saw the auto climb it and fall backward

“Em-bank-ment,” she replied. “Just a bank. A steep little hill, eight feet high. Bout’s high’s the ceiling.” He and Catherine saw the auto climb it and fall backward rolling and come to rest beside their father. Umbackmut, Catherine thought; em-bank-ment, Rufus said to himself. “What’s instintly?” “Instantly is—quick’s that”; she snapped her fingers, more loudly than she had expected to; Catherine flinched and kept her eyes on the fingers. “Like snapping off an electric light,” Rufus nodded. “So you can be very sure, both of you, he never felt a moment’s pain. Not one moment.” “When’s ...” Catherine began. “What’s...” Rufus began at the same moment; they glared -at each other. “What is it, Catherine?” “When’s Daddy coming home?” “Why good golly, Catherine,” Rufus began. “Hold your tongue!” his Aunt Hannah said fiercely, and he listened, scared, and ashamed of himself. “Catherine, he can’t come home,” she said very kindly. “That’s just what all this means, child.” She put her hand over Catherine’s hand and Rufus could see that her chin was trembling. “He died, Catherine,” she said. “That’s what your mother means. God put him to sleep and took him, took his soul away with Him. So he can’t come home ...” She stopped, and began again. “We’ll see him once more,” she said, “tomorrow or day after; that I promise you,” she said, wishing she was sure of Mary’s views about this. “But he’ll be asleep then. And after that we won’t see him any more in this world. Not until God takes us away too.

she demonstrated what she saw

“They’re pretty sure how it happened,” she said. “The auto gave such a sudden terrible jerk”—she jerked so violently that both children jumped, and startled her; she demonstrated what she saw next more gently: “that your father was thrown forward and struck his chin, very hard, against the wheel, the steering wheel, and from that instant he never knew anything more.” She looked at Rufus, at Catherine, and again at Rufus. “Do you understand?” They looked at her. After a while Catherine said, “He hurt his chin.” “Yes, Catherine. He did,” she replied. “They believe he was instantly killed, with that one single blow, because it happened to strike just exactly where it did. Because if you’re struck very hard in just that place, it jars your whole head, your brain so hard that—sometimes people die in that very instant.” She drew a deep breath and let it out long and shaky. “Concussion of the brain, that is called,” she said with most careful distinctness, and bowed her head for a moment; they saw her thumb make a small cross on her chest. She looked up. “Now do you understand, children?” she asked earnestly. “I know it’s very hard to understand. You please tell me if there’s anything you want to know and I’ll do my best to expl—tell you better.” Rufus and Catherine looked at each other and looked away. After a while Rufus said, “Did it hurt him bad?” “He could never have felt it. That’s the one great mercy” (or is it, she wondered); “the doctor is sure of that.” Catherine wondered whether she could ask one question. She thought she’d better not. “What’s an eightfoot embackmut?” asked Rufus.

they could comprehend it at all

They couldn’t be happy any more if He hadn’t, his mother had said. They could never get well. Hannah wondered whether they could comprehend it at all and whether she should try to tell them. She doubted it. Deeply uncertain, she tried again. “He was driving home last night,” she said, “about nine, and apparently something was already wrong with the steering mech—with the wheel you guide the machine with. But your father didn’t know it. Because there wasn’t any way he could know until something went wrong and then it was too late. But one of the wheels struck a loose stone in the road and the wheel turned aside very suddenly, and when ...” She paused and went on more quietly and slowly: “You see, when your father tried to make the auto go where it should, stay on the road, he found he couldn’t, he didn’t have any control. Because something was wrong with the steering gear. So, instead of doing as he tried to make it, the auto twisted aside because of the loose stone and ran off the road into a deep ditch.” She paused again. “Do you understand?” They kept looking at her. “Your father was thrown from the auto,” she said. “Then the auto went on without him up the other side of the ditch. It went up an eight-foot embankment and then it fell down backward, turned over and landed just beside him. “They’re pretty sure he was dead even before he was thrown out. Because the only mark on his whole body,” and now they began to hear in her voice a troubling intensity and resentment, “was right—here!” She pressed the front of her forefinger to the point of her chin, and looked at them almost as if she were accusing them. They said nothing. I suppose I’ve got to finish, Hannah thought; I’ve gone this far.

felt his face get warm and he looked

Now I’ll know when he is coming home, Catherine thought. All through breakfast, Rufus had wanted to ask questions, but now he felt so shy and uneasy that he could hardly speak. “Who hurt him?” he finally asked. “Why nobody hurt him, Rufus,” she said, and she looked shocked. “What on earth made you think so?” Mama said so, Catherine thought. “Mama said he got hurt so bad God put him to sleep,” Rufus said. Like the kitties, Catherine thought; she saw a dim, gigantic old man in white take her tiny father by the skin of the neck and put him in a huge slop jar full of water and sit on the lid, and she heard the tiny scratching and the stifled mewing. “That’s true he was hurt, but nobody hurt him,” her Aunt Hannah was saying. How could that be, Catherine wondered. “He was driving home by himself. That’s all, all by himself, in the auto last night, and he had an accident.” Rufus felt his face get warm and he looked warningly at his sister. He knew it could not be that, not with his father, a grown man, besides, God wouldn’t put you to sleep for that, and it didn’t hurt, anyhow. But Catherine might think so. Sure enough, she was looking at her aunt with astonishment and disbelief that she could say such a thing about her father. Not in his pants, you dern fool, Rufus wanted to tell her, but his Aunt Hannah continued “A fatal accident”; and by her voice, as she spoke the strange word, “fatal,” they knew she meant something very bad. “That means that, just as your mother told you, that he was hurt so badly that God put him to sleep right away.” Like the rabbits, Rufus remembered, all torn white bloody fur and red insides. He could not imagine his father like that. Poor little things, he remembered his mother’s voice comforting his crying, hurt so terribly that God just let them go to sleep. If it was in the auto, Catherine thought, then he wouldn’t be in the slop jar.

between her teeth when she hurt herself

He was coming home last night but he didn’t come home and he wasn’t coming home now either, and her mother felt so awful she cried, and Aunt Hannah wasn’t saying anything, just making all that noise with the toast and big loud sips with the coffee and swallowing, grrmmp, and then the same thing over again and over again, and every time she made the noise with the toast it was almost scary, as if she was talking about some awful thing, and every time she sipped it was like crying or like when Granma sucked in air between her teeth when she hurt herself, and every time she swallowed, crrmmp, it meant it was all over and there was nothing to do about it or say or even ask, and then she would take another bite of toast as hard and shivery as gritting your teeth, and start the whole thing all over again. Her mother said he wasn’t coming home ever any more. That was what she said, but why wasn’t he home eating breakfast right this minute? Because he was not with them eating breakfast it wasn’t fun and everything was so queer. Now maybe in just a minute he would walk right in and grin at her and say, “Good morning, merry sunshine,” because her lip was sticking out, and even bend down and rub her cheek with his whiskers and then sit down and eat a big breakfast and then it would be all fun again and she would watch from the window when he went to work and just before he went out of sight he would turn around and she would wave but why wasn’t he right here now where she wanted him to be and why didn’t he come home? Ever any more. He won’t come home again ever any more. Won’t come home again ever. But he will, though, because it’s home. But why’s he not here? He’s up seeing Grampa Follet. Grampa Follet is very, very sick. But Mama didn’t feel awful then, she feels awful now. But why didn’t he come back when she said he would? He went to heaven and now Catherine could remember about heaven; that’s where God lives, way up in the sky. Why’d he do that? God took him there. But why’d he go there and not come home like Mama said? Last night Mama said he was coming home last night. We could even wait up a while and when he didn’t and we had to go to bed she promised he would come if we went to sleep and she promised he’d be here at breakfast time and now it’s breakfast time and she says he won’t come home ever any more. Now her Aunt Hannah folded her napkin, and folded it again more narrowly, and again still more narrowly, and pressed the butt end of it against her mouth, and laid it beside her plate, where it slowly and slightly unfolded, and, looking first at Rufus and then at Catherine and then back at Rufus, said quietly, “I think you ought to know about your father. Whatever I can tell you. Because your mother’s not feeling well.”

tasting each mouthful

She gave each of them a little bit of coffee in their milk and she made Rufus’ a little bit darker than hers. She didn’t say, “Eat”; “Eat you breakfast, Catherine”; “Don’t dawdle,” like Catherine’s mother; she didn’t say anything. Catherine did not feel hungry, but she felt mildly curious because things tasted so different, and she ate slowly ahead, tasting each mouthful. Everything was so still that it made Catherine feel uneasy and sad. There were little noises when a fork or spoon touched a dish; the only other noise was the very thin dry toast Aunt Hannah kept slowly crunching and the fluttering sipping of the steamy coffee with which she wet each mouthful of dry crumbs enough to swallow it. When Catherine tried to make a similar noise sipping her milk, her Aunt Hannah glanced at her sharply as if she wondered if Catherine was trying to be a smart aleck but she did not say anything. Catherine was not trying to be a smart aleck but she felt she had better not make that noise again. The fried eggs had hardly any pepper and they were so soft the yellow ran out over the white and the white plate and looked so nasty she didn’t want to eat it but she ate it because she didn’t want to be told to and because she felt there was some special reason, still, why she ought to be a good girl. She felt very uneasy, but there was nothing to do but eat, so she always took care to get a good hold on her tumbler and did not take too much on her spoon, and hardly spilled at all, and when she became aware of how little she was spilling it made her feel like a big girl and yet she did not feel any less uneasy, because she knew there was something wrong. She was not as much interested in eating as she was in the way things were, and listening carefully, looking mostly at her plate, every sound she heard and the whole quietness which was so much stronger than the sounds, meant that things were not good. What it was was that he wasn’t here. Her mother wasn’t either, but she was upstairs. He wasn’t even upstairs.

that for some reason to do with her father

“Go with Rufus, dear,” her mother said, “he’s going to help you get dressed, and eat your breakfast. Mother will see you soon.” And Catherine, feeling that for some reason to do with her father, who was not where he ought to be, and her mother too, she must try to be a very good girl, came away with him without further protest. As they turned through the door to go down, Rufus saw that his mother had taken the beads and cross from the bedside table (they were like a regular necklace) and the beads ran among her fingers and twined and drooped from her hands and one wrist while she looked so intently at the upright cross that she did not realize that she had been seen. She’d be mad if she knew, he was sure. Before he did anything about Catherine he put his cap back in the tissue paper. Then he got her clothes. “Take off your nightie,” he said. “Sopping wet,” he added, as nearly like his mother as possible. “You’re sopping wet too,” she retorted. “No, I didn’t either,” he said, “not last night.” He found that she could do a certain amount of dressing herself; she got on the panties and she nearly got her underwaist on right too, except that it was backwards. “That’s all right,” he told her, as much like his mother as he was able, you do it fine. Just a little bit crooked”; and he fixed it right. He buttoned her panties to her underwaist. It was much less easy, he found, than buttoning his own clothes. “Stand still,” he said, because to tell her so seemed only a proper part of carrying out his duty. “I am,” Catherine replied, with such firmness that he said no more. That was all that either of them said before they went down to breakfast. Chapter 21 Catherine did not like being buttoned up by Rufus or bossed around by him, and breakfast wasn’t like breakfast either. Aunt Hannah didn’t say anything and neither did Rufus and neither did she, and she felt that even if she wanted to say anything she oughtn’t. Everything was queer, it was so still and it seemed dark. Aunt Hannah sliced the banana so thin on the Post Toasties it looked cold and wet and slimy.

Neither of you will quite understand for

He could no longer hear even a rumor of the streetcar, and his mother’s breathing had become quiet again. With one hand she held Catherine still more closely against her, and Catherine sniffled a little more comfortably; with the other hand she put Rufus quietly away, so that she could look clearly into his eyes; tenderly she took off his cap and laid it beside her, and pushed the hair back from his forehead. “Neither of you will quite understand for a while,” she said. “It’s—very hard to understand. But you will,” she said (I do, he said to himself; he’s dead. That’s what) and she repeated rather dreamily, as if to herself, though she continued to look into his eyes, “You will”; then she was silent, and some kind of energy intensified in her eyes and she said: “When you want to know more—about it” (and her eyes became still more vibrant) “just, just ask me and I’ll tell you because you ought to know.” How did he get hurt, Rufus wanted to ask, but he knew by her eyes that she did not mean at all what she said, not now anyway, not this minute, he must not ask; and now he did not want to ask because he too was afraid; he nodded to let her know he understood her. “Just ask,” she said again, and he nodded again; a strange, cold excitement was rising in him; and in a cold intuition that it would be kind, and gratefully received, he kissed her. “God bless you,” she groaned, and held them passionately against herself; “both of you!” She loosened her arms. “And now you be a good boy,” she said in almost her ordinary voice, wiping Catherine’s nose. “Get little Catherine dressed, can you do that?” He nodded proudly; “and wash and dress yourself, and by then Aunt Hannah will have breakfast ready.” “Aren’t you getting up, Mama?” he asked, much impressed that he had been deputized to dress his sister. “Not for a while,” she said, and by her way of saying it, he knew that she wanted them to go out of the room right away. “Come on, Catherine,” he said, and found, with surprise, that he had taken her hand. Catherine looked up at him, equally surprised, and shook her head.

out of her left eye and slid

“Daddy,” she said, “your father, children”: and this time she caught control of her mouth more quickly, and a single tear spilled out of her left eye and slid jaggedly down all the jagged lines: “Daddy didn’t come home. He isn’t going to come home ever any more. He’s—gone away to heaven and he isn’t ever coming home again. Do you hear me, Catherine? Are you awake?” Catherine stared at her mother. “Do you understand, Rufus?” He stared at his mother. “Why not?” he asked. She looked at him with extraordinary closeness and despair, and said, “Because God wanted him.” They continued to stare at her severely and she went on: “Daddy was on his way home last night—and he was—he—got hurt and—so God let him go to sleep and took him straight away with Him to heaven.” She sank her fingers in Catherine’s springy hair and looked intently from one to the other. “Do you see, children? Do you understand?” They stared at her, and now Catherine was sharply awake. “Is Daddy dead?” Rufus asked. Her glance at him was as startled as if he had slapped her, and again her mouth and then her whole face began to work, uncontrollably this time, and she did not speak, but only nodded her head once, and then again, and then several times rapidly, while one small squeaky “yes” came out of her as if it had been sneezed out; then suddenly sweeping both of them close against her breasts, she tucked her chin down tightly between the crowns of their heads and they felt her whole body shaken as if by a wind, but she did not cry. Catherine began to sniffle quietly because everything seemed very serious and very sad. Rufus listened to his mother’s shattered breathing and gazed sidelong past her fair shoulder at the sheet, rumpled, and at a rubbed place in the rose-patterned carpet and then at something queer, that he had never seen before, on the bedside table, a tangle of brown beads and a little cross; through her breathing he began once more to hear the quarreling sparrows; he said to himself: dead, dead, but all he could do was see and hear; the streetcar raised and quieted its grim, iron cry; he became aware that his cap was pushed crooked against her and he felt that he ought to take it off but that he ought not to move just now to take it off, and he knew why his Aunt Hannah had been so mad at him.

And a few moments later he

“Wake up, Catherine!” he yelled, “Mama says wake up! Right away!” “Stobbit,” she bawled, her round, red face glaring. “Well Mama said so, Mama said so, wake up!” And a few moments later he hurried back ahead of her and hollered breathlessly, “She’s coming!” and she trailed in, two-thirds asleep, snuffling with anger, her lower lip stuck out. “Take off that cap!” his Aunt Hannah snapped with frightening sternness, and his hands only just caught it against her snatching. He was appalled by this inexplicable betrayal, and the hardness of her mouth as she struggled with self-astonishment and repentance was even more ominous. “Oh, Hannah, no, let him,” his mother said in her strange voice, “he was so crazy for Jay to see it,” and even as she said it he was surprised all over again for his aunt, whispering something inaudible, touched his cheek very gently. And now as she had done before, his mother lifted forward her hands and her kind arms. “Children, come close,” she said. Aunt Hannah went silently out of the room. “Come close”; and she touched each of them. “I want to tell you about Daddy.” But upon his name her voice shook and her whole dry-looking mouth trembled like the ash of burned paper in a draft. “Can you hear me, Catherine?” she asked, when she had recovered her voice. Catherine peered at her earnestly as if through a thick fog. “Are you waked up enough yet, my darling?” And because of her voice, in sympathy and for her protection, they both came now much nearer, and she put her arms around both of them, and they could smell her breath, a little like sauerkraut but more like a dried-up mouse. And now even more small lines like cracked china branched all over her face.

There was plenty of light to see the colors well

When he woke it was already clear daylight and the sparrows were making a great racket and his first disappointed thought was that he was too late, though he could not yet think what it was he was too late for. But something special was on his mind which made him eager and happy almost as if this were Christmas morning and within a second after waking he remembered what it was and, sitting up, his lungs stretching full with anticipation and pride, he put his hand into the crisp tissue paper with a small smashing noise and took out the cap. There was plenty of light to see the colors well; he quickly turned it around and over, and smelled of the new cloth and of the new leather band. He put it on and yanked the hill down firmly and pelted down the hallway calling “Daddy! Daddy!”, and burst through the open door into their bedroom; then brought up short in dismay, for his father was not there. But his mother lay there, propped up on two pillows as if she were sick. She looked sick, or very tired, and in her eyes she seemed to be afraid of him. Her face was full of little lines he had never seen before; they were as small as the lines in her mended best teacup. She put out her arms towards him and made in odd, kind noise. “Where’s Daddy?” he shouted imperiously ignoring her arms. “Daddy—isn’t here yet,” she told him, in a voice like hot ashes, and her arms sank down along the sheet. “Where is he, then!” he demanded, in angry disappointment, but she thrust through these words with her own: “Go wake—little Catherine and bring her straight here,” she said in a voice which puzzled him; “there’s something I must tell you both together.” He was darting his eyes everywhere for clues of his father. clothes? watch? tobacco? nightshirt? “Right away,” she said, in a desperate voice. Startled by its mysterious rebuke, and uneasy in his stomach because she had said “little Catherine,” he hurried out—and all but collided with his Aunt Hannah. Her mouth was strong and tightly pressed together beneath her glittering spectacles as she stooped, peering forward. “Hello, Aunt Hannah,” he called with astonishment, as he sped around and past her; he saw her go into the bedroom, her hair sticking out from her thin neck in two twiggy braids; he hurried to Catherine’s crib.

looked at them and began to realize

His mother made one of the funniest faces he had ever seen, looking at his father all bewildered and surprised and holding in her laughter, and his father laughed out loud but Aunt Kate didn’t wake up. “Just like Catherine,” his mother whispered, laughing, and they all looked at Catherine, who was staring out at the mountains and looking very heavy and earnest; and they laughed and Catherine looked at them and began to realize they were laughing at her, and that made her face get red and that made them laugh some more, and even Rufus joined in, and they only stopped when Catherine began to stick out her lower lip and her mother said, “Mercy, child, you’ve got to learn to take a joke.” But her father said, “Doesn’t anybody like to be laughed at,” and took her on his lap, and she pulled her lip in and looked out the window again. Now they could even see the separate trees all over the sides of the mountains like rice, all shades of green and some almost black, and before much longer they were climbing more slowly past the feathery tops of trees and the high shoulders of the mountains and the great deep scoops were turning past them and beneath them as if they were very slowly and seriously dancing in sunlight and in cloud and in shadows almost of night, and now and then they could see a tiny cabin and a corn patch far off on the side of a mountain, and twice they even saw a tinier mule and a man with it, one of the men waved; and high above them in the changing sunlight, slowest of all, the tops of the mountains twisted and changed places. And after quite a while his father said he reckoned they better start getting their stuff together, and before much longer they got off. That night at supper when Rufus asked for more cheese Uncle Ted said, “Whistle to it and it’ll jump off the table into your lap.” “Ted!” his mother said. But Rufus was delighted. He did not know very well how to whistle yet, but he did his best, watching the cheese very carefully: it didn’t jump of the table into his lap; it didn’t even move. “Try some more,” Uncle Ted said. “Try harder.” “Ted!” his mother said.

there was a grand great lift of grayish blue

His father and Uncle Ted spent a good deal of time in the smoking car, to smoke, and to make more room. It got hot and dull. But after quite a while his father came hurrying back down the aisle and told his mother to look out the window and she did and said, “Well what?” and he said, “No—up ahead,” and they all three looked up ahead and there on the sky above the scrubby hill, there was a grand great lift of grayish blue that looked as if you could see the light through it, and then the train took a long curve and these liftings of gray blue opened out like a fan and filled the whole country ahead, shouldering above each other high and calm and full of shadowy light, so that he heard his mother say, “Ohhh! How perfectly glorious!”, and his father say shyly, a little as if he owned them and was giving them to her, “That’s them. That’s the Smokies all right,” and sure enough they did look smoky, and as they came nearer, smoke and great shadows seemed to be sailing around on them, but he knew that must be clouds. After a while he could begin to see the shapes of them clearly, great bronzy bulges that looked as if they were blown up tight like balloons, and solemn deep scoops of shady blue that ran from the tops on down below the tops of the near hills, deeper than he could see. “They’re just like huge waves, Jay,” his mother said with awe. “That’s right,” he said; “you remember?” “Sure I do,” he said; “just like seeing sunlight striking through waves, just before they topple.” “Yeah,” his father said. “Kate mustn’t miss this,” his mother said; “Kate!” and she took Aunt Kate by the shoulder. “Sssh!” his father hissed, and he frowned. “Let her alone!” But Aunt Kate was already waked up, though she was still very sleepy, wondering what it was all about. “Just look, Kate,” his mother said. “Out there!” Aunt Kate looked. “See?” his mother said. “Yes,” Aunt Kate said. “That’s where we’re going,” his mother said. “Yes,” Aunt Kate said. “Aren’t they grand?” his mother said. “Yes,” Aunt Kate said. “Well I think they’re absolutely breathtaking,” his mother said. “So do I,” Aunt Kate said, and went back to sleep.

A man came for them in an auto because

But there wasn’t any bird in the picture. His father said he reckoned it was still out snipe-hunting. They weren’t really his uncle and aunt, it was like Aunt Celia. Just a friend. But Aunt Kate was a kind of cousin. She was Aunt Carrie’s daughter and Aunt Carrie was Granma’s half-sister. You were a half-sister if you had the same father or mother but not the same other one, and they had the same mother. They slept on the brand-new davenport in the sitting room. Next morning before daylight they all got up and went to the L&N depot. A man came for them in an auto because there was no streetcar to the L&N. They had so much to carry that even he was given a box to carry. They sat in the big room and it was full of people. His mother told his Uncle Ted she liked it better than the Southern depot because there were so many country folks and his father said he did too. It smelled like chewing tobacco and pee, and like a barn. Some of the ladies wore sunbonnets and lots of the men wore old straw hats, not the flat kind. One lady was nursing her baby. They had a long time to wait for their train; his father said, “Count on Mary and you won’t never miss a train, but you may get the one the day before you aimed to,” and his mother said, “Jay,” and Uncle Ted laughed; so he heard the man call several trains in his fine, echoing voice, and finally he started calling out a string of stations and his father got up saying, “That’s us,” and they got everything together and as soon as the man called the track they hurried fast, so they got two seats and turned them to face each other, and afterwhile the train pulled out and it was already broad daylight. The older people were all kind of sleepy and didn’t talk much, though they pretended to, and afterwhile Aunt Kate dropped off to sleep and leaned her head against his mother’s shoulder and the men laughed and his mother smiled and said, “Let her, the dear.” The news butcher came through and in spite of his mother, Uncle Ted bought him a glass locomotive with little bright-colored pieces of candy inside and Catherine a glass telephone with the same kind of candy inside, which his father had never done.

and the cold sweet breath of

And again he leaned into the cold fragrant cavern next her ear and said, “I’m Jay’s boy Rufus,” and he could feel her face turn towards him. “Now kiss her,” his father said, and he drew out of the shadow of her bonnet and leaned far over and again entered the shadow and kissed her paper mouth, and the mouth opened, and the cold sweet breath of rotting and of spice broke from her with the dry croaking, and he felt the hands take him by the shoulders like knives and forks of ice through his clothes. She drew him closer and looked at him almost glaring, she was so filled with grave intensity. She seemed to be sucking on her lower lip and her eyes filled with light, and then, as abruptly as if the two different faces had been joined without transition in a strip of moving-picture film, she was not serious any more but smiling so hard that her chin and her nose almost touched and her deep little eyes giggled for joy. And again the croaking gurgle came, making shapes which were surely words but incomprehensible words, and she held him even more tightly by the shoulders, and looked at him even more keenly and incredulously with her giggling, all but hidden eyes, and smiled and smiled, and cocked her head to one side, and with sudden love he kissed her again. And he could hear his mother’s voice say, “Jay,” almost whispering, and his father say, “Let her be,” in a quick, soft, angry voice, and when at length they gently disengaged her hands, and he was at a little distance, he could see that there was water crawling along the dust from under her chair, and his father and his Aunt Sadie looked gentle and sad and dignified, and his mother was trying not to show that she was crying, and the old lady sat there aware only that something had been taken from her, but growing quickly calm, and nobody said anything about it. Chapter 19 Late one afternoon Uncle Ted and Aunt Kate came, all the way from Michigan. Aunt Kate had red hair. Uncle Ted had glasses and he could make faces. They brought him a book and what he liked best was a picture of a fat man with a cloth around his head, sitting on a tasseled cushion with a long snakey tube in his mouth, and it said:   There was a fat man of Bombay Who was smoking his pipe one fine day    When a bird called a snipe    Flew away with his pipe, Which vexed that fat man of Bombay.  

He has given paper in your name to

"Oh! cursed inconsistency: and you have now fallen back upon the last resource, to save a name that, once gone, cannot reinstate itself. Tell me, Marco Graspum; are you not implicated in this affair? Your name stands full of dark implications; are you not following up one of those avenues through which you make so many victims? What is the amount?" returned Marston. "You will know that to-morrow. He has given paper in your name to an uncertain extent. You should have known this before. Your nephew has been leading a reckless gambler's life-spending whatsoever money came into his possession, and at length giving bills purporting to be drawn by you and his father. You must now honour them, or dishonour him. You see, I am straightforward in business: all my transactions are conducted with promptness; but I must have what is due to me. I have a purpose in all my transactions, and I pursue them to the end. You know the purport of this document, Marston; save yourself trouble, and do not allow me to call too often." Thus saying, he took his hat and left the room. Uncle," said Lorenzo, as soon as Graspum had left, "I have been led into difficulty. First led away by fashionable associations, into the allurements with which our city is filled, from small vices I have been hurried onward, step by step, deeper and deeper, until now I have arrived at the dark abyss. Those who have watched me through each sin, been my supposed friends, and hurried me onwards to this sad climax, have proved my worst enemies. I have but just learned the great virtue of human nature,--mistrust him who would make pleasure of vice. I have ruined my father, and have involved you by the very act which you have committed for my relief to-night. In my vain struggle to relieve myself from the odium which must attach to my transactions, I have only added to your sorrows. I cannot ask you to forgive me, nor can I disclose all my errors-they are manifold."

and commences dilating upon his leniency

There he was, the heartless dealer in human flesh, dressed in the garb of a gentleman, and by many would have been taken as such. Care and anxiety sat upon his countenance; he watched the chances of the flesh market, stood ready to ensnare the careless youth, to take advantage of the frailer portions of a Southerner's noble nature. "A word or two with you, Mr. Marston," said he. "Sit down, Graspum, sit down," Marston rejoined, ordering Dandy to give him a chair; which being done he seats himself in front of Marston, and commences dilating upon his leniency. "You may take me for an importune feller, in coming this time o'night, but the fact is I've been-you know my feelings for helpin' everybody-good-naturedly drawn into a very bad scrape with this careless young nephew of yourn: he's a dashing devil, and you don't know it, he is. But I've stood it so long that I was compelled to make myself sure. This nephew of yourn," said he, turning to Lorenzo, "thinks my money is made for his gambling propensities, and if he has used your name improperly, you should have known of it before." At this Lorenzo's fine open countenance assumed a glow of indignation, and turning to his uncle, with a nervous tremor, he said, "Uncle, he has led me into this trouble. You know not the snares of city life; and were I to tell you him-this monster-yea, I say monster, for he has drawn me into a snare like one who was seeking to devour my life-that document, uncle, which he now holds in his hand saves me from a shame and disgrace which I never could have withstood before the world." "Ah! you are just like all gamblers: never consider yourself in the light of bringing yourself into trouble. Take my advice, young man; there is a step in a gambler's life to which it is dangerous to descend, and if you have brought your father and uncle into trouble, blame neither me nor my money," returned Graspum. "You do not say that there is forgery connected with this affair, do you?" inquired Marston, grasping Lorenzo by the arm. "I wish it were otherwise, uncle," replied Lorenzo, leaning forward upon the table and covering his face with his hands. "It was my folly, and the flattery of this man, which have driven me to it," he continued.

Taking a few steps towards a window

Just as they were making preparations to retire, a carriage drove to the gate, and in the next minute a dashing young fellow came rushing into the house, apparently in great anxiety. He was followed by a well-dressed man, whose countenance and sharp features, full of sternness, indicated much mechanical study. He hesitated as the young man advanced, took Marston by the hand, nervously, led him aside, whispered something in his ear. Taking a few steps towards a window, the intruder, for such he seemed, stood almost motionless, with his eyes firmly and watchfully fixed upon them, a paper in his right hand. "It is too often, Lorenzo; these things may prove fatal," said Marston, giving an inquiring glance at the man, still standing at the window. "I pledge you my honour, uncle, it shall be the last time," said the young stranger. "Uncle, I have not forgotten your advice." Marston, much excited, exhibited changes of countenance peculiar to a man labouring under the effect of sudden disappointment. Apologising to his guests, he dismissed them-with the exception of Maxwell-ordered pen and ink, drew a chair to the table, and without asking the stranger to be seated, signed his name to a paper. While this was being done, the man who had waited in silence stepped to the door and admitted two gentlemanly-looking men, who approached Marston and authenticated the instrument. It was evident there was something of deep importance associated with Marston's signature. No sooner had his pen fulfilled the mission, than Lorenzo's face, which had just before exhibited the most watchful anxiety, lighted up with joy, as if it had dismantled its care for some new scene of worldly prosperity. Chapter 4 An Unexpected Confession HAVING executed the document, Marston ordered one of the servants to show Maxwell his room. The persons who had acted the part of justices, authenticating the instrument, withdrew without further conversation; while the person who had followed Lorenzo, for such was the young man's name, remained as if requiring some further negotiation with Marston. He approached the table sullenly, and with one hand resting upon it, and the other adjusted in his vest, deliberately waited the moment to interrupt the conversation. This man, reader, is Marco Graspum, an immense dealer in human flesh,--great in that dealing in the flesh and blood of mankind which brings with it all the wickedness of the demon. It is almost impossible to conceive the suddenness with which that species of trade changes man into a craving creature, restless for the dross of the world.

you have been giving us a

"Stop, Harry," says Marston, interrupting him in a point of his discourse: then turning to his guests, he inquired, with a look of ridicule, "Gentlemen, what have you got to say against such preaching? Elder, you old snoring Christian, you have lost all the best of it. Why didn't you wake up before?" "Verri-ly, truly! ah, indeed: you have been giving us a monkey-show with your nigger, I suppose. I thought I'd lost nothing; you should remember, Marston, there's a future," said the Elder, winking and blinking sardonically. "Yes, old boosey," Marston replies, with an air of indifference, "and you should remember there's a present, which you may lose your way in. That venerable sermon won't keep you straight-" The Elder is extremely sensitive on this particular point-anything but speak disparagingly of that sermon. It has been his stock in trade for numerous years. He begs they will listen to him for a minute, excuse this little trifling variation, charge it to the susceptibility of his constitution. He is willing to admit there is capital in his example which may be used for bad purposes, and says, "Somehow, when I take a little, it don't seem to go right." Again he gives a vacant look at his friends, gets up, resting his hands on the table, endeavours to keep a perpendicular, but declares himself so debilitated by his sleep that he must wait a little longer. Sinking back upon the settee, he exclaims, "You had better send that nigger to his cabin." This was carrying the amusement a little beyond Marston's own "gauge," and it being declared time to adjourn, preparations were made to take care of the Elder, who was soon placed horizontally in a waggon and driven away for his home. "The Elder is gone beyond himself, beyond everything," said Marston, as they carried him out of the door. "You can go, Harry, I like your preaching; bring it down to the right system for my property, and I'll make a dollar or two out of it yet," he whispers, shaking his head, as Harry, bowing submissively, leaves the door.

him that he had lost the

Harry, in accordance with Bob's advice, chose the latter text. For some minutes he expounded the power of divine inspiration, in his simple but impressive manner, being several times interrupted by the Deacon, who assumed the right of correcting his philosophy. At length, Marston interrupted, reminding him that he had lost the "plantation gauge." "You must preach according to the Elder's rule," said he. With a submissive stare, Harry replied: "Mas'r, a man what lives fo'h dis world only is a slave to himself; but God says, he dat lives fo'h de world to come, is the light of life coming forth to enjoy the pleasures of eternity;" and again he burst into a rhapsody of eloquence, to the astonishment and admiration of Maxwell, and even touching the feelings of Marston, who was seldom moved by such displays. Seeing the man in the thing of merchandise, he inclined to look upon him as a being worthy of immortality; and yet it seemed next to impossible that he should bring his natural feelings to realise the simple nobleness that stood before him,--the man beyond the increase of dollars and cents in his person! The coloured winter's hand leaned against the mantel-piece, watching the changes in Marston's countenance, as Daddy stood at Harry's side, in patriarchal muteness. A tear stealing down Maxwell's cheek told of the sensation produced; while Marston, setting his elbow on the table, supported his head in his hands, and listened. The Deacon, good man that he was, filled his glass,--as if to say, "I don't stand nigger preaching." As for the Elder, his pishes and painful gurglings, while he slept, were a source of much annoyance. Awaking suddenly-raising himself to a half-bent position-he rubs his little eyes, adjusts his spectacles on his nose, stares at Harry with surprise, and then, with quizzical demeanour, leaves us to infer what sort of a protest he is about to enter. He, however, thinks it better to say nothing.

I want you to tell me the truth

"Daddy's worth his weight in gold," continues Marston, "and can do as much work as any nigger on the plantation, if he is old." "No, no, mas'r; I ain't so good what I was. Bob can't tote so much wid de hoe now. I work first-rate once, mas'r, but 'a done gone now!" "Now, Bob, I want you to tell me the truth,--niggers will lie, but you are an exception, Bob; and can tell the truth when there's no bacon in the way." "Gih! Mas'r, I do dat sartin," replied Bob, laughing heartily, and pulling up the little piece of shirt that peeped out above the collar of his jacket. "How did Harry and you come by so much knowledge of the Bible? you got one somewhere, hav'n't you?" enquired Marston, laconically. This was rather a "poser" on Bob; and, after stammering and mumbling for some time-looking at Harry slyly, then at Marston, and again dropping his eyes on the floor, he ejaculated, "Well, mas'r, 'spose I might as well own 'im. Harry and me got one, for sartin!" "Ah, you black rascals, I knew you had one somewhere. Where did you get it? That's some of Miss Franconia's doings." "Can't tell you, mas'r, whar I got him; but he don't stop my hoein' corn, for' true." Franconia had observed Harry's tractableness, and heard him wish for a Bible, that he might learn to read from it,--and she had secretly supplied him with one. Two years Harry and Daddy Bob had spent hours of the night in communion over it; the latter had learned to read from it, the former had imbibed its great truths. The artless girl had given it to them in confidence, knowing its consolatory influences and that they, with a peculiar firmness in such cases, would never betray her trust. Bob would not have refused his master any other request; but he would never disclose the secret of Miss Franconia giving it. "Well, my old faithful," said Marston, "we want you to put the sprit into Harry; we want to hear a sample of his preaching. Now, Harry, you can begin; give it big eloquence, none of the new fashion preaching, give us the old plantation break-down style."

and going north to join the abolitionists

"I'll bet the rascal's got a Bible, or a Prayer-book, hid up somewhere. He and old Daddy Bob are worse on religion than two old coons on a fowl-yard," said Marston. Here old Aunt Rachel entered the room to fuss around a little, and have a pleasant meeting with mas'r's guests. Harry smiled at Marston's remark, and turned his eyes upward, as much as to say, "a day will come when God's Word will not thus be turned into ridicule!" "And he's made such a good old Christian of this dark sinner, Aunt Rachel, that I wouldn't take two thousand dollars for her. I expect she'll be turning preacher next, and going north to join the abolitionists." "Mas'r," said Rachel, "'t wouldn't do to mind what you say. Neber mind, you get old one ob dese days; den you don't make so much fun ob old Rachel." "Shut up your corn-trap," Marston says, smiling; and turning to his guests, continues-"You hear that, gentlemen; she talks just as she pleases, directs my household as if she were governor." Again, Aunt Rachel, summoning her dignity, retorts, "Not so, Mas'r Deacon, (turning to Deacon Rosebrook,) "'t won't square t' believe all old Boss tell, dat it won't! Mas'r take care ob de two cabins in de yard yonder, while I tends de big house." Rachel was more than a match for Marston; she could beat him in quick retort. The party, recognising Aunt Rachel's insinuation, joined in a hearty laugh. The conversation was a little too pointed for Marston, who, changing the subject, turned to Harry, saying, "now, my old boy, we'll have a little more of your wisdom on religious matters." Harry had been standing the while like a forlorn image, with a red cap in his hand. "I can preach, mas'r; I can do dat, fo'h true," he replied quickly. "But mas'r, nigger got to preach against his colour; Buckra tink nigger preachin' ain't good, cus he black." "Never mind that, Harry," interrupts Marston: "We'll forget the nigger, and listen just as if it were all white. Give us the very best specimen of it. Daddy Bob, my old patriarch, must help you; and after you get through, he must lift out by telling us all about the time when General Washington landed in the city; and how the people spread carpets, at the landing, for him to walk upon." The entertainment was, in Marston's estimation, quite a recherché concern: that his guests should be the better pleased, the venerable old Daddy Bob, his head white with goodly years of toil, and full of genuine negro humour, steps forward to perform his part. He makes his best bows, his best scrapes, his best laughs; and says, "Bob ready to do anything to please mas'r." He pulls the sleeves of his jacket, looks vacantly at Harry, is proud to be in the presence of mas'r's guests. He tells them he is a better nigger "den" Harry, points to his extremes, which are decorated with a pair of new russet broghans.

just to amuse them while the Elder is taking a nap

"Then you don't believe in a one-sided sermon, Harry?" returned the deacon, while Marston and Maxwell sat enjoying the negro's simple opinion of the Elder's sermon. "No, mas'r. What the Bible teach me is to lob de Lor'-be good myself, and set example fo'h oders. I an't what big white Christian say must be good, wen 'e neber practice him,--but I good in me heart when me tink what de Lor' say be good. Why, mas'r, Elder preach dat sarmon so many Sundays, dat a' forgot him three times, since me know 'im ebery word," said Harry; and his face began to fill with animation and fervency. "Well, now, Harry, I think you are a little too severe on the Elder's sermon; but if you know so much about it, give these gentlemen a small portion of it, just to amuse them while the Elder is taking a nap," said Marston. "Ay, mas'r, be nap dat way too often for pious man what say he lobe de Lor'," replied Harry; and drawing himself into a tragic attitude, making sundry gesticulations, and putting his hand to his forehead, commenced with the opening portion of the Elder's sermon. "And it was said-Servants obey your masters, for that is right in the sight of the Lord," and with a style of native eloquence, and rich cantation, he continued for about ten minutes, giving every word, seriatim, of the Elder's sermon; and would have kept it up, in word and action, to the end, had he not been stopped by Marston. All seemed astonished at his power of memory. Maxwell begged that he might be allowed to proceed. "He's a valuable fellow, that-eh?" said Marston. "He'll be worth three-sixteenths of a rise on cotton to all the planters in the neighbourhood, by-and-by. He's larned to read, somehow, on the sly-isn't it so, Harry? come, talk up!" "Yes, mas'r, I larn dat when you sleepin'; do Lor' tell me his spirit warn't in dat sarmon what de Elder preach,--dat me must sarch de good book, and make me own tinking valuable. Mas'r tink ignorant nigger lob him best, but t'ant so, mas'r. Good book make heart good, and make nigger love de Lor', and love mas'r too."

and what you can do in the way of

The door again opened, and another clever-looking old negro, anxious to say "how de do" to mas'r and his visitors, made his appearance, bowing, and keeping time with his foot. "Oh, here's my old daddy-old Daddy Bob, one of the best old niggers on the plantation; Harry and Bob are my deacons. There,--stand there, Harry; tell these gentlemen,--they are right glad to see you,--what you know about Elder Praiseworthy's sermon, and what you can do in the way of preaching," says Marston, laughing good-naturedly. "Rather a rough piece of property to make a preacher of," muttered Maxwell. The poor fellow's feet were encrusted as hard as an alligator's back; and there he stood, a picture upon which the sympathies of Christendom were enlisted-a human object without the rights of man, in a free republic. He held a red cap in his left hand, a pair of coarse osnaburg trousers reached a few inches below his knees, and, together with a ragged shirt of the same material, constituted his covering. "You might have dressed yourself before you appeared before gentlemen from abroad-at least, put on your new jacket," said Marston. "Why, mas'r, t'ant de clothes. God neber make Christian wid'e his clothes on;-den, mas'r, I gin' my new jacket to Daddy Bob. But neber mind him, mas'r-you wants I to tell you what I tinks ob de Lor. I tink great site ob the Bible, mas'r, but me don' tink much ob Elder's sermon, mas'r." "How is that, Harry?" interrupted the deacon. "Why, Mas'r Deacon, ye sees how when ye preaches de good tings ob de Lor', ye mus'nt 'dulge in 'e wicked tings on 'arth. A'h done want say Mas'r Elder do dem tings-but 'e seem to me t' warn't right wen 'e join de wickedness ob de world, and preach so ebery Sunday. He may know de varse, and de chapter, but 'e done preach what de Lor' say, nohow."

if my fellow Harry could do the

Deacon Rosebrook listened attentively to this part of Marston's discourse. "The task of proving your theory would be rendered difficult if you were to transcend upon the scale of blood," he replied, getting up and spreading his handkerchief over the Elder's face, to keep off the mosquitoes. "When our most learned divines and philosophers are the stringent supporters of the principle, what should make the task difficult? Nevertheless, I admit, if my fellow Harry could do the preaching for our plantation, no objections would be interposed by me; on the contrary, I could make a good speculation by it. Harry would be worth two common niggers then. Nigger property, christianised, is the most valuable of property. You may distinguish a christianised nigger in a moment; and piety takes the stubborn out of their composition better than all the cowhides you can employ; and, too, it's a saving of time, considering that it subdues so much quicker," says Marston, stretching back in his chair, as he orders Dandy to bring Harry into his presence. He will tell them what he knows about preaching, the Elder's sermon, and the Bible! Maxwell smiles at such singularly out of place remarks on religion. They are not uncommon in the south, notwithstanding. A few minutes elapsed, when Dandy opened the door, and entered the room, followed by a creature-a piece of property!-in which the right of a soul had been disputed, not alone by Marston, but by southern ministers and southern philosophers. The thing was very good- looking, very black;-it had straight features, differing from the common African, and stood very erect. We have said he differed from the common African-we mean, as he is recognised through our prejudices. His forehead was bold and well-developed-his hair short, thick and crispy, eyes keen and piercing, cheeks regularly declining into a well-shaped mouth and chin. Dejected and forlorn, the wretch of chance stood before them, the fires of a burning soul glaring forth from his quick, wandering eyes. "There!" exclaimed Marston. "See that," pointing at his extremes; "he has foot enough for a brick-maker, and a head equal to a deacon-no insinuation, my friend," bowing to Deacon Rosebrook. "They say it takes a big head to get into Congress; but I'm afraid, Harry, I'd never get there."

it would'nt suit him by fifty per cent

Marston shrugs his shoulders, whispers a word or two in the ear of his friend Maxwell, twirls his glass upon the table. He is somewhat cautious how he gives an opinion on such matters, having previously read one or two law books; but believes it does'nt portray all things just right. He has studied ideal good-at least he tells us so-if he never practises it; finally, he is constrained to admit that this 'ere's all very well once in a while, but becomes tiresome--especially when kept up as strong as the Elder does it. He is free to confess that southern mankind is curiously constituted, too often giving license to revelries, but condemning those who fall by them. He feels quite right about the Elder's preaching being just the chime for his nigger property; but, were he a professing Christian, it would'nt suit him by fifty per cent. There is something between the mind of a "nigger" and the mind of a white man,--something he can't exactly analyse, though he is certain it is wonderfully different; and though such preaching can do niggers no harm, he would just as soon think of listening to Infidelity. Painful as it was to acknowledge the fact, he only appeared at the "Meet'n House" on Sundays for the looks of the thing, and in the hope that it might have some influence with his nigger property. Several times he had been heard to say it was mere machine-preaching-made according to pattern, delivered according to price, by persons whose heads and hearts had no sympathy with the downcast. "There's my prime fellow Harry; a right good fellow, worth nine hundred, nothing short, and he is a Christian in conscience. He has got a kind of a notion into his head about being a divine. He thinks, in the consequence of his black noddle, that he can preach just as well as anybody; and, believe me, he can't read a letter in the book,--at least, I don't see how he can. True, he has heard the Elder's sermon so often that he has committed every word of it to memory,--can say it off like a plantation song, and no mistake." Thus Marston discoursed. And yet he declared that nobody could fool him with the idea of "niggers" having souls: they were only mortal,--he would produce abundant proof, if required.

There could be no better proof of how

"Well, my opinion is, Elder, that if you get my nigger property into heaven with your preaching, there'll be a chance for the likes of me," said Marston, watching the Elder intently. It was now evident the party were all becoming pretty deeply tinctured. Rosebrook thought a minister of the gospel, to get in such a condition, and then refer to religious matters, must have a soul empty to the very core. There could be no better proof of how easily true religion could be brought into contempt. The Elder foreclosed with the spirit, considered himself unsafe in the chair, and was about to relieve it, when Dandy caught him in his arms like a lifeless mass, and carried him to a settee, upon which he spread him, like a substance to be bleached in the sun. "Gentlemen! the Elder is completely unreverenced,-he is the most versatile individual that ever wore black cloth. I reverence him for his qualities," says Marston: then, turning to Maxwell, he continued, "you must excuse this little joviality; it occurs but seldom, and the southern people take it for what it is worth, excusing, or forgetting its effects." "Don't speak of it-it's not unlike our English do at times-nor do our ministers form exceptions; but they do such things under a monster protection, without reckoning the effect," the Englishman replied, looking round as if he missed the presence of Franconia. The Elder, soon in a profound sleep, was beset by swarms of mosquitoes preying upon his haggard face, as if it were good food. "He's a pretty picture," says Marston, looking upon the sleeping Elder with a frown, and then working his fingers through his crispy red hair. "A hard subject for the student's knife he'll make, won't he?" To add to the comical appearance of the reverend gentleman, Marston, rising from his seat, approached him, drew the spectacles from his pocket, and placed them on the tip of his nose, adding piquancy to his already indescribable physiognomy. "Don't you think this is carrying the joke a point too far?" asked Deacon Rosebrook, who had been some time silently watching the prostrate condition of Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy.

reminding him how backward he is

The wine-cup flows freely; the Elder dips deeply-as he declares it choice. Temperance being unpopular in the south, it is little regarded at Marston's mansion. As for Marston himself, he is merely preparing the way to play facetious jokes on the Elder, whose arm he touches every few minutes, reminding him how backward he is in replenishing his glass. Not at all backward in such matters, the Elder fills up, asks the pleasure of drinking his very good health, and empties the liquid into the safest place nearest at hand. Repeated courses have their effect; Marston is pleased, the Elder is mellow. With muddled sensibilities his eyes glare wildly about the table, and at every fresh invitation to drink he begs pardon for having neglected his duty, fingers the ends of his cravat, and deposits another glass,-certainly the very last. Franconia, perceiving her uncle's motive, begs to be excused, and is escorted out of the room. Mr. Praiseworthy, attempting to get a last glass of wine to his lips without spilling, is quite surprised that the lady should leave. He commences descanting on his own fierce enmity to infidelity and catholicism. He would that everybody rose up and trampled them into the dust; both are ruinous to negro property. Marston coolly suggests that the Elder is decidedly uncatholicised. "Elder," interrupted Deacon Rosebrook, touching him on the shoulder, "you are modestly undone-that is, very respectably sold to your wine." "Yes," rejoined Marston; "I would give an extra ten dollars to hear him preach a sermon to my niggers at this moment." "Villainous inconsistency!" exclaimed the Elder, in an indistinct voice, his eyes half closed, and the spectacles gradually falling from his nose. "You are scandalising my excellent character, which can't be replaced with gold." Making another attempt to raise a glass of wine to his lips, as he concluded, he unconsciously let the contents flow into his bosom, instead of his mouth.

it shall be in the cause of the

"Oh! oh! oh! Elder," interrupted Marston, "pledge something valuable." "To me, my faith is the most sacred thing in the world. I will-as I was going to say-preach to your moulding and necessities. Pay for it, and, on my word, it shall be in the cause of the South! With the landmarks from my planter customers, I will follow to their liking," continues Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy, not a smile on his hard face. Deacon Rosebrook thinks it is well said. Pay is the great desideratum in everything. The Elder, though not an uncommon southern clergyman, is the most versatile preacher to be met with in a day's walk. Having a wonderful opinion of nigger knowledge, he preaches to it in accordance, receiving good pay and having no objection to the wine. "Well, Gentlemen," Marston remarks, coolly, "I think the Elder has borne our jokes well; we will now go and moisten our lips. The elder likes my old Madeira-always passes the highest compliments upon it." Having sallied about the plantation, we return to the mansion, where Dandy, Enoch, and Sam-three well-dressed mulattoes-their hair frizzed and their white aprons looking so bright, meet us at the veranda, and bow us back into the parlour, as we bear our willing testimony of the prospects of the crop. With scraping of feet, grins, and bows, they welcome us back, smother us with compliments, and seem overwilling to lavish their kindness. From the parlour they bow us into a long room in the right wing, its walls being plain boarded, and well ventilated with open seams. A table is spread with substantial edibles,-such as ham, bacon, mutton, and fish. These represent the southern planter's fare, to which he seldom adds those pastry delicacies with which the New Englander is prone to decorate his table. The party become seated as Franconia graces the festive board with her presence, which, being an incentive of gallantry, preserves the nicest decorum, smooths the conversation.

It has lasted seven years

"I preach my sermon,-who can do more?" the Elder rejoins, with seeming concern for his honour. "I thought we came to view the plantation?" "Yes, true; but our little repartee cannot stop our sight. You preach your sermon, Elder,--that is, you preach what there is left of it. It is one of the best-used sermons ever manufactured. It would serve as a model for the most stale Oxonian. Do you think you could write another like it? It has lasted seven years, and served the means of propitiating the gospel on seven manors. Can they beat that in your country?" says Marston, again turning to the young Englishmam, and laughing at the Elder, who was deliberately taking off his glasses to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. "Our ministers have a different way of patching up old sermons; but I'm not quite sure about their mode of getting them," the young man replies, takes Deacon Rosebrook's arm, and walks ahead. "The Elder must conform to the doctrines of the South; but they say he bets at the race-course, which is not an uncommon thing for our divines," rejoins the Deacon, facetiously. The Elder, becoming seriously inclined, thinks gentlemen had better avoid personalities. Personalities are not tolerated in the South, where gentlemen are removed far above common people, and protect themselves by the code duello. He will expose Marston. Marston's good capon sides are proof against jokes. He may crack on, that individual says. "My friend," interposed the Elder, "you desired me to preach to your niggers in one style and for one purpose,-according to the rule of labour and submission. Just such an one as your niggers would think the right stripe, I preached, and it made your niggers wonder and gape. I'll pledge you my religious faith I can preach a different-"

presentation would have supposed that

"Should Our Girls Become Artists' Models" was one of their early and inspired collaborations, a series begun with a line of "beauty pictures" and spun out by interviews with well or less known painters and illustrators, giving rich opportunity for displays of nudity, the moral being pointed by equally lavish interviews with sociologists and prominent Mothers in Israel. Although at least ninety-nine per cent of all professional posing is such as would not be out of place at a church sociable, the casual reader of the Capron-Severance presentation would have supposed that a lace veil was the extent of the protection allowed to a female model between sheer nakedness and the outer artistic world. Following this came a department devoted (ostensibly) to physical culture for women. It was conducted by the proprietress of a fashionable reducing gymnasium, who was allowed, as this was a comparatively unimportant feature, to supply the text subject to Severance's touching-up ingenuity; but the models were devised and posed by Capron. They were extremely shapely and increasingly expressive in posture and arrangement until they attained a point where the post-office authorities evinced symptoms of rising excitement--though not the type of excitement at which the Art Expert was aiming--when the series took a turn for the milder, and more purely athletic, and, by the same token, less appetizing; and presently faded away in a burst of semi-editorial self-laudation over The Patriot's altruistic endeavors to improve the physical status of the "future mothers of the nation." Failing any other excuse for their careful lubricities, the team could always conjure up an enticing special feature from an imaginary foreign correspondent, aimed direct at the family circle and warning against the "Moral Pitfalls of Paris," or the "Vampires of High Life in Vienna." The invariable rule was that all sex-stuff must have a moral and virtuous slant. Thus was afforded to the appreciative reader a double satisfaction, physical and ethical, pruriency and piety. It was Capron who devised the simple but effective legend which afterward became, in a thousand variants, a stock part of every news item interesting enough to merit graphic treatment, "The X Marks the Spot Where the Body Was Found." He, too, adapted, from a design in a drug-store window picturing a sponge fisherman in action, the cross-section illustration for news. Within a few weeks he had displaced the outdated art editor and was in receipt of a larger salary than the city editor, who dealt primarily in news, not sensations, _panem_ not _circenses_.

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I bagged it from the Police Gazette

"No." "You're certainly specializing on femaleness." "For the men. Not the women. It's an old lure." Banneker frowned. "And not a pretty one." "Effective, though. I bagged it from the Police Gazette. Have you ever had occasion to note the almost unvarying cover appeal of that justly popular weekly?" "Half-dressed women," said Banneker, whose early researches had extended even to those levels. "Exactly. With all they connote. Thereby attracting the crude and roving male eye. Of course, we must do the trick more artistically and less obviously. But the pictured effect is the thing. I'm satisfied of that. By the way, I am having a little difficulty with your art department. Your man doesn't adapt himself to new ideas." "I've thought him rather old-fashioned. What do you want to do?" "Bring in a young chap named Capron whom I've run upon. He used to be an itinerant photographer, and afterward had a try at the movies, but he's essentially a news man. Let him read the papers for pictures." Capron came on the staff as an insignificant member with an insignificant salary. Personally a man of blameless domesticity, he was intellectually and professionally a sex-monger. He conceived the business of a news art department to be to furnish pictured Susannahs for the delectation of the elders of the reading public. His _flair_ for femininity he transferred to The Patriot's pages, according to a simple and direct formula; the greater the display of woman, the surer the appeal and therefore the sale. Legs and bosoms he specialized for in illustrations. Bathing-suits and boudoir scenes were his particular aim, although any picture with a scandal attachment in the accompanying news would serve, the latter, however, to be handled in such manner as invariably to point a moral. Herein his team work with Severance was applied in high perfection.

objected the other in his gentle

"You two aren't getting anywhere with all this chatter," growled the reference. "Come, Severance; talk turkey, as you did to me." "I don't want to talk," objected the other in his gentle, scholarly accents. "I want to look about: to diagnose the trouble in the news department." "What do you suspect the trouble to be?" asked Banneker. "Oh, the universal difficulty. Lack of brains." Banneker laughed, but without relish. "We pay enough for what we've got. It ought to be good quality." "You pay not wisely but too well. My own princely emolument as a prop of piety is thirty-five dollars a week." "Would you come here at that figure?" "I should prefer forty. For a period of six weeks, on trial." "As Mr. Edmonds seems to think it worth the gamble, I'll take you on. From to-day, if you wish. Go out and look around." "Wait a minute," interposed Edmonds. "What's his title? How is his job to be defined?" "Call him my representative in the news department. I'll pay his salary myself. If he makes good, I'll more than get it back." Mr. Severance's first concern appeared to be to make himself popular. In the anomalous position which he occupied as representative between two mutually jealous departments, this was no easy matter. But his quiet, contained courtesy, his tentative, almost timid, way of offering suggestions or throwing out hints which subsequently proved to have definite and often surprising value, his retiring willingness to waive any credit in favor of whosoever might choose to claim it, soon gave him an assured if inconspicuous position. His advice was widely sought. As an immediate corollary a new impress made itself felt in the daily columns. With his quick sensitiveness Banneker apprehended the change. It seemed to him that the paper was becoming feminized in a curious manner. "Is it a play for the women?" he asked Severance in the early days of the development.

but contented himself with saying

"No," put in the veteran; "I traced him down through some popular scientific stuff in the Boston Sunday Star." "Fake, all of it," proffered Severance. "Otherwise it wouldn't be popular." "Is that your creed of journalism?" asked Banneker curiously. "Largely." "Why come to The Patriot, then? It isn't ours." Severance raised his fine eyebrows, but contented himself with saying: "Isn't it? However, I didn't come. I was brought." He indicated Edmonds. "He gave me more ideas on news-dressing," said the veteran, "than I'd pick up in a century on the Row." "Ideas are what we're after. Where do you get yours, Mr. Severance, since you are not a practical newspaper man?" "From talking with people, and seeing what the newspapers fail to do." "Where were you before you went on Guidance?" "Instructor at Harvard." "And you practiced your--er--specified profession there, too?" "Oh, no. I was partly respectable then. "Why did you leave?" "Drink." "Ah? You don't build up much of a character for yourself as prospective employee." "If I join The Patriot staff I shall probably disappear once a month or so on a spree." "Why should you join The Patriot staff? That is what you fail to make clear to me." "Reference, Mr. Russell Edmonds," returned the other negligently.

pursued the other

Banneker waited. "Do you know my name?" "No." In no wise discountenanced by the matter-of-fact negative, Mr. Vanney, still unsolicited, took a chair. "You would if you read the newspapers," he observed. "I do." "The New York papers," pursued the other, benignly explanatory. "It doesn't matter. I came in to say that I shall make it my business to report your energy and efficiency to your superiors." "Thank you," said Banneker politely. "And I can assure you that my commendation will carry weight. Weight, sir." The agent accepted this with a nod, obviously unimpressed. In fact, Mr. Vanney suspected with annoyance, he was listening not so much to these encouraging statements as to some unidentified noise outside. The agent raised the window and addressed some one who had approached through the steady drive of the rain. A gauntleted hand thrust through the window a slip of paper which he took. As he moved, a ray of light from the lamp, unblocked by his shoulder, fell upon the face of the person in the darkness, illuminating it to the astounded eyes of Mr. Horace Vanney. "Two of them are going home with me," said a voice. "Will you send these wires to the addresses?" "All right," replied Banneker, "and thank you. Good-night." "Who was that?" barked Mr. Vanney, half rising. "A friend of mine." "I would swear to that face." He seemed quite excited. "I would swear to it anywhere. It is unforgettable. That was Camilla Van Arsdale. Was she in the wreck?" "No." "Don't tell me that it wasn't she! Don't try to tell me, for I won't believe it." "I'm not trying to tell you anything," Banneker pointed out. "True; you're not. You're close-mouthed enough. But--Camilla Van Arsdale! Incredible! Does she live here?" "Here or hereabouts." "You must give me the address. I must surely go and see her." "Are you a friend of Miss Van Arsdale?"

if any come in

"Is there trouble on the line?" she asked in a voice of peculiar clarity. "Bad trouble, Miss Camilla," answered Banneker. He pushed forward a chair, but she shook her head. "A loosened rock smashed into Number Three in the Cut. Eight dead, and a lot more in bad shape. They've got doctors and nurses from Stanwood. But the track's out below. And from what I get on the wire"--he nodded toward the east--"it'll be out above before long." "I'd better go up there," said she. Her lips grew bloodless as she spoke and there was a look of effort and pain in her face. "No; I don't think so. But if you'll go over to the town and see that Torrey gets his place cleaned up a bit, I suppose some of the passengers will be coming in pretty soon." She made a quick gesture of repulsion. "Women can't go to Torrey's," she said. "It's too filthy. Besides--I'll take in the women, if there aren't too many and I can pick up a buckboard in Manzanita." He nodded. "That'll be better, if any come in. Give me their names, won't you? I have to keep track of them, you know." The manner of the two was that of familiars, of friends, though there was a touch of deference in Banneker's bearing, too subtly personal to be attributed to his official status. He went out to adjust the visitor's poncho, and, swinging her leg across the Mexican saddle of her horse with the mechanical ease of one habituated to this mode of travel, she was off. Again the agent returned to his unofficial task and was instantly submerged in it. Impatiently he interrupted himself to light the lamps and at once resumed his pen. An emphatic knock at his door only caused him to shake his head. The summons was repeated. With a sigh Banneker gathered the written sheets, enclosed them in 5 S 0027, and restored that receptacle to its place. Meantime the knocking continued impatiently, presently pointed by a deep-- "Any one inside there?" "Yes," said Banneker, opening to face the bulky old man who had cared for the wounded. "What's wanted?" Uninvited, and with an assured air, the visitor stepped in. "I am Horace Vanney," he announced.

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drawled the young man

"Thank you," said Banneker. "You're all right. Want another job?" "Certainly," said the lily of the field with undiminished good-will. "Go and help the white-whiskered old boy in the Pullman yonder." "Oh, he'd chase me," returned the other calmly. "He's my uncle. He thinks I'm no use." "Does he? Well, suppose you get names and addresses of the slightly injured for me, then. Here's your coat." "Tha-anks," drawled the young man. He was turning away to his new duties when a thought struck him. "Making a list?" he asked. "Yes. For my report." "Got a name with the initials I. O. W.?" Banneker ran through the roster in the pocket-ledger. "Not yet. Some one that's hurt?" "Don't know what became of her. Peach of a girl. Black hair, big, sleepy, black eyes with a fire in 'em. Dressed _right_. Traveling alone, and minding her own business, too. Had a stateroom in that Pullman there in the ditch. Noticed her initials on her traveling-bag." "Have you seen her since the smash?" "Don't know. Got a kind of confused recklection of seeing her wobbling around at the side of the track. Can't be sure, though. Might have been me." "Might have been you? How could--" "Wobbly, myself. Mixed in my thinks. When I came to I was pretty busy putting my lunch," explained the other with simple realism. "One of Mr. Pullman's seats butted me in the stomach. They ain't upholstered as soft as you'd think to look at 'em. I went reeling around, looking for Miss I. O. W., she being alone, you know, and I thought she might need some looking after. And I had that idea of having seen her with her hand to her head dazed and running--yes; that's it, she was running. Wow!" said the young man fervently. "She was a pretty thing! You don't suppose--" He turned hesitantly to the file of bodies, now decently covered with sheets.

but the burly old man's decisive

It gave Banneker a momentary shock of helpless responsibility. Why should she have been the one to die? Only five minutes before she had spoken to him in self-possessed, even tones, saying that her traveling-bag contained camphor, ammonia, and iodine if he needed them. She had seemed a reliable, helpful kind of lady, and now she was dead. It struck Banneker as improbable and, in a queer sense, discriminatory. Remembering the slight, ready smile with which she had addressed him, he felt as if he had suffered a personal loss; he would have liked to stay and work over her, trying to discover if there might not be some spark of life remaining, to be cherished back into flame, but the burly old man's decisive "Gone," settled that. Besides, there were other things, official things to be looked to. A full report would be expected of him, as to the cause of the accident. The presence of the boulder in the wreckage explained that grimly. It was now his routine duty to collect the names of the dead and wounded, and such details as he could elicit. He went about it briskly, conscientiously, and with distaste. All this would go to the claim agent of the road eventually and might serve to mitigate the total of damages exacted of the company. Vaguely Banneker resented such probable penalties as unfair; the most unremitting watchfulness could not have detected the subtle undermining of that fatal boulder. But essentially he was not interested in claims and damages. His sensitive mind hovered around the mystery of death; that file of crumpled bodies, the woman of the stilled smile, the man fondling a limp hand, weeping quietly. Officially, he was a smooth-working bit of mechanism. As an individual he probed tragic depths to which he was alien otherwise than by a large and vague sympathy. Facts of the baldest were entered neatly; but in the back of his eager brain Banneker was storing details of a far different kind and of no earthly use to a railroad corporation. He became aware of some one waiting at his elbow. The lank young man had spoken to him twice. "Well?" said Banneker sharply. "Oh, it's you! How did you get back so soon?" "Under the hour," replied the other with pride. "Your message has gone. The operator's a queer duck. Dealing faro. Made me play through a case before he'd quit. I stung him for twenty. Here's some stuff I thought might be useful." From a cotton bag he discharged a miscellaneous heap of patent preparations; salves, ointments, emollients, liniments, plasters. "All I could get," he explained. "No drug-store in the funny burg."

moaned the sufferer

He removed his hand from his mouth, and the red drops splattered and were lost upon the glittering, thirsty sand. Banneker wiped the man's face, and found no injury. But the fingers which he had crammed into his mouth were bleeding profusely. "They oughta be prosecuted," moaned the sufferer. "I'll soom. For ten thousan' dollars. M'hand is smashed. Looka that! Smashed like a bug." Banneker caught the hand and expertly bound it, taking the man's name and address as he worked. "Is it a bad wreck?" he asked. "It's hell. Look at m'hand! But I'll soom, all right. _I_'ll show'm ... Oh! ... Cars are afire, too ... Oh-h-h! Where's a hospital?" He cursed weakly as Banneker, without answering, re-stowed his packet and ran on. A thin wisp of smoke rising above the nearer wall of rocks made the agent set his teeth. Throughout his course the voice of the engine had, as it were, yapped at his hurrying heels, but now it was silent, and he could hear a murmur of voices and an occasional shouted order. He came into sight of the accident, to face a bewildering scene. Two hundred yards up the track stood the major portion of the train, intact. Behind it, by itself, lay a Pullman sleeper, on its side and apparently little harmed. Nearest to Banneker, partly on the rails but mainly beside them, was jumbled a ridiculous mess of woodwork, with here and there a gleam of metal, centering on a large and jagged boulder. Smaller rocks were scattered through the _melange_. It was exactly like a heap of giant jack-straws into which some mischievous spirit had tossed a large pebble. At one end a flame sputtered and spread cheerfully. A panting and grimy conductor staggered toward it with a pail of water from the engine. Banneker accosted him. "Any one in--" "Get outa my way!" gasped the official. "I'm agent at Manzanita." The conductor set down his pail. "O God!" he said. "Did you bring any help?" "No, I'm alone. Any one in there?" He pointed to the flaming debris. "One that we know of. He's dead." "Sure?" cried Banneker sharply. "Look for yourself. Go the other side." Banneker looked and returned, white and set of face. "How many others?" "Seven, so far." "Is that all?" asked the agent with a sense of relief. It seemed as if no occupant could have come forth of that ghastly and absurd rubbish-heap, which had been two luxurious Pullmans, alive.

With swift precision he took from one of

The answering signal from the dispatcher at Stanwood interrupted his conjectures. "Number Three in trouble in the Cut," ticked Banneker fluently. "Think help probably needed from you. Shall I go out?" "O. K.," came the answer. "Take charge. Bad track reported three miles east may delay arrival." Banneker dropped and locked the windows, set his signal for "track blocked" and ran to the portable house. Inside he stood, considering. With swift precision he took from one of the home-carpentered shelves a compact emergency kit, 17 S 4230, "hefted" it, and adjusted it, knapsack fashion, to his back; then from a small cabinet drew a flask, which he disposed in his hip-pocket. Another part of the same cabinet provided a first-aid outfit, 3 R 0114. Thus equipped he was just closing the door after him when another thought struck him and he returned to slip a coil of light, strong sash-cord, 36 J 9078, over his shoulders to his waist where he deftly tautened it. He had seen railroad wrecks before. For a moment he considered leaving his coat, for he had upwards of three miles to go in the increasing heat; but, reflecting that the outward and visible signs of authority might save time and questions, he thought better of it. Patting his pocket to make sure that his necessary notebook and pencil were there, he set out at a moderate, even, springless lope. He had no mind to reach a scene which might require his best qualities of mind and body, in a semi-exhausted state. Nevertheless, laden as he was, he made the three miles in less than half an hour. Let no man who has not tried to cover at speed the ribbed treacheries of a railroad track minimize the achievement! A sharp curve leads to the entrance of Rock Cut. Running easily, Banneker had reached the beginning of the turn, when he became aware of a lumbering figure approaching him at a high and wild sort of half-gallop. The man's face was a welter of blood. One hand was pressed to it. The other swung crazily as he ran. He would have swept past Banneker unregarding had not the agent caught him by the shoulder. "Where are you hurt?" The runner stared wildly at the young man. "I'll soom," he mumbled breathlessly, his hand still crumpled against the dreadfully smeared face. "Dammum, I'll soom."

In seven minutes or perhaps less

Past the gaunt station she roared, only seven minutes late, giving the imaginative young official a glimpse and flash of the uttermost luxury of travel: rich woods, gleaming metal, elegance of finish, and on the rear of the observation-car a group so lily-clad that Sears-Roebuck at its most glorious was not like unto them. Would such a train, the implanted youth wondered, ever bear him away to unknown, undreamed enchantments? Would he even wish to go if he might? Life was full of many things to do and learn at Manzanita. Mahomet need not go to the mountain when, with but a mustard seed of faith in the proven potency of mail-order miracles he could move mountains to come to him. Leaning to his telegraph instrument, he wired to the agent at Stanwood, twenty-six miles down-line, his formal announcement. "O. S.--G. I. No. 3 by at 10.46." "O. K.--D. S.," came the response. Banneker returned to the sunlight. In seven minutes or perhaps less, as the Transcontinental would be straining to make up lost time, the train would enter Rock Cut three miles and more west, and he would recapture the powerful throbbing of the locomotive as she emerged on the farther side, having conquered the worst of the grade. Banneker waited. He drew out his watch. Seven. Seven and a half. Eight. No sound from westward. He frowned. Like most of the road's employees, he took a special and almost personal interest in having the regal train on time, as if, in dispatching it through, he had given it a friendly push on its swift and mighty mission. Was she steaming badly? There had been no sign of it as she passed. Perhaps something had gone wrong with the brakes. Or could the track have-- The agent tilted sharply forward, his lithe frame tense. A long drawn, quivering shriek came down-wind to him. It was repeated. Then short and sharp, piercing note on piercing note, sounded the shrill, clamant voice. The great engine of Number Three was yelling for help. Part 1 Chapter 2 Banneker came out of his chair with a spring. "Help! Help! Help! Help! Help!" screamed the strident voice. It was like an animal in pain and panic. For a brief instant the station-agent halted at the door to assure himself that the call was stationary. It was. Also it was slightly muffled. That meant that the train was still in the cut. As he ran to the key and sent in the signal for Stanwood, Banneker reflected what this might mean. Crippled? Likely enough. Ditched? He guessed not. A ditched locomotive is usually voiceless if not driverless as well. Blocked by a slide? Rock Cut had a bad repute for that kind of accident. But the quality of the call predicated more of a catastrophe than a mere blockade. Besides, in that case why could not the train back down--

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ago when you was down on the

"How'd you know my feet was blistered?" "Been padding in the rain, haven't you?" "Have you been on the hoof, too?" asked the hobo quickly. The other smiled. "Say!" exclaimed the boy. "I bet he's Banneker. Are you?" he demanded. "That's my name." "I heard of you three years ago when you was down on the Long Line Sandy," said the man. He paused and considered. "What's your lay, Mr. Banneker?" he asked, curiously but respectfully. "As you see it. Railroading." "A gay-cat," put in the boy with a touch of scorn. "You hold your fresh lip," his elder rebuked him. "This gent has treated us _like_ a gent. But why? What's the idea? That's what I don't get." "Oh, some day I might want to run for Governor on the hobo ticket," returned the unsmiling agent. "You get our votes. Well, so long and much obliged." The two resumed their journey. Banneker returned to his book. A freight, "running extra," interrupted him, but not for long. The wire had been practicing a seemly restraint for uneventful weeks, so the agent felt that he could settle down to a sure hour's bookishness yet, even though the west-bound Transcontinental Special should be on time, which was improbable, as "bad track" had been reported from eastward, owing to the rains. Rather to his surprise, he had hardly got well reimmersed in the enchantments of the mercantile fairyland when the "Open Office" wire warned him to be attentive, and presently from the east came tidings of Number Three running almost true to schedule, as befitted the pride of the line, the finest train that crossed the continent.

a vicious and scrawny boy of eighteen or so

Footsteps shuffling along the right of way dispelled his visions. He looked up to see two pedestrians who halted at his movement. They were paired typically of that strange fraternity, the hobo, one being a grizzled, hard-bitten man of waning middle age, the other a vicious and scrawny boy of eighteen or so. The boy spoke first. "You the main guy here?" The agent nodded. "Got a sore throat?" demanded the boy surlily. He started toward the door. The agent made no move, but his eyes were attentive. "That'll be near enough," he said quietly. "Oh, we ain't on that lay," put in the grizzled man. He was quite hoarse. "You needn't to be scared of us." "I'm not," agreed the agent. And, indeed, the fact was self-evident. "What about the pueblo yonder?" asked the man with a jerk of his head toward the town. "The hoosegow is old and the sheriff is new." "I got ya," said the man, nodding. "We better be on our way." "I would think so." "You're a hell of a guy, you are," whined the boy. "'On yer way' from you an' not so much as 'Are you hungry?' What about a little hand-out?" "Nothing doing." "Tightwad! How'd you like--" "If you're hungry, feel in your coat-pocket." "I guess you're a wise one," put in the man, grinning appreciatively. "We got grub enough. Panhandlin's a habit with the kid; don't come natural to him to pass a likely prospect without makin' a touch." He leaned against the platform, raising one foot slightly from the ground in the manner of a limping animal. The agent disappeared into the station, locking the door after him. The boy gave expression to a violent obscenity directed upon the vanished man. When that individual emerged again, he handed the grizzled man a box of ointment and tossed a packet of tobacco to the evil-faced boy. Both were quick with their thanks. That which they had most needed and desired had been, as it were, spontaneously provided. But the elder of the wayfarers was puzzled, and looked from the salve-box to its giver.

now stood in the clearing behind the station

Arctics and Lumberman's Overs he passed by with a grin as inappropriate to the climate. Cod Liver Oil failed to interest him, as did the Provident Cast Iron Range and the Clean-Press Cider Mill. But he paused speculatively before Punching Bags, for he had the clean pride of body, typical of lusty Western youth, and loved all forms of exercise. Could he find space, he wondered, to install 6 T 1441 with its Scientific Noiseless Platform & Wall Attachment (6 T 1476) in the portable house (55 S 17) which, purchased a year before, now stood in the clearing behind the station crammed with purchases from the Sears-Roebuck wonderbook. Anyway, he would make another note of it. What would it be like, he wondered, to have a million dollars to spend, and unlimited access to the Sears-Roebuck treasures. Picturing himself as such a Croesus, he innocently thought that his first act would be to take train for Chicago and inspect the warehoused accumulations of those princes of trade with his own eager eyes! He mused humorously for a moment over a book on "Ease in Conversation." ("No trouble about conversation," he reflected; "the difficulty is to find anybody to converse with," and he thought first of Carlotta, and then of Miss Camilla Van Arsdale, but chiefly of the latter, for conversation had not been the strong point of the passionate, light-hearted Spanish girl.) Upon a volume kindly offering to teach astronomy to the lay mind without effort or trouble (43 T 790) and manifestly cheap at $1.10, he bestowed a more respectful attention, for the desert nights were long and lonely. Eventually he arrived at the department appropriate to his age and the almost universal ambition of the civilized male, to wit, clothing. Deeply, judiciously, did he meditate and weigh the advantages as between 745 J 460 ("Something new--different--economical--efficient. An all-wool suit embodying all the features that make for clothes satisfaction. This announcement is of tremendous importance"--as one might well have inferred from the student's rapt expression) and 776 J 017 ("A double-breasted, snappy, yet semi-conservative effect in dark-green worsted, a special social value"), leaning to the latter because of a purely literary response to that subtle and deft appeal of the attributive "social." The devotee of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck was an innately social person, though as yet his gregarious proclivities lay undeveloped and unsuspected by himself. Also he was of a literary tendency; but of this he was already self-conscious. He passed on to ulsters and raincoats, divagated into the colorful realm of neckwear, debated scarf-pins and cuff-links, visualized patterned shirtings, and emerged to dream of composite sartorial grandeurs which, duly synthesized into a long list of hopeful entries, were duly filed away within the pages of 3 T 9901, the pocket ledger.

Abovestairs rested a guitar

"Supertoned Banjos," he read, beginning at the heading; and, running his eye down the different varieties, paused at "Pride of the Plantation, a full-sized, well-made, snappy-toned instrument at a very moderate price. 12 T 4031/4." The explorer shook his head. Abovestairs rested a guitar (the Pearletta, 12 S 206, price $7.95) which he had purchased at the instance of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck's insinuating representation as set forth in catalogue item 12 S 01942, "Self-mastery of the Guitar in One Book, with All Chords, Also Popular Solos That Can Be Played Almost at Sight." The nineteen-cent instruction-book had gone into the fire after three days of unequal combat between it and its owner, and the latter had subsequently learned something of the guitar (and more of life) from a Mexican-American girl with lazy eyes and the soul of a capricious and self-indulged kitten, who had come uninvited to Manzanita to visit an aunt, deceased six months previously. With a mild pang of memory for those dreamy, music-filled nights on the desert, the youth decided against further experiments in stringed orchestration. Telescopes turned up next. He lingered a moment over 20 T 3513, a nickel-plated cap pocket-glass, reflecting that with it he could discern any signal on the distant wooded butte occupied by Miss Camilla Van Arsdale, back on the forest trail, in the event that she might wish a wire sent or any other service performed. Miss Camilla had been very kind and understanding at the time of the parting with Carlotta, albeit with a grimly humorous disapproval of the whole inflammatory affair; as well as at other times; and there was nothing that he would not do for her. He made a neat entry in a pocket ledger (3 T 9901) against the time when he should have spare cash, and essayed another plunge.