousands of dollars in reward for
restoring them to their parents.  Hold on.  Look
at me.  We will steal from the rich, for that is
always legitimate.  We will have our agents stationed
here and there—we will—"

"Infamous scoundrel, I could cut your throat.
I wish to God I had."

"Sit down and listen to me."

"I won't sit down.  I will stand and look you
in the eye, you scoundrel.  Don't put your hand on
me.  Stand back, or I'll knock you down."

Goyle sneered at him.  "You can't hit me.  I am
your master.  Now, listen to me.  I am going over
into Michigan to establish a—post, I'll call it.  And
when I come back, you will join me.  I present a
plan by which you can get out of all your difficulties,
and you turn on me.  Is that the way to treat
a benefactor?  I have settled upon our first
enterprise.  Every day a nurse and child are at a certain
place in Lincoln Park.  The father is dead and the
mother is rich.  The child, I have found from the
nurse, is a boy.  I am engaged to marry her.  While
I am walking with her you steal—"

Bodney struck him in the mouth—struck him
with all the force of disgrace and despair.  He fell
and the blood flowed from his mouth.  He did not
get up; he lay with his head back, and Bodney
thought that he saw death in his half-closed eyes.
He touched him with his foot and spoke to him,
but he did not move.  Someone knocked at the
door, and without a tremor Bodney opened it,
expecting to find Howard.  The old doctor stood in
the hall.  "I am sorry I refused to let you have the
money," he said.  "And now, if you assure me
that—"

.. _`Bodney struck him in the mouth`:

.. figure:: images/img-218.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Bodney struck him in the mouth.

   Bodney struck him in the mouth.

"I am obliged to you," Bodney broke in, "but I
do not need it.  I wanted to gamble with it, but I
have quit gambling.  I have overthrown the evil.
Here," he added, taking the old man's arm and
leading him into the room.  "There it lies bleeding,"
he said, pointing.  "Perhaps it needs your
assistance.  I must bid you good day."  He walked
out, leaving the old man alone with Goyle.

"What are you smiling at?" asked an acquaintance
who met him in the street.

"Was I smiling?"

"Yes, like a four-time winner."

"I am at least a one-time winner," Bodney
replied.  He stepped into a drug store to get a cold
drink, his friend's place, he noticed after entering.
The druggist came forward and thus spoke to him:
"I was sorry after you went out that I didn't let
you have ten dollars.  I found that I had more than
enough to meet the note.  I can let you have it now."

Bodney shook his head.  "No, I thank you—I
don't care for it.  I have quit borrowing."

"I hope you don't feel offended."

"Not at all.  I am grateful to you for not lending
it to me."

Late in the evening he went back to the office.
No one was there, but soon the negro janitor came
in and pointed to a damp spot on the floor.  "I have
washed up the blood where the man fainted and
fell," he said.  "The doctor brought him to all
right, and there's a note on the table he left for you."

Bodney opened the note and read: "I leave
for Michigan, and will be back within a few days.
I don't blame you as much as I do myself.  I
permitted you to break away from me, but you will
come back and at last be thankful.  Goyle."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE GIRL AGAIN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE GIRL AGAIN.

.. vspace:: 2

Bodney's "breaking away" from Goyle had taken
place on the day following the night when
Bradley had been robbed of his watch, and two days
before the girl appeared in church to ask for prayers.
On the Monday following, about noon, she appeared
again, this time at Bradley's lodgings.  The
housekeeper answered her ring at the bell.  "Ah,"
she said, "come in.  You are Mr. Bradley's sister,
I believe.  I didn't see you but a moment, but I
think I recognize you."

"Is Mr. Bradley here?" the girl asked.

"No, your brother has gone out.  I think you
can find him over at Judge Elbridge's.  I don't
know exactly where it is, but some place on Indiana
Avenue.  Anyone can tell you.  I hope you haven't
any more bad news for him."

The girl was shrewd and did not betray herself.
"No," she said, and went away.  Bradley was in the
Judge's drawing room with Agnes when a servant
came in to tell him that a young woman at the door
wished to see him.

"Oh, a young woman," cried Agnes, pretending
to pout.  "Some girl you have been talking sweet
to, I warrant."  He had risen to go out, but he
halted to lean over and say to her, "I have never
talked sweet, as you term it, to anyone—except—"

"This one," Agnes broke in.  "Oh, go on.  Don't
let me detain you."

"Probably someone connected with the church—"

"Of course, they always are.  Go on, please."

"I will tell you all about her when I come back."

"Oh, don't mind me.  Here's Florence.  She
knows I don't care.  Do please go on."

Bradley went out, and not with a light heart, for
his love had now entered into the stew and fretful
state.  The girl stood in the hall, and in the dim
light he did not recognize her till she spoke.  She
handed him a small package.

"What is this?" he asked.

"It is yours."

"My what?"

"Your watch."

It was some time before he could speak.  All
ideas were as dust blown about his mind.  "You
don't mean to say that—you couldn't have taken
it—you—"

"Let me go where I can talk to you—outside."

He went out with her and together they walked
along the street.  Looking back, he saw Agnes at
the window, and he waved his hand at her.  She
made a face at him, he thought.  "Now, what is it
you have to say?"

"You know a man named Goyle?" she said.

"Yes, I have met him at the Judge's house."

He waited for her to proceed.  "I was with him
and two others the night you found me.  They left
me on the sidewalk because I could not go
further, I have been told.  Goyle went away alone
and snatched your watch."

"But, my gracious, how do you know?  Did he
tell you?"

"For some time he has been coming to see me.
He was the first man I ever went with to—a place
where I should not have gone.  I blush to own it,
but I was fascinated by him.  He asked me to
marry him, and I consented.  The last time he came
after that night was yesterday evening.  But you
had taught me to despise him.  I could not drive
him away, however, so I sat in the room with him.
His mouth had been hurt—two of his teeth were
gone.  He said he had fallen off a car.  He said
also that as soon as he got a little better he was
going to Michigan.  He took out his watch, one
that I had never seen him have before, and I
noticed that it had a broken chain.  Then I
remembered seeing a broken chain hanging from your
pocket; and the next morning before I left your
house I thought I heard you tell someone that your
watch had been snatched from you.  I asked him to
let me see the watch, and in it I found your name.
I did not return it to him—I jumped up and ran
out.  He called after me, and tried to catch me,
but I slammed a door in his face and locked it.
Then, my mother, who never did like him, ordered
him out of the house."

"What is your name?"

"Margaret Frayer."

"Then, Margaret Frayer, I am sorry you brought
me the watch."

"Sorry?"

"I did not wish a reward for what I had done for you."

"Oh, that—the watch is not your reward.  You
have saved a soul.  In my heart I believe that I
have found peace.  I went to sleep with a prayer
on my lips, and I awoke with such a joy in my
heart that I was frightened.  I called mother and
she came running into the room, and there must
have been a spirit there, for before I said a word,
and before mother had seen me, for it was dark,
she cried out that I was saved.  She had always
been worried over me; she feared that my soul was
lost.  And she put her arms about me and sobbed
in her happiness.  That is your reward, Mr. Bradley."

"Come back to the house with me," he said.

He led her into the drawing room and
introduced her to Florence and Agnes.  "I wish to
present a young woman whom God has smiled
upon," he said, and they looked at him in
astonishment.  He told them that he had found her
wandering and had led her home.  Florence took
her hand.

"I may not be worthy, yet," said Margaret
Frayer.  "You don't know me well enough to take
my hand."

"I know that you must have suffered, and that
is enough," Florence replied.  The preacher looked
at Agnes.  He wondered why she did not come
oftener to his church.  He wondered what she
would say to the young woman.

"You are my sister," said Agnes, as if inspired,
and Bradley clasped his hands and pressed them
to his bosom.  His heart was full.

Margaret Frayer did not remain long.  "You
may meet me again," she said.

"She is to become a member of my church,"
Bradley spoke up.

"My heart and my prayers will be with your
church, Mr. Bradley," she said; "I shall remember
you and be grateful to you as long as I live, but
my soul tells me to go with the Salvation Army,
among girls, and persuade them to work in the
street when they have the time.  It is not goodness
alone that saves us, Mr. Bradley; goodness may be
selfish—it is saving others that saves us.  You
know how that is.  You have saved others."

"You are right," he said.  "Go with the army;
you can do more there."

"And, do you say so?" Florence cried.  "I
thought you too orthodox for that."

"Not too orthodox for the truth," he replied,
bowing.

"Then," said Florence, "I think more of you
than I did.  I thought it was your ambition to build
up a church, but I find that you have forgotten your
creed to save a woman.  I am coming oftener to
hear you preach."

During this time Margaret Frayer stood near the
door, waiting, it seemed, for an opportunity to go.
The preacher looked at her, and mused upon the
change that had come over her face since he had
first seen her, only a short time, but a great change.
The Salvation Army has a countenance and a
complexion peculiarly its own, serene and pale; and
so quick, it seems, is the transformation that the
coarse-featured, evil-eyed woman of today may,
to-morrow, have a striking refinement.  "I hope you
will come frequently to my church," said Bradley,
taking her hand.

"Whenever I am selfish," she replied.

"You young ladies have done yourselves credit,"
said Bradley, when Margaret Frayer had taken her
leave.

"Why so?" said Agnes.  "Because we treated her
kindly?  Did you take us for heathens?"

"Oh, no, but women—women are so slow to forgive."

"Forgive?  Why, what has she done?  She
simply wanted religion, and you have helped her.  Oh,
she might have done wrong, I don't know.  But
women are more forgiving now that they have
taken more of man's privileges.  They may
become quite generous after a while."  With Agnes it
was innocence; with Florence it was knowledge.
She divined the history of the girl; and in giving
her hand felt that it was to one who had gone
astray, who had suffered, and who had turned back.
The Judge came in, to the disappointment of the
preacher, who feared that, soon to be followed by
William, the old jurist would begin anew to stir up
the old straw of family humor.  But William did
not come, and the Judge was in no mood for
joking.  He had been brooding, and his brow was
dark.  "Florence," he said, after exchanging a few
words with Bradley, "I wish you would walk out
with me."  She said nothing, but went out and came
back with her hat.  They walked in the shade of the
elms, and he remarked upon different objects, but
she said nothing.

"Why don't you talk, Florence?"

"Because I haven't anything to say."

"You mean that you have nothing to say to me."

"I mean that it is useless to say anything to you.
Shall I say something?  I will.  You are an
unnatural father."

"No, I have an unnatural son."

"That is not true, Judge.  Anyone to see him, to
hear him talk, to know him, would feel that he
could not commit such a crime.  Why, sometimes
when I am alone it almost exasperates me to think
about it; and to realize that I am in a conspiracy
against him.  It is cruel, and at times I fancy that
I am almost as unnatural as you are."

"To be bound by an oath?  Is that unnatural?
Is it unnatural to have honor?  I told you in the
first place to protect you; I bound you by oath to
protect her, his mother.  That is simple enough."

"But you don't know how near I have come to
the violation of that oath.  More than once I have
had it in my heart to tell him—but I couldn't," she
broke off.  "I couldn't.  But he is going away, and
I will write it to him, every detail of it; and I know
that he will forgive me."

"You make me the criminal when I am the
injured.  Let us go back."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PREACHER CONFESSES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE PREACHER CONFESSES.

.. vspace:: 2

Bradley had argued with himself that at the
proper time it would be simple enough to tell the
girl that he loved her, and no doubt he was right,
but the time did not come.  He sat beside her on
the sofa, when the Judge and Florence had quitted
the room, and he looked into her eyes, and the
proper words arose like a graceful flight of birds,
rich in bright feathers, but they scattered and flew
away.  He could have delivered an oration upon
beauty and love, and he did; but he feared to
surprise her by telling her that he loved her.  He did
not dream that she had discovered it coming
before he felt it.  It was not possible for so innocent
a creature to know so much.  He was a large man,
and large men may have sentiment, but sometimes
they lack sentimental nerve.

"You don't believe now that I talked what you
termed sweet to that poor girl, do you?"

"Oh, I don't know.  But I don't see why she
should look at you that way even if you did—did
lead her.  It must have looked nice, you going
along leading her.  What do you suppose people
thought?"

"No one—one saw me lead her," Bradley stammered.

"Oh, then it was in the dark.  Led her in the dark."

"She didn't mean that I really took her by the
hand and led her.  I led her spiritually."

"Is that all?  Where did you find her—spiritually?"

"Going—shall I say?"

"Why, of course."

"Going to the devil."

"Oh, and did she say so, or could you see for
yourself?"

"I could see.  Agnes—Miss Agnes, if I were
not afraid of lowering myself in your esteem, I
would tell you something."

"Don't tell me anything dreadful," she cried,
stopping her ears.  "I know it must be something
awful."

He waited for her to unstop her ears, which she
did very soon, and then he spoke, but on another
subject.  She replied listlessly, leaning her head
on the back of the sofa.  He told her about his
church and she yawned.  He had been delighted to
see her in the congregation, and she yawned again.
"I thought you were going to tell me about that
woman," she said.

"But you stopped your ears."

"And don't you know that when a woman stops
her ears it's the time when she wants to hear?"

"I didn't know that."

"You didn't?  Then you needn't tell me anything."

"Yes, I believe I ought to tell you—only you."

"Why only me?" she asked, her eyes half closed.

"I don't know, but—"

"Then, why did you say only me?"

"Because I—I think more of you than of anyone else."

"Oh, if you think it's your duty you'd better tell me."

He told her, and she sat up straight, looking at
him; she got up and walked slowly to the opposite
side of the room, he gazing at her.  He reproached
himself for telling her.  She was young, lived apart
from the great crowd, and could not understand.
He could not see her face, for she stood with her
back toward him, but displeasure has many
countenances, and he could see that his story had
offended her.  Her head was slightly bowed, and she
was no doubt weeping; he heard her sob.  Then
she had loved him, and her love was dying.  But
he did not dare to go to her, to the death of the
love he had murdered.  Suddenly she turned about.
Her face was radiant, and she was laughing.  He
stared at her in amazement.

"It is exactly what you ought to have done," she said.

"And I am not lowered in your estimation?"

"For being a truer man than any man I have
ever known?  Oh, no."

Yes, she had turned round, laughing, but there
were tear stains on her checks.  He did not know
that she had passed through a struggle of doubt
to reach laughter.  Surely she was a strange
creature, worthy of being loved and capable of loving;
but he did not tell her that he loved her.  The words
were warm in his heart, but felt cool upon his lips,
and he did not utter them.  He talked in a round-about
way, in an emotional skirmish, he afterward
said to himself, and then took his leave, as the
Judge and Florence had returned.  Just outside he
met Bodney coming in.  "Oh, by the way, the very
man I want to see, Mr. Bodney.  I want a talk with you."

Bodney thought that the preacher was going to
thank him again for the money sent to the church,
to tell him how much good it had done.  "I will
walk along with you," he said.

"This is a peculiar world," remarked the preacher,
as they strode along, side by side.

"You might almost say a damnable world," Bodney replied.

"No, not quite so bad as that."  They walked on
in silence, Bodney wondering what the preacher
wanted to talk about, the preacher wondering how
he could best get at what he intended to say.  "You
are well acquainted with Mr. Goyle," said Bradley.

"Why do you speak of him?  Why didn't you
say I am well acquainted with the devil?"

"I suppose I might as well.  Do you believe him
desperate?"

"In his milder moods, yes; at other times he
goes beyond that—he is inhuman."

"Ah.  Do you believe that he would snatch a
man's watch?"

"He would snatch a woman's child.  He is a
beast.  But you have something to tell me.  What
is it?"

"I will, but as I do not wish to bring someone
else into the glare of scandal, you must keep it to
yourself.  The other night, as I was going home,
a man standing under a lamppost asked me the
time.  I took out my watch and he snatched it
and fled down an alley.  I didn't notice his face, or
at least I could not see it very well, and I did not
recognize him, but I have recovered the watch and
have been told that it was Goyle who snatched it.
And you do not suppose that there is any question
as to his being bold enough to do such a thing."

"Mr. Bradley, that man would do anything; he is
a footpad or a sorcerer, just as the humor takes
him.  Now, I will tell you something.  He made
himself my master, so completely that at times I
could not resist him.  But the other day he made
me an infamous proposition and I struck him in
the mouth and knocked him senseless upon the
floor.  Blood ran out of his mouth, and it was
black—black, I will swear.  I left him lying there, and
when I returned he was gone, but he had written
a note to me, a note in which there was not a word
of reproach or resentment.  He said he was going
away and would see me upon his return.  That note
frightened me, and I have been scared ever since,
dreading to meet him, for I feel that he has some
sort of reserve power to throw over me.  I would
go away, but the thought that he knows all my
movements is constantly haunting me.  You may
smile at this and say that I ought to be stronger,
that it is superstition, and that we are not living
in a superstitious age, but I tell you that in his
presence I feel a weakness come over me to such
a degree that when I am with him I have only one
strength—a passion for gambling.  I have let him
ruin me, soul and body; I—"

"I will pray for you," said Bradley.

"You might as well pray for rain, and nothing
could be more foolish than that."

"What, you doubt the spirit of God?"

"I believe in the spirit of the devil.  But this is
jugglery.  If he had left me a note full of resentment,
or had even left no word at all, I should have
felt that I had conquered him; but, as it is, I know
that I am his slave."

"My dear young man," said the preacher, "you
ascribe to him supernatural powers; you have
permitted him to take you back into the middle ages.
Such a thing is absurd, in this great, progressive
city.  See," he added, pointing at an electric car
rushing by.  "There goes the nineteenth century,
and yonder," he broke off, waving his hand at a cart
shoved by an Italian, "is the sixteenth century.
You have let the Italian put you into his wretched
cart.  Get out—get on the electric car."

"Your illustration is all right, Mr. Bradley; but
he has me in his cart bound hand and foot.  But
we have both said enough, and what we have said
is not to be repeated to others.  I'll turn back here."

After knocking Goyle down, Bodney had fully
determined to make a confession to Howard and the
Judge, but upon finding the note his will resolved
itself into fear and indecision.  He felt, however,
that the gambling germ was dead—"germ," he
muttered to himself.  "Giant!" he cried aloud.  It must
be, though, that he would gradually gain strength,
and the time for the confession was surely not far
off.  But he would bring disgrace upon himself and
be driven out of the house.  He could not bear the
thought of seeing hatred in the eye of the Judge.
The old man was unforgiving; had not forgiven
his son, and would surely send Bodney to the
penitentiary.  "I can't tell him yet," he mused.  "I
must wait for strength.  That scoundrel is thinking
of me at this moment, and I know it."  In the
night he awoke with a feeling that Goyle was in the
room, and he sprang out of bed and lighted the gas.
Thus it was for three nights, and on the third
morning came a letter from Goyle, not a letter, but an
envelope directed by his hand, and in it was a
newspaper cutting, set in the large type of the village
press.  "Last night, at Col. Radley's, the guests
were entertained in a most novel, not to say
startling, manner, by Prof. Goyle, of Chicago, who gave
several feats of mind-reading.  Miss Sarah
Mayhew, daughter of our leading merchant, stuck a
pin in the door-facing as high as she could reach,
while the Professor was out of the room, and then
hid the pin under the carpet.  The Professor was
brought in blindfolded, amid the silence which the
Colonel had enjoined.  He took Miss Mayhew by
the hand, fell into deep thought for a few moments
and then went straightway and took the pin from
under the carpet, and then, marvelous to relate, ran
across the room and leaping off the floor stuck the
pin in the exact hole which it had occupied at the
hands of the handsome Miss Mayhew.  George
Halbin, one of our leading lawyers, said that the
feat would have seemed impossible to even a man
with both eyes open.  The Professor will appear at
the opera house tomorrow night, and our citizens
who appreciate a good thing when they see it
should turn out."

"What have you got there?" William asked,
standing in Bodney's door.

"Just a clipping from a newspaper telling of
Goyle's wonderful mind-reading."

"Let me see it."

William read the paragraph and handed it back.
"I don't believe a word of it," he said.  "Those
fellows will write anything if they are paid for it.
It's all a lie."

"It's all true," said Bodney.

"What, have you turned spiritualist?  Is the whole
family going to pieces?  Howard has ruined
himself with French books and John is so snappish that
no one can speak to him.  Is that the sort of home
I've found?  Give me that cigar sticking out of your
packet.  You don't need it.  Thank you.  A man
who believes the stuff you do don't know whether
he's smoking or not.  Is that John, roaring at
Howard?  I want to tell you that there's something
wrong here.  What do you keep holding that thing
for?  Why, you shake like a sifter at a sawmill.
You are all going crazy."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`UP THE STAIRS AND DOWN AGAIN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   UP THE STAIRS AND DOWN AGAIN.

.. vspace:: 2

When Bodney went into the hall he found the
Judge walking up and down, waiting for
breakfast.  His brow was troubled and dark, for
Howard had just announced his determination to leave
on the following day.  He had acknowledged to
himself that there was nothing left to hope for,
and yet he had continued to hope that it all might
be, as Florence believed, a vision, a nightmare, to
be relieved by a sudden start.  He knew that it
was unreasonable thus to hope, but hope was born
before reason, and will exist after reason has died
of old age.  As Bodney approached the old man
stood with his hand pressed against his forehead.
Bodney's heart smote him, but his fear was stronger
than his remorse.  The piece of paper, still in his
hand, seemed to burn his palm, as poker money had
burned in his pocket; and he felt that he was but
a pin hidden under a carpet and that Goyle could
find him and thrust him back into obedience.  The
Judge noticed the grip with which he held the slip
of paper.  "What have you there, George?" he asked.

"A—a—thing cut out of a newspaper."  He
opened his hand and the Judge looked at the slip
of paper.

"But why did you grip it that way?"  He took
the cutting, smoothed it out, and, putting on his
glasses, read it.  "Ah," he said, handing it back,
"that fellow.  I have seen him in my sleep—last
night.  Tell him not to come here again."

"It has been some time since he was here."

"Don't apologize for him.  Tell him that he must
not enter this house again."

William came out and saw the Judge hand the
cutting to Bodney.  "Is it possible, John, that you
believe in that nonsense, too?"

"I don't believe in anything," said the Judge.

"That's putting it rather strong," replied William.
"That is to say, that when I tell you I elected
Governors and Senators, you don't believe it."  Bodney
passed on, leaving the brothers walking up and
down the hall, shoulder to shoulder.

"Did I say that I didn't believe you?  What
difference does it make anyway?"

"What difference does any man's record make?
If a man isn't proud of his record, what should he
be proud of?  You are proud of your decisions—they
go to make up your record.  I elected Governors, and—"

"Why didn't you elect yourself?"

"That's a nice way to come back at a man—your
own brother.  Haven't you heard me say that there
is something higher than a desire for office?  Hah,
haven't you heard me say that?"

"Yes, there is something higher—the roof of the
board of trade."

"John, that is an unfair thrust at my speculations.
But, sir, at one time I could have closed out for
millions.  Do you understand, for millions."

"Why didn't you?"

"Now, just listen to that.  Reproaches me for
not being a money grabber, for not joining the
robbers to crush the weaklings.  I have suffered a
good deal at your hands lately, but I didn't expect
that stab.  It wounds me here."  He halted, and
placed his hand on his breast.  But he went in to
breakfast and ate with the appetite of a man who,
if wounded, must have marvelously recovered; he
joked with Agnes about the preacher; he told her
that it would be her duty to take care of his
numerous slippers, presented by women.  "And when you
have a pound party at your house I will contribute a—"

"Senator," said Howard.

"Oh, so you have broken out, have you?  I
thought you were too deep in the study of French
literature to pay any attention to such trifles.  And
you have got on a reddish necktie.  You'll be an
anarchist the first thing you know."

"He is going away, William," said Mrs. Elbridge,
and the Judge did not look up.  The sadness
of her voice stirred William to repentance.
"Going away?  I don't see how we can get along
without him.  He and I joke, but we understand
each other, don't we, Howard?"

"Perfectly, Uncle William; and when I open my
ranch out West, you may look on it as your home."

"Thank you, my boy; but I don't care to go out
there again.  I was once a power there, but the
country is now overrun with a lesser breed, and I
am afraid that I might not get along with them.  I
want men, such as there used to be.  Man will soon
be a thing of the past.  The scorcher is running
over him—and I want to say right here, that if
one of those fellows ever runs over me, he'll get a
bullet just about the size of a—a—about the size of
that."  He held up his thumb and measured off the
missile intended for the scorcher.  "You hear what
I say.  Why, confound 'em, if they see a man, a
real man, they bow their necks and make at him,
but if one of them ever runs into me, the coroner
will have a job."

Howard and Bodney went down town together
and opened the office, as usual, for clients who did
not come, and who, if they had come, would have
shaken their heads and gone away.

"Howard," said Bodney, "I told you that I was
financially ruined."

"Yes, I remember, but afterward you said that
everything was all right, that your fit had passed.
Has it come again?"

"It didn't go away.  A sort of drunkenness made
it appear so.  The fact is, I am in need of ten dollars,
to pay a man I owe.  He keeps harassing me."

"I need every cent I've got, old man, but here's ten."

Bodney took the bank note and went out.  The
poker microbe was not so easily to be exterminated.
It had suggested to Bodney that the only way to
replace the money taken from the Judge's safe was
to play poker.  And, why not play?  He might
win—he had won once, and what the cards had
done they would do again.  He remembered the
courtesies that had been shown him at the club, the
congratulation of the man at the desk when he
won and the sympathy when he lost.  "Couldn't
make 'em stick, eh?  When a man gets the hands
beaten you do, he's got to lose his money.  There's
nothing to it.  But you'll get 'em yet—you play as
good game as any of them."  A man of sense could
see that it was a losing game from the start, no
matter how honestly conducted.  And Bodney,
going to the club before business put on its
cheerful countenance, had seen them counting the
swallowings of the ever hungry box, the rake-off, the
unsatisfied maw.  A fairly active game would
average for the house at least eight dollars an hour,
so that in the end every man must be a loser.  He
knew all this as the others knew it, but the microbe
squirmed and made him itch.

He walked toward the Wexton Club, not in a
rush, for he was still fighting.  Speculation urged
him to play one more time, and to realize during
the game that it was the last.  The hunger for
play was surely dying; then, why kill it? why not
let it die of its own accord?  Then came the memory
of nights of distress, the nervous sweat of anxiety
in the street, scanning faces, looking for money.
He turned aside, went into a hotel and sat down.
Two men were talking of a defaulter.  "Yes, sir,"
said one of them, "everybody had confidence in
him—the firm trusted him implicitly; but he
embezzled and must go up for it."  He mentioned the
embezzler's name, and Bodney recognized it as that
of a gentlemanly young fellow well known at the
Wexton.  He had come under an assumed name,
but had thrown off this weak disguise, to indorse a
check.  So the players, who gossip among
themselves, knew his real name, but addressed him as
Jones.  Bodney continued to listen.  "I understand,"
said one of the men, "that the place where
he went is a regular robbers' den."  Bodney knew
better than this; he knew that in the fairness, the
courtesy, the good nature of the place lay its
greatest danger.  Men swore, it was true; cursed their
luck and called upon a neighbor to testify to the
fact that he had never seen such hands beaten; but
for the most part, the atmosphere was genial, the
talk bright and with a crispness rarely found in
society.  He resented this misrepresentation, and was
even on the point of speaking when the men walked
off.  Soon afterward he went out, though not in
the direction of the club; he circled round and
round, like a deer, charmed by a snake; but after
a time he saw the stairway, dusty and grim, rise
before him.  In the hall above, just as he was about
to ring the bell, he thought of his short resources,
only one ten dollar note, and he took out the
crumpled paper and held it in his hand for a
moment and looked at it, not to find the ten dollars,
but the newspaper cutting.  He started as if stung,
stepped back and stood with his hand resting on
the balustrade.  The door opened and a man came
out.  Bodney spoke to him, and he halted.  It was
the offensive fellow with the white scar.

"How did you come out?"

The man opened both hands and raised them.
He was not drunk now.  He was sober and
desperate.  "They have ruined me," he said; "ruined
me, and I don't know what in the name of God to
do.  I'll never play again as long as I live—I'd swear
it on all the bibles in the world.  Are you going to
play?"

"I was thinking about it."

"I could have quit big winner.  Say, have you
got enough to stake me?"  His eyes brightened,
but the light went out when Bodney shook his head.
"I've got just ten dollars."

"Then you won't last as long as a feather in hell."  He
went down the stairs, and Bodney continued to
stand there, fighting against himself, with the
newspaper cutting still in his hand.  Suddenly, with his
teeth set and both hands clenched, he ran down the
stairs.  At the door opening out upon the street
he met the master of the game.  "Won't you come
back and eat with us?"

"No, I am in a hurry."

The master of the game was astonished.  The
idea of a poker player being in a hurry to get away
from the game was almost new to him—and it was
new to Bodney.  But he hastened on, not daring to
look back lest he might find some new temptation
beckoning him to return.  Passing beyond the
circle wherein the lodestone seemed to draw the
hardest, he felt, upon looking back, that he had escaped
and was beyond pursuit.  It was now eleven o'clock,
and the victory must have been won at about ten
minutes to eleven.  He had cause to remember this
afterward, on the following day, when he believed
that the cause of this sudden strength had been
revealed to him.

Howard was in the office when Bodney returned.
"Well, did you pay your persistent creditor?"

"There was none.  Here is your money; I don't
need it now."

"But you will, so you'd better keep it."

"That's a fact, and I don't know how soon."

"But you say there was none."

"None.  I'll explain sometime, but I can't now."

Howard did not pursue the subject further, for
his mind was on his own affairs.  He had settled
upon taking his departure the next morning, and
now he looked about the old room with a feeling
of sadness.  He had consulted another physician
who knew his father well, and had been informed
that the old man might improve rapidly in the
absence of his son.  This made the young man wince,
but he had told the doctor that his father seemed
to have an especial antipathy to him.  "It is one
of the freaks peculiar to diseased minds to turn upon
one who has been nearest," said the physician.
Howard had repeated this to his mother, and
frequently she remarked it as a discovery of her own.

That evening when the young men went home
there was a great hub-hub in the hall.  William had
just come in, covered with dust and was blowing
like a hippopotamus.  "If I live, I'll kill him; mind
what I tell you."

"What's the trouble?" Howard asked.  William
had been knocked down by a scorcher.





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.. _`TOLD HIM GOOD-BYE`:

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   CHAPTER XXII.


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   TOLD HIM GOOD-BYE.

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At the breakfast table the next morning the
Judge paid no attention to Howard, though he
knew that his departure was to take place that day.
He had striven to be genial when Mrs. Elbridge
was present, and for a time had succeeded, but all
effort was thrown off now.

Howard went to his room to make ready, and his
mother went with him.  The Judge was walking
up and down in his office as they passed his door.
Florence entered, and the Judge bowed to her.

"Are you going to tell Howard good-bye?" she asked.

"That's easy enough," he answered.

"He will come in here to see you before he goes."

"How do you know?"

"I know because it is not possible for him to
prove so unnatural as—"

The Judge raised his hand.  "Don't say it, please."

She stood looking at him.  "Don't you think you
ought to tell him why you have hardened your
heart against him?"

"I shall tell him nothing."

"And is that the part of a true man?  Is it not
almost inhuman to let him suffer in ignorance?"

The Judge raised his hand and looked toward the
door.  "I tell you, it is to protect her.  Can't you
see?"

"It is well enough to protect her, but you ought
to give him an opportunity to defend himself."

"There is no defense.  Mind, your oath."

"Oh, I am sick of that," she said.  "Every time
I say a word in his behalf you remind me of a foolish
vow.  Judge, I am weary of this senseless and
insane drama, seeing the others stumble about in the
dark while you and I stand in the light.  No, you
do not stand in the light, I alone am in the light
of truth; and if I did not think that the trip out
West would be good for him.  I would not let him
go; I would stop him short with what you have
told me and made me swear by the memory of my
mother not to repeat.  No wonder you put your
hand to your head.  It must ache.  But, there, I
won't reproach you."

He had sat down.  She went to him and put her
hand on his shoulder.  He looked up, and then
looked down again.  "I believe something is going
to clear it all up one of these days," she said.  He
got up and resumed his walk.  Howard's voice
came down the hall: "Has the trunk gone yet?"

"I think he is coming," she said.

"Stay with me, Florence."

"No, you must face him, the injured, alone."

"I have not injured him; he has injured me."

She went out and the Judge stood there waiting
for Howard.  He came in, more serious now that
everything had been made ready.  "I am about to
start for the West, sir," he said.  "I can't stand it
here any longer.  You frown at me, and when I
beg you to tell me—"

"How long do you expect to be gone?" the Judge
interrupted.

"Till the day when I am to marry almost in
secret, or when you send for me."

The Judge was walking up and down.  He
turned and replied.  "I shall not send for you."

"Do you still deny us the right to be married
in a church?"

"You shall never marry her at all with my sanction,
and if you marry her without it, you marry
out West or in there," he added, waving toward the
drawing room.  "There must be no guests."

"I should like to marry in my father's house, but
on the prairie or in the woods will do as well; it
makes no difference."  He looked hard at his father,
and, after a time, added: "I didn't think that a man
could change so much—be so unnatural."

"None of that, sir!" the Judge exclaimed, turning
upon him.  "It is not for you to call me unnatural."

"Father, if I have committed a crime in your eye,
why don't you tell me what it is?"

"In my eye!  You must have studied long to
frame that speech."

"But why don't you tell me?"

"Don't mock me, sir."

Howard looked at him, as if trying to study
out something in his countenance, in his eye.  "May
I ask you something?"

"Why should you desire my permission since
you would pay no attention to my refusal?  What
is it that you wish to ask?"

"May I ask if there has ever been any insanity
in our family?"

The Judge started.  "In our family—in my family
there has been something worse than insanity."

Howard slowly nodded his head as if admitting a
sad fact.  "Yes, there has been the death of
affection—in your family."

"Ah," cried the Judge, "the shrouding of a hope."

"The murder of a jovial spirit," said Howard.

"Don't shoot your poisonous arrows at me.  Go
on, away.  Good-bye."  He waved his hand.  Howard
turned toward the door, but halted, faced about
and looked at the Judge with troubled tenderness.
"Father, I don't know exactly where I am going,
but out in the wilds somewhere to find a place for
me and mine.  I did not believe—couldn't have
foreseen such a moment as this.  It seems to me
that my father is gone."  He paused, and the Judge
stood with his face turned away.  "Shall I write to you?"

"No," said the Judge, without looking round.

Mrs. Elbridge came in and found them standing
apart, the Judge still with his back toward Howard.
"Howard," she said, "the cab is waiting.  Judge,
Howard is going away from us."

The old man turned slightly, looked at her,
nodded his head, said "yes," and walked to the
opposite side of the room.  Mrs. Elbridge touched
her forehead.  "You must bear with him," she
whispered.  "You can see where the trouble lies."

"Yes, and it is a sorrowful thought.  I can hardly
believe it.  And to think that he should select me
as the object of his contempt."

"He will get over it soon and send for you," she
said in a low voice.  "A disordered mind turns
against the loved one—nearly always."  Then,
advancing toward the old man, she said: "Judge, tell
him good-bye."

"I have," replied the old man, standing with his
face turned from her.  She went to him and,
touching his arm, said: "But not in your old way—not
as you would have told him good-bye before—before
you were ill."

"I am not ill," he said, without turning his eyes
toward her.  "I never was better in my life."

"But, tell him good-bye, please."

"I tell you I have!" he exclaimed, stamping upon
the floor; and turning with his hand uplifted, he
cried: "Can't you see—no, you cannot," he broke
off, his hand shaking, and slowly falling to his side.
"No, you cannot see, must not see.  I beg your
pardon for speaking so impatiently, but I am
worried, Rachel; worried, and—"

"Yes, I know," she said, taking the arm which he
had raised from under her gentle touch.  "But, you
must tell him good-bye."

The Judge struggled against her, though not
with violence; the struggle, indeed, was more
against himself.  She led him toward Howard, who
stood looking on, sorrowfully.

"Put your arm about him," she said to the Judge.
"For me, please."

"For you," he said, and suffered her to put his
arm on Howard's shoulder.  She raised his other
arm, and now he stood with both arms about the
boy's neck.

"Good-bye, father," said Howard.

For a moment the old man's countenance was
aglow with the light of love and sympathy;
convulsively he pressed Howard to his bosom—but a
horror seemed to seize him, the light of sympathy
went out as if blown by a cold wind, and, stepping
back, he said:

"There.  Go.  Not another word.  Why do you
continue to stand there gazing at me?  Rachel,
can't you take him away?  I have told him
good-bye to please you—now, why don't you oblige me
by taking him away?"

"But, dear, have you no word for him?"

"Word, yes.  Good-bye."

"No word of advice?"

"Advice!  Don't mock me.  Go away, please.
Can't you see—no, you cannot, and why should I
expect it?  Now go."

"We are going," she said.

"Yes, but—I beg your pardon—but why don't you?"

She took Howard's arm and walked out, looking
back as if she hoped that the Judge might repent
and follow, but he did not; he resumed his walk
up and down the room.  Suddenly he turned.
"Now, what are you doing, William?"  The brother
had entered and was turning over papers on the desk.

"I am looking for a slip of paper I dropped out
of my pocket-book."

"You didn't leave anything here."

"That may be," said William, "but I don't know
whether I did or not till I find out.  A man never
knows—"

"Some men never know," the Judge broke in,
going over to the desk and taking a paper out of
William's hand.  "Go away, please."  William
stepped back, shocking himself from the storage
battery of his dignity.  "Oh, I can go, if that's what
you want."

"That's what I want."

"It is?  All right.  John, I'll be hanged if I know
what's the matter with you."  The Judge was paying
no attention.  He was listening to a cab driving
off from the door.  "I say, sir, I'll be hanged if I
know what's the matter with you."

"I heard what you said."

"I don't know whether you did or not.  There's
no living in the house with you.  And last night,
after I had been knocked down in the street—and
I'm going to kill him if detectives can find him—last
night when I merely intimated that something had
taken place on the fourteenth of September, you—"

"William, are you going to begin all that over again?"

"I don't know what you mean by again.  John,
you talk in riddles.  I can't for the life of me get
at your meaning.  Yes, sir, and last night you flew
off like a jug handle when I told you that Carl
Miller—"

"Oh, damn Carl Miller."

"That's all right.  I don't care how much you
damn him.  He deserves it—broke a pair of boots
for me and made 'em so kidney footed that I
couldn't walk in 'em.  But I am positive about that
other date, John.  It was the tenth."

The Judge looked at him, drew a long breath,
and said: "William, you are an old fool."

"An old fool, John—old?  Did you say old?"

"That is what I said.  Old."

William sighed.  "Then, that settles it.  It isn't
so bad to be simply a fool—for we may grow out
of that as time goes on—but to be an old fool—John,
I'll leave your house.  I can't stand your
abuse any longer.  I am without means, broke, you
might say, and I don't know which way to turn,
except to turn my back on your ill-treatment of me.
I may starve to death or be killed in the street or
on some freight car, stealing a ride from misery to
misery, but I am going."

"William, sit down and behave yourself."

"Never again will I sit down in your house.  I
have joked with you, I know, and have said a great
many things that I didn't mean, but I am in deadly
earnest this time.  I am going away."

The Judge put his hand on William's shoulder.
"Look at me," he said.  "Don't leave me.  I need
you.  I am mean, and I know it, but I beg of you
not to leave me."

"Mean!" William cried.  "Who the deuce said
you were mean?  Show the villain to me.  Show
him to me, I tell you."

"There, now, sit down; it is all right."

"No, sir, it is not all right, and it never will be
till I find the scoundrel that called you mean.  Was
it Bradley?  Tell me, and I'll choke him till his
eyes pop out.  Was it Bradley?"

The Judge smiled.  "Bradley," said he, "is one of
my props.  He is the son of my old friend, and I
think the world of him."

"Well, let him congratulate himself on his escape,
for before the Lord I would choke him.  It is all
right, yes, sir—but, really, John, if I tell you
earnestly it was on the tenth won't you believe—"

"Yes, yes; let it be the tenth."

"Let it be!  Why, confound it, I tell you it was
the tenth."

"All right.  When you go out I wish you would
tell Florence to come here."

William grunted.  "Oh, I can go out.  By the
way, John, Howard asked me a pertinent question
this morning.  And it staggered me a little.  He
wanted to know whether there had ever been any
insanity in our family."

The Judge showed signs of coming agitation, but
he fought with himself as it was his custom to fight.
"What did you tell him?"

"I lied, I told him no.  John, do you remember
the night when they came from the mad-house and
told us children that father was dead?"

"Don't, William; don't.  Please tell Florence to
come here."

William went out and the Judge resumed his
walk up and down the pathway of trouble.  Yes,
he did remember the night when they came from
the mad-house, two men in a doctor's gig; he
remembered the lamps on each side of the vehicle,
eyes of a great bug, they seemed.  But his father's
malady had not come of inheritance, but of fever.
But other men had fever and did not go mad.
Could it be that he himself had been touched with
the disease—touched in the eye with a vision?  No,
for there was Bodney.  He had seen it.  "My mind is
sound, even in distress," he mused.  "But wouldn't
it have been better if I had talked to him kindly
about his crime?  I ought to have let him know
that I saw him.  No, his mother would have drawn
it out of him—love sucking poison from a wound."

Florence entered the room, advanced a few paces,
halted, and stood, looking at him.  "Well, you sent
for me and I am here."

"Yes, sit down, please."

"No, I thank you."

The Judge looked at her sorrowfully.  "Did
Howard tell you where he intends to go?"

Florence looked at him with a smile, but in the
smile he saw bitterness.  "Does it concern you?"
she asked.

"I am not a brute, Florence."

"No," she said.  "A brute is not unnatural."

"Don't, please.  I am trying not to be unnatural.
There can be a broken heart shielding a heart to
keep it from breaking."

"You were a judge, a man of justice.  And was
it just to let him suffer in the dark?  Was it right
to lock your own lips and put a seal on mine.
Judge, I ought to have told him in your presence."

"Don't say that."

"But I do say it.  You presume upon what you
are pleased to think is my strength of character.
I am beginning to believe that I was weak instead
of strong.  Yes, I ought to have told him in your
presence.  I ought to have said: 'Your father, who
has been a judge, has passed sentence upon you
without giving you a hearing.  He says you are a
thief.'"

"Hush," said the Judge, in a loud whisper,
motioning toward the door.  "Don't talk that way to
me.  Ah, I have killed all the love you ever had for me."

"You have choked it and it is gasping."

"I am grieved—but it cannot be undone—the
fingers are stiffened about your gasping love."  He
walked up and down for a time, and then turned
again to her.  "When you get a letter from him will
you let me read it?"

"No.  His heart will write to mine, and your eye
would blur the words."

"Don't say that.  I am not without a heart.  I
had a heart—it is broken."  He walked off again,
but turned quickly.  "Florence, I sometimes wonder
if my eye could have deceived me—could have lied
to me."

She moved toward him, her hands uplifted, hope
in her face.  "A man's mind lies to him, and why
not his eyes?" the Judge continued.  Florence
caught him by the arm and looked appealingly at
him.  "But your brother, Florence—your brother.
He saw him, too."

"What!" she cried, stepping back.  "Brother saw
him!  You didn't tell me that."

"I promised him I would not tell you."

"Ah, you break your promises and expect me
to keep mine.  I will go this moment and tell his
mother."

He caught her arm and poured out a distressful
imploration, a prayer.  "I would rather you'd stab
me," he said, concluding.  "I would rather you'd
kill us both.  But I didn't swear, Florence.  You
have taken an oath."

"Judge, that is cowardly."

"Yes, it is.  I am a coward—but only for her.  A
bitter word, Florence."

"Yes, forgive me.  I didn't mean that.  You are
not a coward, but you are blind."  He held forth
his hands.  She stepped back, shaking her head.

"All gone," said he, "all respect, all confidence.
And you were my daughter."

"I was."

"In love and in duty," he said.

"In both," she replied.  "In both, yes, and now
love is gasping and duty has become a hard
master."  Suddenly she sprang toward him.  "Brother saw
him!  I am just beginning to realize what you
said.  I don't believe it.  His eyes lied, too."

"Oh, beautiful faith, it would move a mountain."

"It would pluck a mote from an eye.  May I go now?"

"I am not on the bench to discharge or restrain
you.  But, just a moment.  You feel that I am a
tyrant.  That could not have been possible with
your former self.  What is so cold as frozen gentleness?
And now it is only through the frost-crusted
windows that I can catch a glimpse of your other
spirit."

"In the hall, yesterday," she said, "I thought that
I heard a lurking echo of your old laughter."

He made a gesture of distress.  "Don't remind
me of it," he said.

"May I go?"

"Yes.  But let me ask you one more favor.  Don't
tell your brother that I mentioned him."

"Another chain," she said.





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.. _`THE LIGHT BREAKS`:

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   CHAPTER XXIII.


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   THE LIGHT BREAKS.

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The Judge turned and saw Bradley in the door.
His appearance at any moment was not in the
nature of a surprise.  Agnes said that she expected
him at most unexpected times.  He no doubt
regarded himself as a brave man, and perhaps he was;
it required courage to be so timidly persistent.

"I hope I don't intrude," said the preacher.

"Oh, not at all.  Come in."

"Miss Agnes is out for a walk, I understand,"
said Bradley, sitting down.

The Judge stood looking at him absent-mindedly.
"Ah, yes, I suppose so.  But I don't know why I
suppose so.  The truth is, I don't know anything
about it.  I beg your pardon, Bradley.  I am—am
greatly disturbed.  The fact is, I hardly know what I
am about.  I am a mystery unto myself.  I was just
thinking of it as you came in.  It does not seem
possible for a man, with a mountain of sorrow upon
his heart, to turn squarely about and speculate upon
trivial things—to jest, if I may say so, and I must
for it is a fact.  I am glad you came."

"I am always delighted to come, Judge.  Here
I find the shade of a palm tree in a great desert of
trade.  And I came in the hope of finding you
better."

"Better!"  The Judge looked at him almost
sternly.  "Better, why I am not sick.  What put
that into your head, Bradley?"

"Why, I understood from what you have said
that your health was not of the best."

"But it is of the best, I assure you.  But I brood,
yes, I brood, and that is worse than ill-health—it
is the ill health of the mind, the soul."

"I am afraid you work too hard."

"Um, work, I hardly know what that is.  I am
trying to rest, but it is like a man seeking sleep on a
bed of thorns.  Work is all right, for we can put
it aside, but worry rides us till we are down, and
then sits on our breast, waiting for us to get up."

William came in, shying a little upon seeing
Bradley, but shook hands with him.  "I am glad
to see you looking so well, Mr. William," said the
preacher.

"Oh, I'm a pine knot.  Ain't I, John?"

The Judge looked at him inquiringly.  "What
did you say?"

"I said I was a pine knot."

"Did you?"

"Did I?  Didn't I just say I did?"

"If you did, you did.  That's all.  But who
accused you of not being a pine knot?"

Bradley chuckled, and William frowned at him;
then, addressing himself to the Judge, the old fellow
said: "You did.  You disputed it.  You call me a
liar every time I open my mouth."

"William, you have often declared that you are
not in the plot, but the first thing you know you
may break into it."

"No, I won't!" William exclaimed, shaking his
finger.  "And I won't break into your intellectual
atmosphere, either."  He turned to Bradley.
"Why, sir, John is a regular professor, browbeating
his class.  He expects everybody to talk book.
I say, damn a book.  I beg your pardon.  It is the
first time I ever said that in the presence of a
preacher."

Bradley laughed.  "It's all right, Mr. William, if
you feel that way."

"Is it?  Then, I say, damn a book.  What I want
is action."

"I subscribe to your doctrine concerning much
of our literary output," said the preacher.

William was so delighted at this that he seized
the preacher's hand and shook it with more of vigor
than he was wont to put forth.  "Good for you,
Bradley.  I am half inclined to come to hear you
preach."

A twinkle in the Judge's eye showed that again
he was playing in the midst of his sorrow.  "You'd
never get there, William.  You could never settle
on the date."

"Oh, you be confound, John.  I have settled on
more dates than you ever saw."  He arose, went
to the table and took up a pair of long shears.  "Let
me take these to my room, will you?  I want to
clip out something for my scrap-book."

"Oh, I thought you damned a book.  No, sir,
put those shears right down where you found them.
You took my mucilage off yesterday and I had to
go after it—down where you found them."

William put down the shears and looked angrily
at the Judge.  "Oh, I can put them down."

"Thank you."

"May I have a cigar, John?"

"Help yourself."

"Much obliged."  He went to the desk, took up
a box of cigars and walked out unnoticed by the
Judge, who had turned his back, following a strand
of his sorrow, intertwined with a strand of humor,
the two phases of himself which he could not
comprehend.  He walked slowly to the wall, and,
turning, remarked, as he walked toward the preacher,
"Bradley, I feel as one waiting for something—some
shadow."

"I'm not a shadow," Agnes cried, skipping into
the room.  Bradley arose with a bow.  "No, for
shadows may be dark," he replied.

"Did you hear that, Mr. Judge?  Did you hear
him say that shadows may be dark?  Of course, for
if they were bright they wouldn't be shadows.  May
I sit here?"  She sat on a corner of the long baize
table swinging her feet, as if the music in her soul
impelled her to dance, Bradley mused.  "Why do
you people stick in here all the time?" she went
on.  "Oh, I see," she added, lifting her hand with
a piece of paper adhering to it.  "You glue
yourselves in here."  She plucked off the paper, took
out a handkerchief, a dainty bit of lace, and wiped
her hand.  "Have you just got here, Mr. Bradley?
What's the news?  Who's murdered on the West
Side?  They have murdered somebody every day
since I came, first one side and then the other, and
it's the West Side's turn today.  Anybody killed
today?"

"I don't know," Bradley replied, "but I hear that
a prominent citizen was sand-bagged last
night—in front of a church."

"Oh, for pity sake.  And had he came out of a
church fair?  Did the robber get any money?"

"Bradley," said the Judge, "as William would
say, she is putting it on you."

Bradley smiled, and said that it seemed so.
Bodney stepped into the room, halted as if confused,
and as Bradley got up to shake hands with him,
hurriedly went out.  Agnes spoke in an undertone
to the preacher.  "Mr. Bodney is worried, too.
And it makes me awfully sorry to see the Judge so
distressed at times.  Can't you do something for him?"

"I can simply advise him not to worry, that's all."

"Beg him not to be so sad.  I don't see how he
can be.  Everything is so bright."

The Judge went to the desk to get a cigar.  "That
rascal has taken every one of my cigars.  Now, I've
got to find him to recover my property."  He went
out, and they heard him calling William.

"They have to watch Mr. William all the time,"
said Agnes.  "He carries off everything he can
get his hands on.  They say his room looks like
a junk shop."

Bradley nodded in acknowledgment, and after
a short silence, full of meditation, he said: "You
seem still to enjoy your visit.  And I hope you are
not thinking of going home."

"Ah, ha, I am having a lovely time.  Isn't it a
nice place to visit.  They make you feel so much
at home, snap at each other if they want to, just as
if you weren't here.  That's the way for people to
do; make you feel at home.  But they are just
as good as they can be, and their little spats are
so full of fun to me, only it makes me sad to see
the Judge worry.  Yes, I am having a lovely time.
I went to the vaudeville yesterday, and tomorrow
I am going to your church."

"Oh, you are?" Bradley laughed.

"Ah, ha.  Oh, do you know what I heard about
you?  I heard you were seen walking along the
street with a drunken man."

"Yes, a friend of mine.  And if a preacher
shouldn't support a staggering brother, who
should?"

"Oh, how human.  I like you for that?"

"Do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"And for that alone?"

"Oh, no, I like you for that and for a good many
other things.  I think I could have lots of fun with
you."

"Fun with me?"  The preacher was thinking of a
summer evening in Aldine Square, the music of
the fountain, the sweetness of the flowers.

"Ah, ha.  There's something about you that
makes me feel like a little girl.  And I dreamed that
you took me by the hand and led me along."

"Agnes, let me lead you."

She slid off the corner of the table and stood with
her hands flat together, like a delighted child, but
suddenly she looked up with seriousness in her eyes.
"But now you make me feel like a woman."

The Judge came in.  Bradley spoke almost in
a whisper.  "But a woman might be led by a man."  And
then to the Judge he remarked, striving to
hide his annoyance at the interruption: "I see you
have recovered your property."

The Judge sat down on a chair near the table.
"Yes, some of it.  William is a good grabber, but
he gives up after an argument, and there is some
virtue in that."

"What was in the paper that worried Mr. Bodney
so?" Agnes asked, speaking to the Judge.

"I don't know.  Has anything worried him?"

"Yes, I saw him grabbing the paper as if he
would tear it to pieces."

"Ball game, probably," said the Judge, and then
looking at Agnes he added: "Nothing seems to
bother you, little one."

"No, sir.  I won't let it.  When I am worried
something jumps this way," she said, making an
upward motion with her hands, indicating the
sudden rise of spirits, "and the bother is gone."

The Judge spoke to Bradley.  "The heart of
youth jumps up and says boo to a trouble and
frightens it away."

"Ah," replied Bradley, "and couldn't an older
heart learn to boo a trouble away?"

The Judge shook his head.  "The old heart
crouches, but cannot jump."

"Make it jump," Agnes cried.  "Let me hear you
laugh as you used to."

"The saints laugh with an old man," said Bradley.

"Don't," the Judge interposed, with a slow gesture.
"Your roses are pretty, but you bring them
to a funeral.  No, I don't mean that.  I mean that
I am simply worried over a little matter, but I am
getting better and will be all right pretty soon.  I
shall be my old self in a very short time."  Bodney
entered, and stood looking fixedly at the Judge.
"What is it, George?"

Bodney nodded to Bradley and Agnes.  "I beg
your pardon, but I must see the Judge alone."

Bradley asked Agnes if she would accept of
banishment with him.  "Yes," she said.  "Come on."

"It is not necessary," the Judge spoke up.  "We
can—"

"I beg your pardon," Bodney broke in, "but it
is necessary."

"Of course it is," Agnes declared.  "As Mr. William
would say, we are not in the plot."

"No," said Bodney, bowing to her.

As they were going out, the Judge called to the
preacher.  "Don't go away without seeing me
again, Bradley.  I want you to spend the day with me."

Bodney leaned against the table, stepped off,
came back, and stood looking down upon the
Judge.  The old man glanced up.  "Well?"

It was some time before Bodney could speak.  His
words seemed dry in his mouth.  At last he began:
"I carried half of a heavy load.  Something has
thrown the other half on me, and I can't stand
up under it—dispatch—railroad wreck—"

The Judge jumped out of his chair.  "What!"

Bodney continued.  "Yes.  Goyle is dead."

"Oh, Goyle.  I was afraid—where?"

"In Michigan, at fifteen minutes to eleven, yesterday.
I have cause to note the time.  The load—"

"Well, go ahead.  But let me tell you now,
George, you have no cause to regret the broken
association.  I deplore the man's death, of course,
but I begun to feel that his influence upon you
was bad.  I had begun to dream about him, and
to fear that he had a strange influence upon me.
But go ahead."

"Half of it was crushing me, and I can't stand it
all.  I—"

"Why, what's the matter?  What are you trying
to tell.  Go ahead."

"Judge, Goyle robbed the safe—Goyle and I—wait—I
gave him the combination—he made up for
Howard—I—"

The Judge seized the shears and raised them high
above his head, his eyes fixed on Bodney's breast.
Bodney did not flinch.  The old man raised his eyes,
to meet a steady gaze; and he stood with the
shears high in his hand.  He had uttered no outcry,
no sound came from him, no sound that could
have been heard beyond the door—only a low
groan, like the moan of a fever-stricken man,
turning over in his sleep.

.. _`The Judge seized the shears and raised them high above his head`:

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   :alt: The Judge seized the shears and raised them high above his head.

   The Judge seized the shears and raised them high above his head.

"Kill me, Judge, I deserve it."

The shears fell from the old man's hand, and he
dropped upon the chair, his arms upon the table
and his face upon them.

"I wish you had struck me."

With a slight motion of the hand the Judge waved
him off.  Bodney continued: "For your heart
there is a cure.  There is none for mine.  I was a
fool, I was caught, I gambled, I couldn't quit, that
snake held me, charmed me, hypnotized me.  I
knocked him down and he bled black on the floor,
and I left him lying there, but I could not break
loose from him."

The Judge waved him off.  "Don't tempt me to
look upon your face again."

Bodney did not move.  "The old laugh that
they have spoken so much about may return; old
confidences and an old love will be restored, but
there must be a wanderer that can never come back,
a fool whom nature made weak.  But I feel that if
you would give me your hand—I am not deserving
of it—but I feel that if I could once more touch
that honorable hand, I could go forth an honest
man.  I would try."

The Judge slowly raised his head.  Tears were
in his eyes.  He held forth his hand.  Bodney
grasped it, and—was gone.





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.. _`SENT A MESSAGE`:

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   CHAPTER XXIV.


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   SENT A MESSAGE.

.. vspace:: 2

William went to the office door and found it
locked.  This was so singular a happening that the
old fellow stalked about the house, marveling over
it and complaining against an innovation that shut
a man out of an apartment that had served so long
as a sort of public domain.  It was like the closing
of a park or a county road.  Everyone laughed
at him and he snorted.  In the vocabulary of
William's contempt, the snort was the strongest
expression.  "It is all right to laugh," said he, "but
I want to tell you that there has got to be a change
here."  He returned to the office door and knocked
upon it, but his knuckles aroused no heed within.
He could hear the Judge walking up and down.
Bodney had been gone nearly half an hour.  But
the Judge had not noted the time.  To him, life
was but a conflicting, mental eternity, and he was
in the whirling midst of it.  For a long time he sat
with his head on the table, one arm stretched out
before him, the other hanging limp; then he
staggered about the room, and then sat down with his
head in his hands.  To the eye turned inward all
was black, till gradually a light appeared, seeming
softly to shine upon a hideous shape, crouching
in a dark corner.  He gazed upon it, and it spoke,
shrinking further back from the soft light.  "I am
your injustice," it said.  He got up, raised a
window, and stood looking out upon the sunlight in
the street.  But he shivered as if with cold, and
his lips moved as if he were talking and swallowing
his words down into deep silence.  A gladness
began to form in his heart.  His son was innocent,
but in that innocence there was a reproach.  He
had been unnatural as a father, and might he not
many a time have been unjust as a judge?  He
acknowledged to himself that he must have decided
in favor of error while on the bench.  His retirement
was a sort of unconscious justice.  He realized
that his mind had not been sound.  He had
felt a coming weakness.  But now he felt a
coming strength.  The trial through which he had
passed must have served as a test.  It was to restore
or ruin his mental life.  But why should there have
been such a test, and why should the innocent have
suffered?  It would not do to reason, and he
banished the test idea, fighting it off.  Still, he
acknowledged that his mind had sickened and that
now it was gaining strength.  He remembered his
frivolity and loathed it, his jokes with William at
a time when his heart was heavy and swollen.
"Unnatural as a father and inconsistent as a man,"
he muttered.  "But who is to judge of man's
naturalness?  One kink in the mind and the entire
world is changed."  William knocked again, and
now the Judge opened the door.  The old fellow
looked at his brother and exclaimed:

"Why, what has happened, John?"

"Nothing, except that I have been really ill.  But
I am almost recovered.  My mind has passed
through a sort of crisis, William.  I can now look
back and see that I was not right.  My present
strength tells me of my former weakness.  I am
soon to be entirely well."

"Well, I am glad to hear that.  It is particularly
gratifying to me.  And I suppose that you are, or,
at least, soon will be, willing to concede that I am
sometimes correct with regards to my dates."

"Yes, but we won't mention that.  It is of no
importance."

"What!  No importance?  Take care, John,
you'll get back where you were, for when a man
says that a date is of no importance, he's in danger."

"William, I want you to do me a favor.  I am
almost afraid to trust myself to go out just now.
Wait a moment."  He went to his desk, found a
telegraph blank, and upon it wrote the following
message: "The light has broken.  Come back at
once."  William read the words and looked at him.
"Go to the station," said the Judge, "and send this
to Howard, in care of the conductor.  It is not a
secret, mind you, but don't stay to show it.  They
would delay you with puzzling over it."

"All right, I'll jump into a cab and go right over.
I know the station.  It's only a few blocks from
here.  He didn't go all the way down town.  I heard
him tell his mother.  By the way," William added,
"I found one of Howard's French books—"

"Put it back where you found it."

"What, you haven't flopped, have you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Why, you said that French literature was the—"

"It is the civilizing force of the modern world.
Go on, please.  Just a moment.  Tell Florence that
I wish to see her."

When Florence came in her face was radiant.
William had spread the news of Howard's recall.
"Ah," said the Judge, "you know that I have sent
for him."

"Yes, father," she replied, going up to him with
outstretched hands.  He took her in his arms and
kissed her.  "What has happened?" she asked.

"The atmosphere is cleared, my dear."

"But, what cleared it?"

"The truth.  You were right.  I saw a vision."

She looked at him.  "But what was it that
brother saw?"

"Ah," said the old man, shaking his head, "you
are shrewd.  You are not willing to let it pass.
Florence, we both saw Goyle disguised with his
devilish art as Howard."

She gazed at him.  "Is that all?"

"All?  Is not that enough for us to know, my child?"

"But, why did brother happen to lead you into
the office just at that time?"

"There, I have told enough, and what I have
told you must not repeat.  If there is anything to
come, Howard may tell you, but my wife must
never know that I have been so weak and
unnatural a father."

"But she can see that something must have
occurred to change your bearing toward Howard.
Mr. William has told her that you have sent for
him, and she is in her room with tears of joy in
her eyes."

"Florence, I am striving to be calm, the master
of myself.  I don't deserve to be happy—not yet.
How could I have been so blind?  And how at times
could I have indulged in levity with such a sorrow
upon my heart?"

"It was the truth, father, striving to break
through."

He nodded his head.  "Yes, and now we must
tell her something.  Ah, tell her that a man came
and brought me word that my brother is not dead.
Keep her from coming to me with any sort of
demonstration.  I can't stand it.  I must recall my
old self and become gradually accustomed to it.
I must realize that it was all a dream and that it
is passing away.  Tomorrow, with Howard, we
may make a joke of it."

"It will never be a joke with me."

"No, my child, I did not mean that.  It was a
nightmare—a breath-shape breathed upon us by
the devil while we slept.  But we are awake now,
and God's sun shines.  Go to her and tell her that
my brother is not dead."

"I will.  But, father, do you realize how resourceful
you have made me—how replete with falsehood?
And must I not go into the closet and pray
for forgiveness?"

"It was done for love, my dear; and love, which
is the soul of all up yonder, has forgiven already."

Florence and Mrs. Elbridge entered the drawing
room.  "Who brought that news that his brother
was not dead?" Mrs. Elbridge asked.

"A man.  He was in a great hurry to catch a
train and could not stop long.  He brought direct
word from Mr. Henry himself."

"Then there can be no doubt about it."

"No.  And I did not believe it in the first place."

"Who is in there with him?"

"I think Agnes and the preacher have just gone in."

"This is a happy day," said Mrs. Elbridge, looking
toward the door.

"A day when falsehood may be told, but when
truth is revealed," Florence replied.  "It is one of
God's days."

"All days are His, my dear."

Florence slowly shook her head.  "No, not all."

The Judge came in.  He put his arms about
Mrs. Elbridge.  "Rachel," he said, "you shall never see
my face gloomy again.  I will go laughing down
into green old age, into the very moss of time."  He
motioned toward the office.  "In there is a beautiful
picture of sweet distress."

Mrs. Elbridge looked upon him with a trembling
lip.  "But, my dear, it is not more beautiful than
the fact that you sent for your son and that you
yourself have come back to us all."

The Judge smiled.  Florence could see that he
was growing stronger, that his mind was clearing.
"He returns like a lost child suddenly finding the
path home," she said.

"Faith has its wisdom and its reward," replied
the Judge, looking at her.  "In the days of the New
Testament, you would have been one of the
followers.  You would have wiped His feet with your
hair."  And, looking at his watch, he added: "I
wonder why William doesn't come back."

"It is not time," Mrs. Elbridge replied, glancing
at the clock.

"The minutes are hours, but clearing and
strengthening hours," said the Judge.  He turned
about and began to walk up and down the room,
with all the simpleness of his nature in his face.  He
did not look like a man who had sat in judgment
upon the actions of men.  His heart had cried for
pardon, and a belief that it had come lighted his
countenance.  A man who has been shrewd in the
affairs of the world, sharp in practice, suspicious,
sometimes becomes simple and trustful in the love
of a grandchild.  And at this time, the Judge might
have reminded one of such a man.

Mrs. Elbridge stood in the door looking down
the hall.  The Judge halted to speak to Florence.
"Forgiveness," said he, "is the essence of all that
is noble in life.  And do you forgive me?"

"Yes," she said.  "And I hope that I shall be
forgiven all the falsehoods I have been forced to tell."

"They were for her, Florence, and there is a
virtue in an untruth that shields a heart."  He moved
closer to her and added: "I wonder at your
strength and marvel at my weakness."

"You were groping in the dark.  It was not your
fault, but your nature."

"And you are my daughter again."

"Yes," said Florence, "in love and in duty."

Mrs. Elbridge went out.  The Judge and Florence
sat down to wait for William.  He was a sort
of way-station which must be reached before they
could arrive at Howard.  The Judge told her of
the darkness through which he had passed, throwing
new light upon it, as if she had not seen it, as
she stood by, holding a torch.  He spoke of Goyle,
of his strange power; he told her of the newspaper
cutting that gave account of his mind-reading, and
finally he told her of Bodney's confession.  She
was prepared, and showed no agitation.  But there
was grief on her face.  Then he told her that he
could not find it in his heart to condemn him.  "In
your own words, Florence, it was not his fault, but
his nature.  I will take him back, and not even
Howard must know of his part in—in my darkness."

"Howard ought to know everything," she said.
"But not now, my dear; by degrees, as he shall
be able to bear it.  He is generous, and I believe
he will forgive."

Mrs. Elbridge returned and stood in the door.
"Here comes William," she said.  The Judge arose.
William came in puffing.  "We were looking for
you," said Mrs. Elbridge.

"Well, now," replied the old fellow, "you don't
have to look long for me, I'll tell you that.  I made
the driver whip his horses all the way there and back."

"And are you sure that your message caught
the train?" said the Judge.

"Oh, I always fetch 'em whenever I go after 'em."

"Are you sure you sent it all right?" the Judge asked.

"John, I thought you'd get well.  But, sir, you
exhibit the most alarming sign of sickness I have
ever seen in you.  Sure I sent it all right!  What
other way do I ever do a thing?  Of course I sent
it all right.  The train wasn't far out, and there's
one back every few minutes."

"It seems that he has been gone a year instead
of two hours," said the Judge.

Florence smiled at him.  "And are we to be
married in secret?" she asked, speaking low.

"My dear, that shall be as you please.  I have
only one wish—that it shall be one of the happiest
days of my life, and I believe that it will be."

"What day of the month is this?" William asked.

"The fifth," the Judge answered.

"Are you sure?"

"I am sure it is not the tenth of June, sixty-three,"
said the Judge, and was in deep regret at his
levity at such a time, when his wife spoke up,
"Judge, please don't get him started."

"Started!" William snorted.  "Now—now, that's
good.  A man races all the way to the station and
back, and they talk about getting him started."  Suddenly
he thrust his hands into his pockets and
stood staring at the wall.  "Well, if that don't beat
anything I ever saw."

"What is the trouble?" the Judge asked.

"Why, I dated that telegram the fourth."

"You did!" Mrs. Elbridge cried.  The Judge
looked hard at his brother.  "It won't make any
difference," said Florence.  "He will know that it
was a mistake."

"He will undoubtedly know who sent it," the
Judge added.

"I wonder why Mr. Bradley and Agnes stay in
that dingy place," said Mrs. Elbridge, always
anxious to change the talk from William's dates.

"The place may be dingy," replied the Judge,
"but there are no cobwebs hanging from the rafters
in the abode of love."

"Judge!" she said, giving him a smiling frown.

"To some eyes," remarked Florence, half musingly,
"there may be cobwebs hanging from the rafters
in love's abode, but to love they are strands of
gold."

"Let us go out and watch for his coming," said
Mrs. Elbridge, taking Florence by the arm.  They
went out, leaving William staring at the Judge.

"By the way, what's this I happened to hear
about brother Henry being dead?  I didn't know
he was dead till he wasn't."

"You didn't?"

"I mean I heard the news of his death and the
contradiction about the same time.  Why did you
keep it from me?"

"Oh, I knew there wasn't any truth in the report,
and there wasn't anything to be gained by telling you."

"Anything to be gained.  Do you only tell a
man a thing when there is something to be gained
by it?"

The Judge looked at the clock and then at his
watch.  "He ought to be here pretty soon.  I want
everybody to keep away from me.  I want to see
him first alone—in here."

"But what's all this mystery about?  I'll be
hanged if you haven't put my light under a bushel."

"No, William, it is my light that has been under
a bushel."

"Everything may be all right, John, but I don't
understand it.  There was something I wanted to
say.  Yes.  In case I forget it, tell him the date was
a mistake."

"You won't forget it, William.  You never forget
a mistaken date."

"There you go again.  Can't a man make a request?"

"I believe a man can, William."

"You don't believe anything of the sort, and you
know it.  But I won't be left in the dark.  I refuse
to stumble in ignorance."  He started toward the
door.

"What are you going to do?"

"I am going to get the morning paper and settle
that date."

"All right," said the Judge, as William went out.
"And tell them out there that I must see him here
alone.  Don't forget that."  He walked up and down
the room and then stood at the door.  "Do you see
anything of him yet?" he called to his wife.

"Not yet.  It isn't time.  But here's a cab.  It's
going to stop—no, it's gone on."

"Let me get there," said the Judge, as if the
others were responsible for the fact that the cab had
not halted and put Howard down at the door.  A
moment after he went out Bradley and Agnes
entered the room.  "They are gone to watch for him.
Shall we go, too?" the girl asked, looking at him
with a mischievous quiz in her eyes.

"No, let us stop here a moment.  Strange, isn't
it, his going away and coming back so soon?"

They sat on a sofa, looking at each other as if
new interests were constantly springing up.

"We have talked all over the house," she said.
"I feel as if I have been on an excursion.  Yes, it is
strange.  Don't you think they have quarreled?"

"Perhaps—but it will bring them closer together."

"Yes," she said, "but I wouldn't like to quarrel
just to be brought closer together.  I wonder why
Mr. Bodney went away, too."

"And you ask?"

"Yes, didn't you hear me?  I heard him muttering
as he went out.  And I understood him to say
that he wasn't coming back any more."

"I thought you knew why he went."

"Thought I did?  How was I to know?"

"I could not help but think—"

"What did you think?" she broke in.

"That he had asked you to be his wife and—"

"Oh, he never thought of such a thing."

"And if he should?"

"I'd tell him no, of course."

"You may have to say yes sometime, Agnes."

She looked down.  "I won't have to—but I may."

"Agnes, do you know what love is?"

"What a question.  Of course I do."

"What is it?"

"Oh, it's er—er—don't you know what it is?"

"Yes, Agnes, it is a glorious defeat of the heart."

"Oh, I don't think so.  It's more a victory than
a defeat."

"No, the heart surrenders."  They heard the
Judge exclaim, "No, it is not going to stop."

"Agnes, did your heart ever surrender?"

"You must not ask me that."

"Why not?  Did your heart ever fight till it was
so tired that it had to give up—surrender?"

"You mustn't ask me that.  You'll make me cry."
She hid her eyes.

"In sorrow, Agnes?"

"No—no, in happiness."

He put his arms about her, kissed her, pouring
forth his dream of the fountain and the evening in
summer.  The Judge startled them.  "Don't let me
disturb your tableau," he said, laughing, "but I
must see my son in here alone, not in the office
where—where the safe is."

"Come," said Bradley, taking Agnes by the hand,
"Let us watch with them."

As they arose the Judge looked at Agnes.  "Ah,
I see happiness in your face, little one.  Keep it
there, Bradley, for it is God-given."  He took the
preacher's hand.  "God bless you, Bradley.  You
are a good fellow."

"Don't call him fellow, Mr. Judge," said the girl,
pretending to pout.

"Yes, fellow," Bradley replied.  "It is closer to
the weakness of man."

"Closer to his heart, Bradley," said the Judge.

"Yes," said Bradley, and then he spoke to Agnes.
"Come with me."

"Anywhere with you," she replied, taking his arm
and looking up into his face.  They passed out, and
the Judge stood, waiting.  William appeared at
the door.  "It's all right now, John."

"What's all right?"

"That date—the one that caused so much trouble
one night.  It was on the tenth."

"Is it finally settled?" the Judge asked, listening.

"Yes, sir, finally, and nothing can throw me off.
Here comes Howard."  The Judge motioned, and
William withdrew.  Howard's footsteps were
heard.  The old man stood with his face turned
from the door, striving to master himself.  He felt
that surely he should break down.  Howard stepped
into the room.  "Father," he said.  The Judge
turned, and, perfectly calm, held forth his hand.
Howard grasped it.  "My son, let us be masters of
ourselves.  Let us be strong, for you will have need
of strength.  I have something to tell you."

"No," Howard replied.  "You have nothing to
tell.  George met me at the station and told me.  I
have forgiven him.  I know how he has suffered.  I
have seen his struggles.  He must not be sent away.
I have brought him back with me.  He is out there."

"Howard," said the old man, "you are a noble fellow."

Howard stepped to the door and called Bodney.
When he entered the Judge said: "George, I am
going to rent an office in a modern building.  That
old place is worn out.  We are going to start new.
Ah, come in, Florence."

"I have simply come to tell you that dinner is
ready," she said, with tears in her eyes.

"Yes," said the Judge.  "Come, boys."  Florence
led the way, looking back, smiling, and the
old man went out between Bodney and Howard,
with his hands resting on their shoulders.  In the
hall stood Agnes, the preacher and William.  The
preacher was speaking.  "If there were but one
word to express all the qualities of God, I should
select the word forgiveness," he said.

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.. class:: center

   THE END.

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