 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Marion Brown, Toronto, Canada. The Trimmed Lamp by O'Henry. CHAPTER XVI. THE HARLAM TRAGEDY Harlem. Mrs. Fink had dropped into Mrs. Cassidy's flat one flight below. Ain't it a bute? said Mrs. Cassidy. She turned her face proudly for her friend Mrs. Fink to see. One eye was nearly closed, with a great greenish purple bruise around it. Her lip was cut and bleeding a little, and there were red finger marks on each side of her neck. My husband wouldn't ever think of doing that to me, said Mrs. Fink, concealing her envy. I wouldn't have a man, declared Mrs. Cassidy, that didn't beat me up at least once a week. Shows you think something of you. Say! But that last dose Jack gave me wasn't no homeopathic one. I can see stars yet. But he'll be the sweetest man in town for the rest of the week to make up for it. This eye is good for theatre tickets and a silk shirt waist at the very least. I should hope, said Mrs. Fink, assuming complacency, that Mr. Fink is too much of a gentleman ever to raise his hand against me. Oh, go on Maggie, said Mrs. Cassidy, laughing and applying witch hazel. You're only jealous. Your old man is too frappate and slow to ever give you a punch. He just sits down and practices physical culture with a newspaper when he comes home. Now ain't that the truth? Mr. Fink certainly peruses of the papers when he comes home, acknowledged Mrs. Fink with a toss of her head. But he certainly don't ever make no Steve O'Donnell out of me just to amuse himself. That's a sure thing. Mrs. Cassidy laughed, the contented laugh of the garden and happy matron. With the air of Cornelia exhibiting her jewels, she drew down the collar of her kimono and revealed another treasured bruise, maroon-coloured, edged with olive and orange, a bruise now nearly well, but still to memory dear. Mrs. Fink capitulated. The formal light in her eye softened to envious admiration. She and Mrs. Cassidy had been chums in the downtown paper-box factory before they had married one year before. Now she and her man occupied the flat above Mamie and her men. Therefore she could not put on airs with Mamie. Don't it hurt when he soaks you? Asked Mrs. Fink curiously. Hurt? Mrs. Cassidy gave a soprano scream of delight. Well, say, did you ever have a brick-house fall on you? Well, that's just the way it feels. Just like when they're digging you out of the ruins. Jack's got a left that spells two matinees and a new pair of oxfords. And he's right. Well, it takes a trip to Coney and six pairs of open-work silk-lile threads to make that good. But what does he beat you for? inquired Mrs. Fink with wide-open eyes. Silly! said Mrs. Cassidy indulgently. Why, because he's full. It's generally on Saturday nights. But what cause do you give him? persisted the seeker after knowledge. Why, didn't I marry him? Jack comes in tanked up, and I'm here, ain't I? Who else has he got a right to beat? I'm just like to catch him once beating anybody else. Sometimes it's because supper ain't ready, and sometimes it's because it is. Jack ain't particular about causes. He just luscious till he remembers he's married, and then he makes for home and does me up. Saturday nights I just move the furniture with sharp corners out of the way so I won't cut my head when he gets his work in. He's got a left swing that jars you. Sometimes I take the count in the first round, but when I feel like having a good time during the week or want some new rags, I come up again for more punishment. That's what I'd done last night. Jack knows I've been wanting a black silk waist for a month, and I didn't think just one black eye would bring it. Tell you what, Meg. I'll bet you the ice cream he brings it tonight. Mrs. Fink was thinking deeply. My Mart, she said, never hit me a lick in his life. It's just like you said, Mammy. He comes in grouchy and ain't got a word to say. He never takes me out anywhere. He's a chair warmer at home, for fair. He buys me things, but he looks so glum about it that I never appreciate him. Mrs. Cassidy slipped an arm around her chum. He poor thing, she said, but everybody can't have a husband like Jack. Marriage wouldn't be no failure if they was all like him. These discontented wives you hear about, what they need is a man to come home and kick their slats in once a week, and then make it up in kisses and chocolate creams. That'd give him some interest in life. What I want is a masterful man that slugs you when he's jagged and hugs you when he ain't jagged, preserve me from the man that ain't got the sand to do neither. Mrs. Fink sighed. The hallways were suddenly filled with sound. The door flew open at the kick of Mr. Cassidy. His arms were occupied with bundles. Mammy flew and hung about his neck. Her sound eyes sparkled with the love-light that shines in the eyes of the Mayor he made when she recovers consciousness in the hut of the wooer who was stunned and dragged her there. Hello, old girl, shouted Mr. Cassidy. He shed his bundles and lifted her off her feet in a mighty hug. I got tickets for Barnum and Bailey's, and if you'll bust the string of one of them bundles, I guess you'll find that silk waist. Why, good evening, Mrs. Fink. I didn't see you at first. How's old Mark coming along? Very well, Mr. Cassidy, thanks. Said Mrs. Fink. I must be going along up now. Mark'll be home for supper soon. I'll bring you down that pattern you wanted to moral, Mammy. Mrs. Fink went up to her flat and had a little cry. It was a meaningless cry. The kind of cry that only a woman knows about. A cry from no particular cause, altogether an absurd cry. The most transient and the most hopeless cry in the repertory of grief. Why had Martin never thrashed her? He was as big and strong as Jack Cassidy. Did he not care for her at all? He never quarreled. He came home and lounged about, silent, glum, idle. He was a fairly good provider, but he ignored the spices of life. Mrs. Fink's ship of dreams was becombed. Her captain ranged between plum duff and his hammock. If only he would shiver his timbers or stamp his foot on the quarter-deck now and then. And she had thought to sail so merrily, touching at ports in the delectable aisles. But now, to vary the figure, she was ready to throw up the sponge, tired out, without a scratch to show for all those tame rounds with her sparring partner. For one moment she almost hated Mammy. Mammy with her cuts and bruises, herself of presents and kisses, her stormy voyage with her fighting, brutal, loving mate. Mr. Fink came home at seven. He was permeated with the curse of domesticity. Beyond the portals of his cozy home he cared not to roam. He was the man who had caught the streetcar, the anaconda that had swallowed its prey, the tree that lay as it had fallen. Like the supper-mart? asked Mrs. Fink, who had striven over it. M-m-yep, grunted Mr. Fink, after supper he gathered his newspapers to read, he sat on his stocking-feet. Arise, some new Dante, and sing me the befitting corner of perdition for the man who sitteth in the house in his stocking-feet. Sisters of patience, who by reason of ties or duty have endured it in silk, yarn, cotton, lyle, thread, or woollen, does not the new canto belong? The next day was Labor Day. The occupations of Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Fink ceased for one passage of the sun. Labor, triumphant, would parade and otherwise deport itself. Mrs. Fink took Mrs. Cassidy's pattern down early. M-m-yep had on her new silk waist, even her damaged eye managed to emit a holiday gleam. Jack was fruitfully penitent, and there was a hilarious scheme for the day of foot, with parks and picnics and pilsner in it. A rising indignant jealousy seized Mrs. Fink as she returned to her flat above. O happy mammy, with her bruises and her quick-following bomb! But was mammy to have a monopoly of happiness? Surely Martin Fink was as good a man as Jack Cassidy. Was his wife to always go unbelabored and uncarassed? A sudden, brilliant, breathless idea came to Mrs. Fink. She would show mammy that there were husbands able to use their fists, and perhaps to be as tender afterward as any Jack. The holiday promised to be a nominal one with the Fink's. Mrs. Fink had the stationary wash-tubs in the kitchen filled with a two-week's wash that had been soaking overnight. Mr. Fink sat in his stocking-feet reading a paper. Thus Labor Day presaged to speed. Jealousy surged high in Mrs. Fink's heart, and higher still urged an audacious resolve. If her man would not strike her, if he would not so far prove his manhood, his prerogative and his interest in conjugal affairs, he must be prompted to his duty. Mr. Fink lit his pipe and peacefully rubbed an ankle with a stocking toe. He reposed in the state of matrimony like a lump of unblended suet in a pudding. This was his level elysium, to citadise vicariously girdling the world in print, amid the wifely splashing of suds, and the agreeable smells of breakfast-dishes departed, and dinner-ones to come. Many ideas were far from his mind, but the furthest one was the thought of beating his wife. Mrs. Fink turned on the hot water and set the washboards in the suds. Up from the flat below came the gay laugh of Mrs. Cassidy. It sounded like a taunt, a flaunting of her own happiness in the face of the unslugged bride above. Now was Mrs. Fink's time. Suddenly she turned like a fury upon the man reading. You lazy loafer, she cried, must I work my arms off washing and toiling for the ugly likes of you? Are you a man or are you a kitchen hound?" Mr. Fink dropped his paper motionless from surprise. She feared that he would not strike, that the provocation had been insufficient. She leaped at him and struck him fiercely in the face with her clenched hand. In that instant she felt a thrill of love for him, such as she had never felt for many a day. Rise up, Martin Fink, and come into your kingdom. Oh, she must feel the weight of his hand now, just to show that he cared. Just to show that he cared. Mr. Fink sprang to his feet. Maggie caught him again on the jaw with a wide swing of her other hand. She closed her eyes in that fearful, blissful moment before his blow should come. She whispered his name to herself. She leaned to the expected shock. Hungry for it. In the flat below Mr. Cassidy, with a shamed and contrite face, was powdering Mammy's eye in preparation for their junket. From the flat above came the sound of a woman's voice, high raised, a bumping, a stumbling, and a shuffling, a chair overturned, unmistakable sounds of domestic conflict. Mart and Meg, scrapping, postulated Mr. Cassidy, didn't know they ever indulged. Shall I trot up and see if they need a sponge-holder? One of Mrs. Cassidy's eyes sparkled like a diamond, the other twinkled at least like paste. Uh-oh, she said, softly and without apparent meaning, in the feminine ejaculatory manner. I wonder if—wonder if—wait, Jack, till I go up and see. Up the stairs, she sped. As her foot struck the hallway above, out from the kitchen door of her flat, wildly flounced Mrs. Fink. Oh, Maggie! cried Mrs. Cassidy in a delighted whisper. Did he? Oh, did he? Mrs. Fink ran and laid her face upon her chum shoulder and sobbed hopelessly. Mrs. Cassidy took Maggie's face between her hands and lifted it gently. Tears stained it was, flushing and paling, but its velvety pink and white, becomingly freckled surface was unscratched, unbrewed, unmarred by the recreate fist of Mr. Fink. Tell me, Maggie, pleaded Mammy, or I'll go in there and find out. What was it? Did he hurt you? What did he do? Mrs. Fink's face went down again despairingly on the bosom of her friend. For God's sake, don't open that door, Mammy, she sobbed, and don't ever tell nobody. Keep it under your hat. He never touched me, and he's—oh, God, he's washing the clothes. He's washing the clothes. End of THE HARLAM TRAGEDY A red-haired, unshaven, untidy man sat in a rocking chair by a window. He had just lighted a pipe, and was puffing blue clouds with great satisfaction. He had removed his shoes and donned a pair of blue-faded carpet slippers. With the morbid thirst of the confirmed daily news drinker, he awkwardly folded back the pages of an evening paper, eagerly gulping down the strong black headlines, to be followed as a chaser by the milder details of the smaller type. In an adjoining room a woman was cooking supper. Odors from strong bacon and boiling coffee contended against the cut-plug fumes from the Vesperteen pipe. Outside was one of those crowded streets of the East Side, in which, as twilight falls, Satan sets up his recruiting office. A mighty host of children danced and ran and played in the street. Some in rags, some in clean white and berebanned, some wild and restless as young hawks, some gentle-faced and shrinking, some shrieking rude and sinful words, some listening odd, but soon grown familiar to embrace. Here were the children playing in the corridors of the House of Sin. Above the playground forever hovered a great bird. The bird was known to humorists as the stork. But the people of Christie Street were better ornithologists. They called it a vulture. A little girl of twelve came up timidly to the man reading and resting by the window and said, Papa, won't you play a game of checkers with me if you aren't too tired? The red-haired, unshaven, untidy man sitting shoeless by the window answered with a frown. Checkers? No, I won't. Can't a man who works hard all day have a little rest when he comes home? Why don't you go out and play with the other kids on the sidewalk? The woman who was cooking came to the door. John, she said, I don't like for Lizzie to play on the street. They learn too much there that ain't good for him. She's been in the house all day long. It seems that you might give up a little of your time to amuse her when you come home. Let her go out and play like the rest of them if she wants to be amused. Said the red-haired, unshaven, untidy man. And don't bother me. You're on, said Kid Mulayley. Fifty dollars to twenty-five dollars I take Annie to the dance. Put up. The kids' black eyes were snapping with the fire of the baited and challenged. He drew out his roll and slapped five tens upon the bar. The three or four young fellows who were thus taken more slowly produced their steak. The bartender, ex-officio stakeholder, took the money, laboriously wrapped it, recorded the bet with an inch-long pencil, and stuffed the hole into a corner of the cash register. And oh, what'll be done to you'll be a plenty, said a better, with anticipatory glee. That's my lookout, said the kids sternly. Fill them up all around, Mike. After the round, Burke, the kid's sponge, sponge-holder, pal, mentor, and grand vizier, drew him out to the boot-black stand at the saloon corner, where all the official and important matters of the small-hours social club were settled. As Tony polished the light-tan shoes of the club's president and secretary for the fifth time that day, Burke spake words of wisdom to his chief. Cut that blonde out, kid, was his advice, or they'll be trouble. What do you want to throw down that girl of yours for? You'll never find one that'll freeze to you like Liz has. She's worth a haul full of Annie's. I'm no Annie admirer, said the kid, dropping a cigarette-ash on his polished toe and wiping it off on Tony's shoulder. But I want to teach Liz a lesson. She thinks I belong to her. She's been bragging that I dare not speak to another girl. Liz is all right in some ways. She's drinking a little too much lately, and she uses language that a lady oughtn't. You're engaged, ain't you? Asked Burke. Sure, we'll get married next year, maybe. I saw you make her drink her first glass of beer, said Burke. That was two years ago, when she used to come down to the corner of Christie, bare-headed, to meet you after supper. She was a quiet sort of kid then, and couldn't speak without blushing. She's a little spitfire sometimes now, said the kid. I hate jealousy. That's why I'm going to the dance with Annie. It'll teach her some sense. Well, you better look a little out, were Burke's last words. If Liz were my girl, and I was to sneak out to a dance coupled up with an Annie, I'd want a suit of chain armor on under my glad-some rags, all right. Through the land of the stork vulture, wondered Liz. Her black eyes searched the passing crowds, fireily but vaguely. Now and then she hum bars of foolish little songs. Between time she set her small white teeth together, and spake crisp words that the East Side has added to language. Liz's skirt was green silk. Her waist was a large brown and pink plaid, well-fitting and not without style. She wore a cluster ring of huge imitation rubies, and a locket that banged her knees at the bottom of a silver chain. Her shoes were run down over twisted high heels, and were strangers to polish. Her hat would scarcely have passed into a flower-barrel. The family entrance of the Blue Jay Cafe received her. At a table she sat, and punched the button with the air of Milady ringing for her carriage. The waiter came with his large chinned, low-voiced manner of respectful familiarity. Liz smoothed her silken skirt with a satisfied wiggle. She made the most of it. Here she could order and be weighted upon. It was all that her world offered her of the prerogative of women. Whiskey Tommy, she said as her sister's further, uptown murmured, Champagne James. Sure, Miss Lizzie, what'll the chaser be? Seltzer. And say, Tommy, has the kid been around today? Why no, Miss Lizzie, I haven't seen him today. Fluently came the Miss Lizzie, for the kid was known to be one who required rigid upholdment of the dignity of his fiance. I'm looking for him, said Liz, after the chaser had sputtered under her nose. It's got to me that he says he'll take Annie Carlson to the dance. Let him. The pink-eyed white rat. I'm looking for him. You know me, Tommy. Two years me and the kids been engaged. Look at that ring. Five hundred he said it cost. Let him take her to the dance. What'll I do? I'll cut his heart out. Another whiskey, Tommy. I wouldn't listen to no such reports, Miss Lizzie, said the waiter smoothly, from the narrow opening above his chin. Kid Mulally's not the guy to throw a lady like you down. Seltzer on the side. Two years, repeated Liz, softening a little to sentiment under the magic of the distiller's art. I always used to play out on the streets of evenings because there was nothing doing for me at home. For a long time I just sat on doorsteps and looked at the lights and the people going by. Then the kid came along one evening and sized me up, and I was mashed on the spot for fair. The first drink he made me take, I cried all night at home and got a licking for making a noise. And now, say, Tommy, you ever seen this Annie Carlson? If it wasn't for peroxide, the chloroform limit would have her put out long ago. Oh, I'm looking for him. You tell the kid if he comes in. Me? I'll cut his heart out. Leave it to me. Another whiskey, Tommy. A little unsteadily, but with watchful and brilliant eyes, Liz walked up the avenue. On the doorstep of a brick tenement, a curly-haired child sat, puzzling over the convolutions of a tangled string. Liz flopped down beside her with a crooked, shifting smile on her flushed face, but her eyes had grown clear and artless of a sudden. Let me show you how to make a cat's cradle kid, she said, tucking her green silk shirt under her rusty shoes. And while they sat there, the lights were being turned on for the dance in the hall of the Small Hours Social Club. It was the bi-monthly dance, a dress affair in which the members took great pride and bestirred themselves huskily to further and adorn. At nine o'clock the President, Kid Mulally, paced upon the floor with a lady on his arm, as the Lora-Liz was her hair golden. Her yes was softened to a yah, but its quality of ascent was patent to the most Malaysian ears. She stepped upon her own train and blushed, and she smiled into the eyes of Kid Mulally. And then, as the two stood in the middle of the waxed floor, the thing happened to prevent which many lamps are burning nightly in many studies and libraries. Out of the circle of spectators in the hall leaped fate in a green silk skirt under the nom de guère of Liz. Her eyes were hard and blacker than jet. She did not scream or waver. Most unwomenly she cried out one oath, the Kid's own favorite oath, and in his own deep voice. And then, while the small-hour social club went frantically to pieces, she made good her boast to Tommy the waiter, made good as far as the length of her knife-blade and the strength of her arm permitted. And next came the primal instinct of self-preservation, or was it self-annihilation, the instinct that society has grafted on the natural branch? Liz ran out and down the street, swift and true as a woodcock flying through a grove of saplings at dusk. And then followed the big city's biggest shame, its most ancient and rotten surviving canker, its pollution and disgrace, its blight and perversion, its forever infamy and guilt, fostered, unreproved, and cherished, handed down from a long ago century of the basest barbarity, the hue and cry. Nowhere but in the big city's does it survive, and here most of all where the ultimate perfection of culture, citizenship, and alleged superiority joins, bawling in the chase. They pursued a shrieking mob of fathers, mothers, lovers, and maidens, howling, yelling, calling, whistling, crying for blood. Well may the wolf in the big city stand outside the door, well may his heart, the gentler, falter at the siege. Knowing her way and hungry for her surcease, she darted down the familiar ways until at last her foot struck the dull solidity of the rotting pier. And then it was but a few more panting steps, and Good Mother East River took Liz to her bosom, soothed her muddily but quickly, and settled in five minutes the problem that keeps lights burning a night in thousands of pastorates and colleges. It's mighty funny what kind of dreams one has sometimes. Poets call them visions, but a vision is only a dream in blank verse. I dreamed the rest of this story. I thought I was in the next world. I don't know how I got there. I suppose I'd been riding on the Ninth Avenue elevated or taking patent medicine or trying to pull Jim Jeffries's nose, or doing some such little injudicious stunt. But anyhow there I was, and there was a great crowd of us outside the courtroom where the judgments were going on, and every now and then a very beautiful and imposing court officer angel would come outside the door and call another case. While I was considering my own worldly sins and wondering whether there would be any use of my trying to prove an alibi by claiming that I lived in New Jersey, the bailiff angel came to the door and sang out, case number 99,852,743. Up stepped a plain clothesman. There were lots of them there, dressed exactly like preachers and hustling us spirits around just like cops do on earth. And by the arm he dragged. Whom do you think? Why Liz? The court officer took her inside and closed the door. I went up to Mr. Fly Cop and inquired about the case. A very sad one says he, laying the points of his manicured fingers together, an utterly incorrigible girl. I am special terrestrial officer the Reverend Jones. The case was assigned to me. The girl murdered her fiance and committed suicide. She had no defense. My report to the court relates the facts in detail, all of which are substantiated by reliable witnesses. The wages of sin is death. Praise the Lord. The court officer opened the door and stepped out. Poor girl said special terrestrial officer the Reverend Jones with a tear in his eye. It was one of the saddest cases that I ever met with. Of course she was discharged, says the court officer. Come here, Jonesy. First thing you know you'll be switched to the Pot Pie Squad. How would you like to be on the missionary force in the South Sea Islands? Hey, now you quit making these false arrests or you'll be transferred, see? The guilty party you've got to look for in this case is a red-haired, unshaven, untidy man sitting by the window reading in his stalking feet while his children play in the streets. Get a move on you. Now wasn't that a silly dream? End of the guilty party. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Marion Brown, Toronto, Canada. The Trimmed Lamp by O. Henry. Chapter 18 According to Their Lights Somewhere in the depths of the big city where the unquiet dregs are forever being shaken together young Murray and the captain had met and become friends. Both were at the lowest ebb possible to their fortunes. Both had fallen from at least an intermediate heaven of respectability and importance. And both were typical products of the monstrous and peculiar social curriculum of their overweening and bumpious civic alma mater. The captain was no longer a captain. One of those sudden moral cataclysms that sometimes sweep the city had hurled him from a high and profitable position in the police department, ripping off his badge and buttons and washing into the hands of his lawyers the solid pieces of real estate that his frugality had enabled him to accumulate. The passing of the flood left him low and dry. One month after his disabilitation a saloon keeper plucked him by the neck from his free lunch counter as a tabby plexus strange kitten from her nest and cast him ass-foldward. This seems low enough. But after that he acquired a pair of cloth-top button-congress gators and wrote complaining letters to the newspapers. And then he fought the attendant at the municipal lodging-house who tried to give him a bath. When Murray first saw him he was holding the hand of an Italian woman who sold apples and garlic on Essex Street and quoting the words of a song-book ballad. Murray's fall had been more Luciferian if less spectacular. All the pretty tiny little kick-shaws of Gotham had once been his. The megaphone man roars out at you to observe the house of his uncle and friend in Reverd Avenue. But there had been an awful row about something and the prince had been escorted to the door by the butler which in said avenue is equivalent to the impact of the avuncular shoe. A weak prince howl without inheritance or sword he drifted downward to meet his humorless fall-staff and to pick the crusts of the streets with him. One evening they sat on a bench in a little downtown park. The great bulk of the captain and the renovation seemed to increase. Drawing irony instead of pity to his petitions for aid was heaped against the arm of a bench in a shapeless mass. His red face, spotted by tufts of vermilion, weak old whiskers and topped by a sagging white straw hat looked in the gloom like one of those structures that you may observe in a dark Third Avenue window challenging your imagination to say whether it be something recent in the way of ladies hats in a strawberry shortcake. A tight John Belt, last relic of his official spruce-ness made a deep furrow in his circumference. The captain's shoes were buttonless. In a smothered base he cursed his star of ill luck. Murray at his side was shrunk into his dingy and ragged suit of blue surge. His hat was pulled low. He sat quiet and a little indistinct like some ghost that had been dispossessed. I'm hungry, growled the captain. By the top surloin of the bull of Bastion I'm starving to death. Right now I could eat a bowery restaurant clear through to the stove-pipe in the alley. Can't you think of nothing, Murray? You sit there with your shoulders scrunched up, giving an imitation of Reginald Vanderbilt driving his coach. What good are them heirs doing you now? Think of someplace we can get something to chew. You forget, my dear captain, said Murray, without moving, our last attempt at dining was at my suggestion. You bet it was, grown the captain. You bet your life it was. Have you got any more like that to make, hey? I admit we failed, sighed Murray. I was sure Malone would be good for one more free lunch after the way he talked baseball with me the last time I spent a nickel in his establishment. I had this hand, said the captain, extending the unfortunate member. I had this hand on the drumstick of a turkey and two sardine sandwiches when them waiters grabbed us. I was within two inches of the olive, said Murray. Stuffed olives I haven't tasted one in a year. What do we do, grumbled the captain, we can't starve. Can't we? said Murray quietly. I'm glad to hear that. I was afraid we could. You wait here, said the captain, rising heavily and puffily to his feet. I'm going to try to make one more turn. You stay here till I come back, Murray. I won't be over half an hour. By turn the trick I'll come back flush. He made some elephantine attempts at smartening his appearance. He gave his fiery mustache a heavenward twist. He dragged into sight a pair of black-edged cuffs, deepened the crease in his middle by tightening his belt another hole, and set off jaunty as a zoo rhinoceros across the south end of the park. When he was out of sight Murray also left the park, hurrying swiftly eastward. He stopped at a building whose steps were flanked by two green lights. A police captain named Maroni, he said to the desk sergeant, was dismissed from the force after being tried under charges three years ago. I believe sentence was suspended. Is this man wanted now by the police? Why are you asking? inquired the sergeant with a frown. I thought there might be a reward standing, explained Murray easily. I know the man well. He seems to be keeping himself pretty shady at present. I could lay my hands on him at any time. If there should be a reward. There's no reward, interrupted the sergeant shortly. The man's not wanted, and neither are ye, so get out. You're friendly with him, and you'd be selling him. Out with you quick or I'll give you a start. Murray gazed at the officer with serene and virtuous dignity. I would be simply doing my duty as a citizen and gentleman, he said severely, if I could assist the law in laying hold of one of its offenders. Murray hurried back to the bench in the park. He folded his arms and shrank within his clothes to his ghost-like presentment. Ten minutes afterward the captain arrived at the rendezvous, windy and thunderous as a dog-day in Kansas. His collar had been torn away, his straw hat had been twisted and battered, his shirt with ox-blood stripes split to the waist, and from head to knee he was drenched with some vile and ignoble greasy fluid that loudly proclaimed to the nose its component leaven of garlic and kitchen-stuff. For heaven's sake, Captain, sniffed Murray, I doubt that I would have waited for you if I had suspected you were so desperate as to resort to swill-barrels. I—cheese it—said the captain harshly, I'm not hogging it yet, it's all on the outside. I went to round on Essex and proposed marriage to that Katrina that's got the fruit-shop there. Now that business could be built up. She's a peach as far as a dago could be. I thought I had that senior Rena mashed sure last week, but look what she done to me. I guess I got too fresh. Well, there's another scheme queered. You don't mean to say, said Murray with infinite contempt, that you would have married that woman to help yourself out of your disgraceful troubles? Me, said the captain, I'd marry the Empress of China for one bowl of chop-sui. I'd commit murder for a plate of beef stew. I'd steal a wafer from a wafer. I'd be a Mormon for a bowl of chowder. I think, said Murray, resting his head on his hands, that I would play Judas for the price of one drink of whiskey. For thirty pieces of silver I would— I'll come now, exclaimed the captain in dismay. You wouldn't do that, Murray. I always thought that Kike Squeal on his boss was about the lowest downplay that ever happened. A man that gives his friend away is worse than a pirate. Through the park stepped a large man scanning the benches where the electric light fell. Is that you, Mac? He said halting before the derelicts. His diamond stick-pin dazzled. His diamond-studded fob-chain assisted. He was big and smooth and well-fed. Yes, I see it's you, he continued. They told me at Mike's that I might find you over here. Let me see you a few minutes, Mac. The captain lifted himself with a grunt of a clarity. If Charlie Finnegan had come down in the bottomless pit to seek him, there must be something doing. Charlie guided him by an arm into a patch of shadow. You know, Mac, he said. They're trying Inspector Pickering on graft charges. He was my inspector, said the captain. O'Shea wants the job, went on Finnegan. He must have it. It's for the good of the organization. Pickering must go under. Your testimony will do it. He was your man higher up when you were on the force. His share of the bootle passed through your hands. You must go on the stand and testify against him. He was—began the captain. Wait a minute, said Finnegan. A bundle of yellowish stuff came out of his inside pocket. Five hundred dollars in it for you. Two fifty on the spot and the rest? He was my friend, I say, finished the captain. I'll see you and the gang and the city and the party and the flames of Hades before I'll take the stand against Dan Pickering. I'm down and out, but I'm no traitor to a man that's been my friend. The captain's voice rose and boomed like a split trombone. Get out of this park, Charlie Finnegan, where us thieves and tramps and boozers are your betters. Take your dirty money with you. Finnegan drifted out by another walk. The captain returned to his seat. I couldn't avoid hearing, said Murray drearily. I think you're the biggest fool I ever saw. What would you have done? asked the captain. Nailed Pickering to the cross, said Murray. Sunny, said the captain, huskily and without heat. You and me are different. New York is divided into two parts. Above 42nd Street and below 14th. You come from the other part. We both act according to our lights. An illuminated clock above the trees retailed the information that it lacked the half hour of twelve. Both men rose from the bench and moved away together as if seized by the same idea. They left the park, struck through a narrow cross street and came into Broadway, at this hour as dark, echoing and de-peopled as a byway in Pompeii. Northward they turned, and a policeman who glanced at their unkempt and slinking figures, withheld the attention and suspicion that he would have granted them at any other hour in place. For on every street in that part of the city, the front and slinking figures were shuffling and hurrying toward a converging point, a point that is marked by no monument, saved that groove on the pavement worn by tens of thousands of waiting feet. At Ninth Street a tall man wearing an opera hat, alighted from a Broadway car, and turned his face westward. When he saw Murray, pounced upon him and dragged him under a street light. The captain lumbered slowly to the corner, like a wounded bear, and waited growling. Jerry! cried the hat at one. How fortunate! I was to begin a search for you to-morrow. The old gentleman has capitulated. You are to be restored to favor. Congratulate you. Come to the office in the morning. Get all the money you want. I've liberal instructions in that respect. And the little matrimonial arrangement? Said Murray with his head turned sideways. Why, um, of course your uncle understands. Expects that the engagement between you and Miss Vanderhurst shall be. Good night! said Murray, moving away. You madman! cried the other, catching his arm. Would you give up two millions on account of— Did you ever see her nose, old man? Asked Murray solemnly. But listen to reason, Jerry. Miss Vanderhurst is an heiress. And did you ever see it? Yes, I admit that her nose isn't— Good night! said Murray. My friend is waiting for me. I am quoting him when I authorize you to report that there is nothing doing. Good night! A wriggling line of waiting men extended from a door in Tenth Street, far up Broadway, on the outer edge of the pavement. The captain and Murray fell in at the tail of the quivering millipede. Twenty feet longer than it was last night, said Murray, looking up at his measuring angle of Grace Church. Half an hour growled the captain before we get our punk. The city clocks began to strike twelve. The bread-line moved forward slowly, its leathern feet sliding on the stones with the sound of a hissing serpent, as they who had lived according to their lights closed up in the rear, end of according to their lights. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Marion Brown, Toronto, Canada. The Trimmed Lamp, by O. Henry. Chapter 19 A Midsummer Night's Dream The nights are dead, their swords are rust, except a few who have to hustle all the time to raise the dust. Dear reader, it was summer time. The sun glared down upon the city with pitiless ferocity. It is difficult for the sun to be ferocious and exhibit compunction simultaneously. The heat was, oh, bother thermometers. Who cares for standard measures anyhow? It was so hot that the roof gardens put on so many extra waiters that you could hope to get your gin fizz now as soon as all the other people got theirs. The hospitals were putting in extra cots for bystanders, for when little wooly dogs lull their tongues and say woof woof at the fleas that bite them, and nervous old black bombazine ladies screech mad dog, and policemen begin to shoot, somebody's going to get hurt. The man from Pompton, New Jersey, who always wears an overcoat in July, had turned up in a Broadway hotel drinking hot scotches and enjoying his annual ray from the calcium. Philanthropists were petitioning the legislature to pass a bill requiring builders to make tenement fire escapes more commodious so that families might die altogether of the heat instead of one or two at a time. So many men were telling you about the number of bazz they took each day that you wondered how they got along with the real leasy of the apartment come back to town and thanked them for taking such good care of it. The young man who called loudly for cold beef and beer in the restaurant protesting the roast pullet and burgundy was really too heavy for such weather, blushed when he met your eye, for you had heard him all winter calling in modest tones for the same ascetic vians, soup, pocket books, shirt wastes, actors, and baseball excuses grew thinner. Yes, it was summer time. A man stood at 34th Street waiting for a downtown car. A man of forty, grey-haired, pink-faced, keen, nervous, plainly dressed with a harassed look around the eyes. He wiped his forehead and laughed loudly when a fat man with an outing look stopped and spoke with him. No sirree he shouted with defiance and scorn. None of your old mosquito-haunted swamps and skyscraper mountains without elevators for me. When I want to get away from hot weather I know how to do it. New York, sir, is the finest summer resort in the country. Keep in the shade and watch your diet. Don't get too far away from an electric fan. Talk about your Adirondacks and your Catskills. There's more solid comfort in the borough of Manhattan than in all the rest of the country. No tramping up perpendicular cliffs and being waked up at four in the morning by a million flies and eating canned goods straight from the city for me. Little old New York will take a few select summer borders, comforts and conveniences of homes. That's the Ad that I answer every time. You need a vacation, said the fat man, looking closely at the other. You haven't been away from town in years. Better come with me for two weeks anyhow. The Adirondacks are jumping at anything now that looks like a fly. Harding writes me that he landed a three-pound brown last week. Nonsense, cried the other man. Go ahead if you like and boggle around in rubber boots, wearing yourself out trying to catch fish. When I want one I go to a cool restaurant and order it. I laugh at you, fellows, whenever I think of you hustling around in the heat of the country thinking you're having a good time. For me, Father Nickerbocker's little big shady lane running through the middle of it. The fat man sighed over his friend and went his way. The man who thought New York was the greatest summer resort in the country bordered a car and went buzzing down to his office. On the way he threw away his newspaper and looked up at a ragged patch of sky above the housetops. Three pounds he muttered absently and Harding isn't a liar. I believe, if I could, but it's impossible, they've got to have another month, another month at least. In his office the upholder of urban midsummer joys dived, head foremost into the swimming-pool of business. Adkins's clerk came and added a spray of letters, memoranda, and telegrams. At five o'clock in the afternoon the busy man leaned back in his office chair, put his feet on the desk and mused aloud. I wonder what kind of bait Harding used. She was all in white that day and thereby Compton lost a bet to Gaines. She would wear light blue, for she knew that was his favorite color and Compton was a millionaire's son and that almost laid him open to the charge of betting on a sure thing. But white was her choice and Gaines held up his head with twenty-five's lordly air. The little summer hotel in the mountains had a lively crowd that year. There were two or three young college men and a couple of artists and a young naval officer on one side. On the other there were enough beauties and young ladies for the correspondent of a society paper to refer to them as a bevy. But the moon among the stars was Mary Sewell. Each one of the young men greatly desired to arrange matters so that he could pay her millenary bills and fix the furnace and have her do away with the Sewell part of her name forever. Those who would stay only a week or two went away hinting at pistols and blighted hearts. But Compton stayed like the mountains themselves, for he could afford it. And Gaines stayed because he was a fighter and wasn't afraid of millionaire sons and, well, he adored the country. What do you think, Miss Mary? he said once. I knew a duffer in New York who claimed to like it in the summer time. Said you could keep cooler there than you could in the woods. Wasn't he awfully silly? I don't think I could breathe on Broadway after the first of June. Mama was thinking of going back a week after next, said Miss Mary with a lovely frown. Think of it, said Gaines. There are lots of jolly places in town in the summer. The roof gardens, you know, and the roof gardens. Deepest blue was the lake that day. The day when they had the mock tournament, and the men rode clumsy farm horses around in a glade in the woods and caught curtain rings on the end of the lands. Such fun! Cool and dry as the finest wine came the breath of the shadowed forest. The valley below was a vision seen through a purple haze. A white mist from hidden falls blurred the green of the hand's breadth of treetops halfway down the gorge. Youth made Mary hand in hand with young summer. Nothing on Broadway like that. The villagers gathered to see the city folks pursue their mad drollery. The woods rang with the laughter of pixies and maids and sprites. Gaines caught most of the rings. His was the privilege to crown the queen of the tournament. He was the king knight as far as the rings went. On his arm he wore a white scarf. Compton wore light blue. She had declared her preference for blue but she wore white that day. Gaines looked about for the queen to crown her. He heard her Mary laugh as if from the clouds. She had slipped away and climbed chimney rock a little granite bluff and stood there a white fairy among the laurels fifty feet above their heads. Instantly he and Compton accepted the implied challenge. The bluff was easily mounted at the rear but the front offered small hold to hand or foot. Each man quickly selected his root and began to climb. A crevice a bush, a slight projection a vine or a tree branch all of these were aids that counted in the race. It was all foolery. There was no steak but there was youth in it, cross reader and light hearts and something else that Miss Clay writes so charmingly about. Gaines gave a great tug at the root of a laurel and pulled himself to Miss Mary's feet. On his arm he carried the wreath of roses and while the villagers and summer boarders screamed and applauded below he placed it on the queen's brow. You are a gallant knight said Miss Mary. If I could be your true knight always began Gaines but Miss Mary laughed him dumb for Compton scrambled over the edge of the rock one minute behind time. What a twilight that was back to the hotel. The opal in the valley turning slowly to purple. The dark woods framed the lake as a mirror. The tonic air stirred the very soul in one. The first pale stars came out over the mountain tops where yet a faint glow of I beg your pardon Mr. Gaines said Adkins. The man who believed New York to be the finest summer resort in the world opened his eyes and kicked over the mucilage bottle on his desk. I believe he was asleep he said. It's the heat said Adkins. It's something awful in the city these nonsense said the other. The city beats the country ten to one in summer. Fools go out tramping in muddy brooks and wear themselves out trying to catch little fish as long as your finger stay in town and keep comfortable that's my idea. Some letters just came said Adkins I thought you'd like to glance at them before you go. Let us look at one of them. My dear dear husband just received your letter ordering us to stay another month. Rita's cough is almost gone Johnny has simply gone wild like a little Indian will be the making of both children work so hard and I know that your business can hardly afford to keep us here so long best man that ever you always pretend that you like the city in summer trout fishing that you used to be so fond of and all to feel and happy come to you if it were not doing the baby so much good I stood last evening on chimney rock in exactly the same spot where I was when you put the wreath of roses on my head through all the world when you said you would be my true night fifteen years ago dear just think have always been that to me ever and ever Mary the man who said he thought New York the finest summer resort in the country dropped into a on his way home and had a glass of beer under an electric fan wonder what kind of a fly old Harding used he said to himself end of a mid-summer night's dream this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information and to find out how to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Marion Brown to Toronto Canada the trimmed lamp by Henry chapter twenty the last leaf in a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called places these places make strange angles and curves one street crosses itself a time or two an artist once discovered a valuable possibility in the street suppose a collector with a bill of paints, paper and canvas should in traversing this route suddenly meet himself coming back without a cent having been paid on account so to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling hunting for north windows in 18th century gables and dutch attics and low rents then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from 6th Avenue and became a colony at the top of the squatty three-story brick Sue and Johnsey had their studio Johnsey was familiar for Joanna one was from Maine the other from California they had met at the tabla de haute of an 8th street Delmonico's and found their tastes in art chicory salad and bishop's sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted that was in May in November a cold unseen stranger whom the doctors called pneumonia stalked about the colony touching one here and there with his icy fingers over on the east side this ravager strode boldly smiting his victims by scores but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss grown places Mr. pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman a might of a little woman with blood thin by California's effers was hardly fair game for the red twisted short breathed old Duffer but Johnsey he smote and she lay scarcely moving on her painted iron bedstead looking through the small Dutch window panes at the blank side of the next brick house one morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy gray eyebrow she has one last chance in let's say Tanny said as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer and that chance is for her to want to live this way people have of lining up on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharma copia look silly your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well has she anything on her mind she she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples someday said Sue paint? posh has she anything on her mind worth thinking about twice a man for instance a man said Sue twang in her voice is a man worth but no doctor there is nothing of the kind well it is the weakness then said the doctor I will do all that science so far as it may filter through my efforts can accomplish but whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50% from the curative power of my medicines if you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles I will promise you a one in five chance for her instead of one in ten after the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp then she swaggered into Johnsey's room with her drawing board whistling rag time Johnsey lay scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes with her face toward the window Sue stopped whistling thinking she was asleep she arranged her board and began a pen and ink drawing a magazine story young artists must pave their way to art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to literature as Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horse show riding trousers and a monocle on the figure of the hero an Idaho cowboy she heard a low sound several times repeated she went quickly to the bedside Johnsey's eyes were open wide she was looking out the window and counting counting backward twelve she said and a little later eleven and then ten and nine then eight and seven almost together Sue looked solicitously out the window what was there to count there was only a bare dreary yard to be seen and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away an old, old ivy vine gnarled and decayed at the roots of the wall the cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung almost bare to the crumbling bricks what is it dear asks Sue six said Johnsey and almost a whisper they're falling faster now three days ago there was almost a hundred it made my head ache to count them but now it's easy there goes another one there are only five left now five what dear leaves on the ivy vine when the last one falls I must go too I've known that for three days didn't the doctor tell you oh I never heard of such nonsense complain Sue with magnificent scorn what have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well and you used to love that vine so you naughty girl don't be a goosey why the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were see what he said exactly he said the chances were ten to one why that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building try to take some broth now and let sudy go back to her drawing so she can sell the editor man with it and buy port wine for her sick child and pork chops for her greedy self you needn't get any more wine said Johnsey keeping her eye fixed out the window there goes another broth that just leaves four I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark then I'll go too Johnsey dear said Sue bending over her will you promise me to keep your eyes closed and not look out the window till I'm done working I must hand those drawings in by tomorrow I need the light or I would draw the shade down couldn't you draw in the other room ask Johnsey coldly I'd rather be here by you said Sue besides I don't want you to keep looking for silly ivy leaves tell me as soon as you finished said Johnsey closing her eyes and lying white and still as a fallen statue because I want to see the last one fall I'm tired of waiting I'm tired of thinking I went to turn loose my hold on everything and go sailing down down just like one of those poor tired leaves try to sleep said Sue I must call Berman up to be my model for the old hermit minor I'll not be gone a minute don't try to move till I come back old Berman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them he was past sixty and had a Michael Angelos' Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along the body of an imp Berman was a failure in art forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the ham of his mistress's robe he had been always about to paint a masterpiece but had never yet begun it for several years he had painted nothing except now and then a dobb in the line of commerce or advertising he earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional he drank gin to excess and still talked of his coming masterpiece for the rest he was a fierce little old man who scoffed terribly at softness in anyone and who regarded himself as a special mastiff in waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above Sue found Berman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below in one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece she told him of John Z's fancy and how she feared she would indeed light and fragile as a leaf herself float away when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker old Berman with his red eyes plainly streaming shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings fast he cried is there people in the world with their foolishness to die because leafs they drop off a confounded vine I have not heard of such a thing no I will not pose as a model for your full ermite dunderhead why do you allow that silly pussiness to come in the brain of her ah that poor little Miss John Z she is very ill and weak said Sue her fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies very well Mr Berman if you do not care to pose for me you needn't I think you are a horrid old old flipper to give it you are just like a woman yelled Berman who said I will not pose go on I commit to for half an hour I have been trying to say that I am ready to pose God this is not any place in which one so good as Miss I shall lie sick some day I will paint a masterpiece and ye shall all go away God yes John Z was sleeping when they went upstairs Sue pulled the shade down to the window sill and motioned Berman into the other room in there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking a persistent cold rain was falling mingled with snow Berman in his old blue shirt and a firmet minor on an upturn kettle for a rock when Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found John Z with dull wide open eyes staring at the drawn green shade pull it up I want to see she ordered in a whisper wearily Sue obeyed but low after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that endured through the live long night there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf was the last one on the vine still dark green near its stem but with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay it hung bravely from a branch some twenty feet above the ground it is the last one said John Z I thought it would surely fall during the night I heard the wind it will fall today and I shall die at the same time dear dear said Sue leaning her worn face down to the pillow say to me if you won't think of yourself what would I do but John Z did not answer the lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious far journey the fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed the day wore away and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves when it was light enough John Z the merciless commanded that the shade be raised the ivy leaf was still there John Z lay for a long time looking at it and then she called to Sue who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove I've been a bad girl sooty said John Z I made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was it is a sin to want to die you may bring me a little broth now and some milk with a little port in it and no bring me a hand mirror first then pack some pillows about me I will sit up and watch you cook an hour later she said sooty some day I hope to paint the bay of Naples the doctor came in the afternoon and Sue had an excuse to go into the bathroom as he left John Z said the doctor taking Sue's thin shaking hands in his with good nursing you'll win and now I must see another case I have downstairs Bearman his name is some kind of an artist I believe pneumonia too he is an old weak man and the attack is acute there is no hope for him but he goes to the hospital today to be made more comfortable the next day the doctor said to Sue she's out of danger now that's all and that afternoon Sue came to the bed where John Z lay contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woolen shoulder scarf and put one arm around her pillows and all I have something to tell you white mouse she said Mr. Berman died of pneumonia today in the hospital he was ill only two days the janitor found him on the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain his shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold they couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night when they found a lantern still lighted and a ladder that had been dragged from its place and some scattered brushes and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it and look out the window dear at the last ivy leaf on the wall didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew ah darling it's masterpiece he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell end of the last leaf this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information and to find out how to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Marion Brown Toronto Canada the trimmed lamp Bio Henry Chapter 21 The Count and the Wedding Guest One evening when Andy Donovan went to dinner at his Second Avenue boarding-house Mrs. Scott introduced him to a new border a young lady, Miss Conway Miss Conway was small and unobtrusive she wore a plain, snuffy brown dress and bestowed her interest which seemed languid upon her plate she lifted her diffident eyelids and shot one perspicuous judicial glance at Mr. Donovan politely murmured his name and returned to her mutton Mr. Donovan bowed with the grace and beaming smile that were rapidly winning for him social business and political advancement and erased the snuffy brown one from the tablets of his consideration two weeks later Andy was sitting on the front steps enjoying his cigar there was a soft rustle behind and Andy turned his head and had his head turned just coming out the door was Miss Conway she wore a night black dress of creped it oh, this thin black goods her hat was black and from it drooped and fluttered an Iban veil, filmy as a spider's web she stood on the top step and drew on black silk gloves not a speck of white or a spot of color about her dress her rich golden hair was drawn with scarcely a ripple into a shining smooth knot low on her neck her face was plain rather than pretty but it was now illuminated and made almost beautiful by her large gray eyes that gazed above the houses across the street into the sky with an expression of the most appealing sadness and melancholy gather the idea girls all black you know with the preference for a crepe de... that's it all black and that sad far away look and the hair shining under the black veil you have to be a blonde, of course and try to look as if although your young life had been blighted just as it was about to give a hop skip and a jump over the threshold of life a walk in the park might do you good and be sure to happen out the door at the right moment and oh, it'll fetch him every time but it's fierce now I am ain't it to talk about mourning costumes this way Mr. Donovan suddenly reinscribed Miss Conway upon the tablets of his consideration he threw away the remaining inch and a quarter of his cigar that would have been good for eight minutes yet and quickly shifted his center of gravity to his low cut patent leathers it's a fine clear evening, Miss Conway he said if the weather bureau could have heard the confident emphasis of his tones the square white signal and nailed it to the mast to them that has the heart to enjoy it it is, Mr. Donovan said Miss Conway with a sigh Mr. Donovan in his heart cursed fair weather heartless weather it should hail and blow and snow to be consonant with the mood of Miss Conway I hope none of your relatives I hope you haven't sustained a loss ventured Mr. Donovan death has claimed not a relative, but one who but I will not intrude my grief upon you, Mr. Donovan intrude, protested Mr. Donovan why say, Miss Conway I'd be delighted that is I'd be sorry, I mean I'm sure nobody could sympathize with you truer than I would Miss Conway smiled a little smile and oh it was sadder than her expression in repose laugh and the world laughs with you weep and they give you the laugh you quoted I have learned that Mr. Donovan I have no friends or acquaintances in this city but you have been kind to me I appreciate it highly he had passed her the pepper twice at the table it's tough to be alone in New York that's a cinch, said Mr. Donovan but say, whenever this little old town does loosen up and get friendly it goes the limit say you took a little stroll in the park, Miss Conway don't you think it might chase away and if you'd allow me thanks, Mr. Donovan I'd be pleased to accept of your escort if you think the company of one whose heart is filled with gloom could be any ways agreeable to you through the open gates of the iron railed old downtown park where the elect once took the air they strolled and found a quiet bench there is this difference between the grief of youth and that of old age youth's burden is lightened by as much of it as another shares old age may give and give but the sorrow remains the same he was my fiance confided Miss Conway at the end of the hour we were going to be married next spring I don't want you to think that I am stringing you, Mr. Donovan but he was a real count he had an estate and a castle in Italy Count Fernando Mazini was his name I never saw the beat of him for elegance Papa objected, of course and once we eloped but Papa overtook us and took us back I thought sure Papa and Fernando would fight a duel Papa has a livery business in Bikipsi you know finally Papa came round all right and said we might be married next spring Fernando showed him proofs of his title and wealth and then went over to Italy to get the castle fixed up for us Papa's very proud and when Fernando wanted to give me or so he called him down something awful he wouldn't even let me take a ring or any presents from him and when Fernando sailed I came to the city and got a position as cashier in a candy store three days ago I got a letter from Italy forwarded by Bikipsi saying that Fernando had been killed in a gondola accident that is why I'm in mourning my heart Mr. Donovan will remain forever in his grave Mr. Donovan but I cannot take any interest in no one I should not care to keep you from gaiety and your friends who can smile and entertain you perhaps you would prefer to walk back to the house now girls if you want to observe a young man hustle out after a pick and shovel just tell him that your heart is in some other fellow's grave young men are grave robbers by nature ask any widow something must be done to restore that missing organ to weeping angels in crepe de sheen dead men certainly get the worst of it from all sides I'm awfully sorry said Mr. Donovan gently no we won't walk back to the house just yet and don't say you haven't no friends in the city Miss Conway I'm awfully sorry and I want you to believe I'm your friend and that I'm awful sorry I've got his picture here in my locket said Miss Conway after wiping her eyes with her handkerchief I never showed it to anybody Mr. Donovan because I believe you to be a true friend Mr. Donovan gazed long and with much interest at the photograph in the locket that Miss Conway opened for him the face of Count Mazini was one to command interest it was a smooth intelligent bright almost a handsome face the face of a strong cheerful man who might well be a leader among his fellows I have a larger one framed in my room said Miss Conway when we return I will show you that they are all I have to remind me of Fernando but he ever will be present in my heart that's a sure thing a subtle task confronted Mr. Donovan that of supplanting the unfortunate Count in the heart of Miss Conway this his admiration for her determined him to do but the magnitude of the undertaking did not seem to weigh upon his spirits the sympathetic but cheerful friend was the role he assayed and he played it so successfully that the next half hour found them conversing pensively across two plates of ice cream although yet there was no diminution of the sadness in Miss Conway's large gray eyes before they parted in the hall that evening she ran upstairs and brought down the framed photograph wrapped lovingly in a white silk scarf Mr. Donovan surveyed it with inscrutable eyes he gave me this the night he left for Italy said Miss Conway I had the one for the locket made from this a fine looking man said Mr. Donovan heartily how would it suit you Miss Conway to give me the pleasure of your company to Coney next Sunday afternoon a month later they announced their engagement to Mrs. Scott and the other borders Miss Conway continued to wear black a week after the announcement the two sat on the same bench in the downtown park while the fluttering leaves of the trees made a gloom kina toss copic picture of them in the moonlight but Donovan had worn a look of abstracted gloom all day he was so silent tonight that love's lips could not keep back any longer the questions that love's heart propounded what's the matter Andy you are so solemn and grouchy tonight nothing Maggie I know better can't I tell you never acted this way before what is it it's nothing much Maggie yes it is and I want to know I'll bet it some other girl you are thinking about all right why don't you go get her if you want her take your arm away if you please I'll tell you then said Andy wisely but I guess you won't understand it exactly you've heard of Mike Sullivan haven't you Big Mike Sullivan everybody calls him no I haven't said Maggie and I don't want to if he makes you act like this who is he he's the biggest man in New York said Andy almost reverently he can do anything he wants to with Timani or any other old thing in the political line he's a mile high and as broad as East River you say anything against Big Mike and you'll have a million men on your collarbone in about two seconds why he made a visit over to the old country a while back and the kings took to their holes like rabbits well Big Mike's a friend of mine I ain't more than deuce high in the district as far as influence goes but Mike's is a good a friend to a little man or a poor man as he is to a big one I met him today on the Bowery and what do you think he does comes up and shakes hands Andy says he I've been keeping cases on you you've been putting in some good licks over on your other side of the street and I'm proud of you what'll you take to drink he takes a cigar and I take a high ball I told him I was going to get married in two weeks and he says he send me an invitation so I'll keep in mind of it and I'll come to the wedding that's what Big Mike says to me and he always does what he says you don't understand it Maggie but I'd have one of my hands cut off to have Big Mike Sullivan at our wedding it would be the proudest day of my life when he goes to a man's wedding there's a guy being married that's made for life now that's why I may be looking sore tonight why don't you invite him then if he's so much to the mustard said Maggie lightly there's a reason why I can't said Andy sadly there's a reason why he mustn't be there don't ask me what it is for I can't tell you oh I don't care said Maggie it's something about politics of course but it's no reason why you can't smile at me Maggie said Andy presently do you think as much of me as you did of your as you did of the Count Mazini and then suddenly she leaned against his shoulders and began to cry to cry and shake with sobs holding his arm tightly and wetting the crepe de chine with tears there there there soothed Andy putting aside his own trouble what is it now Andy sob Maggie I've lied to you and you'll never marry me or love me anymore but I feel that I've got to tell Andy there never was so much as the little finger of a Count I never had a bow in my life but all the other girls had and they talked about him and that seemed to make the fellows like him more and Andy I look swell and black you know I do so I went out to a photograph store and bought that picture and had a little one made for my locket and made up all that story about the Count and about his friend being killed so I could wear black and nobody can love a liar and you'll shake me Andy and I'll say the same oh there never was anybody I liked but you and that's all but instead of being pushed away she found Andy's arm folding her closer she looked up and saw his face cleared and smiling could you forgive me Andy sure said Andy it's all right about that back to the cemetery for the Count you've straightened everything out Maggie I was in hopes you would before the wedding day bully girl Andy said Maggie with a somewhat shy smile after she'd been thoroughly assured of forgiveness did you believe all that story about the Count well not to any large extent said Andy reaching for his cigar case because it's big Mike Sullivan's picture you've got in that locket of yours end of the Count and the Wedding Guest this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information if you find out how to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Marion Brown Toronto Canada The Trimmed Lamp Bio Henry Chapter 22 The Country of Illusion The cunning writer will choose an indefinable subject for he can then set down his theory of what it is and next at length his conception of what it is not the paper is covered therefore let us follow the prolix an unmappable trail into that mooted country Bohemia Granger, sub-editor of Doc's magazine closed his roll-top desk put on his hat, walked into the hall punched the down button and waited for the elevator Granger's day had been trying the chief had tried to ruin the magazine a dozen times by going against Granger's ideas for running it a lady whose grandfather had fought with McClellan had brought a portfolio of poems in person Granger was curator of the lion's house of the magazine that day he had lunched an arctic explorer, a short story writer and the famous conductor of a slaughter-house exposé consequently his mind was in a world of icebergs, mal-passant and trichinosis but there was a surcease and a recourse, there was Bohemia he would seek distraction there and let's see he would call by for Mary Adrian half an hour later he threaded his way like a Brazilian orchid hunter through the palm forest in the tiled entrance of the Idealia apartment house one day the christeners of apartment houses and the cognometers of sleeping cars will meet and there will be some jealousy and sanguinary knifing the clerk breathed Granger's name so languidly into the house telephone that it seemed it must surely drop from sheer inertia down to the janitor's regions but at length it soared dilatorily up to Miss Adrian's ear certainly Mr. Granger was to come up immediately a coloured maid with an aliza crossing the ice expression opened the door of the apartment for him Granger walked sideways down the narrow hall a bunch of burnt umber hair and sea green eye appeared in the crack of a door a long white undraped arm came out barring the way so glad you came Ricky instead of any of the others said the eye, light a cigarette and give it to me going to take me to dinner? fine go into the front room till I finish dressing but don't sit in your usual chair there's pie in it meringue cappleman threw it at Reeves last evening Sophie has just come to straighten up is it lit? thanks there's scotch on the mantle oh no it isn't, there's Sartreuse ask Sophie to find some I won't be long Granger escaped the meringue as he waded his spirit sank still lower the atmosphere of the room was as vapid as a zephyr wandering over a Vesuvian lava bed relics of some feast lay about the room scattered in places where even a prowling cat would have been surprised to find them a straggling cluster of deep red roses in a marmalade jar bowed their heads over tobacco ashes and unwashed goblets a chafing dish stood on the piano a leaf of sheet music supported a stack of sandwiches in a chair Mary came in dressed in radiant her gown was of that thin black fabric whose name through the change of a single vowel seems to summon visions ranging between the extremes of man's experience spelled with an E it belongs to Gallic witchery and diaphanious dreams with an A it drapes lamentation and woe that evening they went to the café André and as people would confide to you in a whisper that André's was the only truly bohemian restaurant in town it may be well to follow them André began his professional career as a waiter in a Bowery Tencent eating-house had you seen him there you would have called him tough to yourself not allowed for he would have soaked you as quickly as he would have soaked his thumb in your coffee he saved money and started a basement tabla d'hote in 8th or 9th Street one afternoon André drank too much absinthe he announced to his startled family that he was the Grand Lama of Tibet therefore requiring an empty audience hall in which to be worshiped he moved all the tables and chairs from the restaurant into the backyard wrapped a red tablecloth around himself and sat on a stepladder for a throne when the diners began to arrive madame in a flurry of despair laid cloths and ushered them trembling outside between the tables clothes lines were stretched bearing the family wash a party of bohemia hunters greeted the artistic innovation with shrieks and acclamations of delight that week's washing was not taken in for two years when André came to his senses he had the menu printed on stiffly starched cuffs and served the ices and little wooden tubs next he took down his sign and darkened the front of the house when you went there to dine you fumbled for an electric button and pressed it a lookout slid open a panel in the door looked at you suspiciously and asked if you were acquainted with Senator Herodotus the dragon of the Chickasaw Nation if you were you were admitted and allowed to dine if you were not you were admitted and allowed to dine there you have one of the abiding principles of bohemia when André had accumulated $20,000 he moved uptown near Broadway in the fierce light that beats upon the throne down there we find him and leave him with customers and pearls and automobile veils having to catch his excellently graduated nod of recognition there is a large round table in the northeast corner of André's at which six can sit to this table Granger and Mary Adrienne made their way Cappelman and Reeves were already there and Miss Tooker who designed the May cover for the lady's not-at-home magazine and Mrs. Pothunter who never drank anything but black and white high-balls being in mourning for her husband who did what he did, died like is not spaghetti weary reader would take one penny in the slot-peep into the fair land of bohemia then look, and when you think you have seen it you have not and it is neither thimble-rigory nor a stigmatism the walls of the café André were covered with original sketches by the artist who furnished much of the color and sound of the place fair woman furnished the theme of the folk of the drawings when you say sirens and siphons you come near to estimating the alliterative atmosphere of André's first I want you to meet my friend Miss Adrienne Miss Tooker and Mrs. Pothunter you already know while she tucks in the fingers of her elbow gloves you shall have her daguerreotype so faint and uncertain shall the portrait be age somewhere between twenty-seven and high-neck evening dresses camaraderie in large bunches whatever the fearful word may mean habitat anywhere from Seattle to Diero de Fugo temperament uncharted she let weave squeeze her hand after he recited one of his poems but she counted the change after sending him out with a dollar to buy some pickled pigs feet deportment seventy-five out of a possible one hundred morals one hundred Mary was one of the princesses of Bohemia in the first place it was a royal and a daring thing to have been named Mary there are fifty fifines and halloweases to one Mary in the country of illusion now her gloves are tucked in Miss Tooker has assumed a June poster pose Mrs. Pothunter has bitten her lips to make the red show Reeves has several times felt his coat to make sure that his latest poem is in the pocket neatly type-written but he had copied it on the backs of letters with a pencil Cappelman is underhandedly watching the clock it is ten minutes to nine when the hour comes it is to remind him of a story Synopsis a French girl says to her suitor did you ask my father for my hand at nine o'clock this morning as you said you would I did not he replies at nine o'clock I was fighting a duel with swords in the bois de balloon and she cowered she hisses the dinner was ordered you know how the bohemian feast of reason keeps up with the courses humor with the oysters wit with the soup repartee with the entree brag with the roast knocks for whistler and kippling with the salad songs with the coffee the slapsticks with the cordials between Miss Adrian's eyebrows was the Pucker that showed the intense strain it requires to be at ease in bohemia pat must come each sally moe an epigram every second of deliberation upon a reply costs you a bay leaf fine as a hair a line began to curve from her nostrils to her mouth to hold her own not a chance must be missed a sentence addressed to her must be as a piccolo each word of it is stop while she must be prepared to seize upon and play and she must be quicker than a mcmack paddle the light canoe of conversation away from the rocks in the rapids that flow from the period in spring foreplotting reader the handwriting on the wall in the banquet hall of bohemia is lay say fair the grey ghost that sometimes peeps through the rings of smoke in that of slain old king convention freedom is the tyrant that holds them in slavery as the dinner waned hands reached for the pepper-cruit shaker of attic salt mistook her with an elbow to business leaned across the table toward granger upsetting her glass of wine now while you are fed and in good humour she said i want to make a suggestion to you about a new cover a good idea said granger mopping the tablecloth with his napkin i'll speak to the waiter about it cappleman the painter was the cut-up as a piece of delicate athenian wit he got up from his chair and sat down the room with a waiter that dependent, no doubt an honest pachydermitus worthy, tax-paying, art-despising biped released himself from the unequal encounter carried his professional smile back to the dumb-waiter and dropped it down the shaft to eternal oblivion Reeves began to make Keats turn in his grave mrs. pothunter told the story of a man who met the widow on the train ms. adrian hummed while it is still the chanson in the cafés of bridgeport granger edited each individual effort with his assistant editor's smile which means great but you'll have to send them in through the regular channels if i were the chief now but you know how it is and soon the head-waiter bowed before them, desolated to relate that the closing hour had already become chronologically historical so out all trooped into the starry midnight, filling the street with gay laughter to be barked at by hopeful cabmen and enviously eyed by the dull inhabitants of an uninspired world granger left merry at the elevator in the trackless palm forest of the idealia after he had gone she came down again carrying a small handbag phoned for a cab drove to the grand central station boarded a 1255 commuters train rode four hours with her burnt umber head bobbing against the red plush back of the street and landed during a fresh stinging glorious sunrise at a deserted station the size of a peach crate called crocusville she walked a mile and clicked the latch of a gate a bare brown cottage stood twenty yards back an old man with a pearl white Calvinistic face and clothes dyed blacker than a raven in a coal mine was washing his hands in a tin basin on the front porch how are you father mary timidly i am as well as providence permits mary an you will find your mother in the kitchen in the kitchen a cryptic gray woman kissed her glacially on the forehead and pointed out the potatoes which are not yet peeled for breakfast mary sat in a wooden chair and decorticated spuds with a thrill in her heart for breakfast there were grace cold bread potatoes bacon and tea you are pursuing the same avocation in the city concerning what you have advised us from time to time by letter i trust said her father yes said mary i'm still reviewing books for the same publication after breakfast she helped wash the dishes then all three sat in straight back chairs in the bare floored parlor it is my custom said the old man on the Sabbath day to read aloud from the great work entitled the apology for authorized and set forms of liturgy by the astical philosopher and revered theologian jeremy taylor i know it said mary blissfully folding her hands for two hours the numbers of the great jeremy rolled forth like the notes of an oratorio played on the viancello mary sat gloating in the new sensation of racking physical discomfort that the wooden chair brought her perhaps there is no happiness in life so perfect as the martyrs jeremy's minor chord soothed her like the music of a tom-tom why oh why she said to herself does someone not write words to it at eleven they went to the church in crocusville the back of the pine bench on which she sat had a penitential forward tilt that would have brought saint simian down in jealousy from his pillar the preacher singled her out and thundered upon her vicarious head the damnation of the world outside of her an adamant parent held her rigidly to the bar of judgment an aunt crawled upon her neck but she dared not move she lowered her eyes before the congregation a hundred eyed seribus that watched the gates through which her sins were fast thrusting her her soul was filled with a delirious almost a fanatic joy for she was out of the clutch of the tyrant freedom dogma and creed pinnied her with beneficent cruelty as steel braces bind the feet of a crippled child she was hedged, adjured, shackled shored up, straightjacketed silenced, ordered when they came out the minister stopped to greet them Mary could only hang her head and answer yes sir and no sir to his questions when she saw that the other women carried their hymn books at their wastes with their left hands she blushed and moved hers there too from her right and back to the city at nine she sat at the round table for dinner in the café André nearly the same crowd was there where have you been today? asked Mrs. Pothunter I phoned to you at twelve I have been away in Bohemia answered Mary with a mystic smile there, Mary has given it away she has spoiled my climax for I was to have told you that Bohemia is nothing more than the little country in which you do not live if you try to obtain citizenship in it at once the cordon retinue pack the royal archives and treasures and move away beyond the hills it is a hillside that you turn your head to peer at from the windows of the through express at exactly half past eleven Capelman, deceived by a new softness and slowness of repost and parry in Mary Adrian tried to kiss her instantly she slapped his face with such strength and cold fury that he shrank down with the flaming red print of a hand across his leering features and all sounds ceased as when the shadows of great wings came upon a flock of chattering sparrows one had broken the paramount law of Shambohemia the law of laissez-faire the shock came not from the blow delivered but from the blow received with the effect of a school master entering the playroom of his pupils was that blow administered women pulled down their sleeves and laid prim hands against their ruffled sidewalks men looked at their watches there was nothing of the effect of a brawl about it it was purely the still panic produced by the sound of an axe of the fly-cop conscience hammering at the gambling-house doors of the heart with their punctilious putting on of cloaks with their exaggerated pretense of not having seen or heard with their stammering exchange of unaccustomed formalities at the show of a light-hearted exit I must take leave of my Bohemian party Mary has robbed me of my climax and she may go but I am not defeated somewhere there exists a great vault miles broad and miles long more capacious than the champagne caves of France in that vault are stored the anti-climaxes that should have been tagged to all the stories that have been told in the world I shall cheat that vault of one deposit Minnie Brown with her aunt came from Crocusville down to the city to see the sights and because she escorted me to fishless trout streams and exhibited me to open plumbed waterfalls and broken my camera while I jolied in her village I must escort her to the hives containing the synthetic clover honey of town especially did the custom-made Bohemia charm her the spaghetti wound its tendrils about her heart the free red wine drowned her belief in the existence of commercialism in the world she was dared and enchanted by the rugose wit that can be churned out of California claret but one evening I got her away from the smell of halibut and linoleum long enough to read to her the manuscript of this story which then ended before her entrance into it I read it to her because I knew that all of the printing presses in the world were running to try to please her and some others and I asked her about it to catch the trains she said how long was mary in crocusville ten hours and five minutes I replied well then the story may do said many but if she had stayed there a week capelman would have got his kiss end of the country of illusion this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information and to find out how to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Marion Brown Toronto Canada The Trimmed Lamp Bio Henry Chapter 23 The Fairy of Unfulfillment At the street corner as solid as granite in the rush hour tide of humanity stood the man from gnome the arctic winds and sun had stained him berry brown his eye still held the azure glint of the glaciers he was as alert as a fox as tough as a caribou cutlet and as broad gauged as the aurora borealis he stood sprayed by a Niagara of sound the crash of the elevated trains clanging cars pounding of rubberless tires and the antipony of the cab and the truck drivers indulging in scarifying ray-partee and so with his gold dust cached into the merry air of a hundred thousand and with the cakes and ale and the cake and Gotham turning bitter on his tongue the man from gnome's side to set foot again in Chilkoot the exit from the land of street noises and dead sea apple pies up sixth avenue with the tripping scurrying chattering bright-eyed homing tide came the girl from Sieber Masons the man from gnome looked and saw first that she was supremely beautiful after his own conception of beauty that she moved with exactly the steady grace of a dog sled on a level crust of snow his third sensation was an instantaneous conviction that he desired her greatly for his own this quickly do men from gnome make up their minds besides he was going back to the north in a short time and to act quickly was no less necessary a thousand girls from the great department store of Sieber Mason float along the sidewalk making navigation dangerous to men whose feminine field of vision for three years has been chiefly limited to sea-wash and chilkat squaws but the man from gnome loyal to her who had resurrected his long cached heart plunged into the stream of pultritude and followed her down twenty-third street she glided swiftly looking to neither side no more flirtatious than the bronze Diana above the garden her fine brown hair was neatly braided her neat waist and unwrinkled black skirt were eloquent of the double virtues taste and economy ten yards behind followed the smitten man from gnome miss claire bell colby the girl from sieber masons belonged to that sad company of mariners known as jersey commuters she walked into the waiting room of the ferry and up the stairs and by a marvelous swift little run caught the ferry boat that was just going out the man from gnome closed up his ten yards and three jumps and gained the debt close beside her miss colby chose a rather lonely seat on the outside of the upper cabin the night was not cold and she desired to be away from the curious eyes and tedious voices of the passengers besides she was extremely weary and drooping from lack of sleep on the previous night she had graced the annual ball and oyster fry the west side wholesale fish dealers assistant social club number two thus reducing her usual time of sleep to only three hours and the day had been uncommonly trebulous customers had been inordinately trying the buyer in her department had scolded her roundly for letting her stock run down her best friend mammy tuttle had snubbed her by going to lunch with that dockery girl the girl from sieber masons relaxed softened mood that often comes to the independent feminine wage earner it is a mood most propitious for the man who would woo her then she has yearnings to be set in some home and heart to be comforted and to hide behind some strong man and rest rest but miss claire bell colby was also very sleepy there came to her side a strong man browned and dressed carelessly in the best of clothes and she said to the man the man from gnome excuse me for speaking to you but i saw you on the street and oh gee remarked the girl from sieber masons glancing up with the most capable coolness ain't there any way to ever get rid of you mashers i've tried everything from eating onions to using hat pins be on your way freddy i'm not one of that kind lady said the man from gnome i saw you on the street and i wanted to know you so bad i couldn't help following after you i was afraid i would never see you again in this big town unless i spoke that's why i done so miss colby looked once shrewdly at him in the dim light on the ferry boat no he did not have the perfidious smirk or the brazen swagger of the lady killer sincerity and modesty shone through his boreal tan it seemed to her that it might be good to have a little of what he had to say you may sit down she said laying her hand over a yawn with ostentatious politeness and mine don't get fresh or i'll call the steward the man from gnome sat by her side he admired her greatly he more than admired her she had exactly the looks he had tried so long in vain to find in a woman could she ever come to like him well that was to be seen he must do all in his power anyhow my name's bladen he said henry bladen are you sure it ain't jones asked the girl leaning toward him with delicious knowing railery i'm down from gnome he went on with anxious seriousness i scraped together a pretty good lot of dust up there and brought it down with me oh say she rippled pursuing perseflage with engaging lightness then you must be on the white wings force i'd seen you somewhere you didn't see me on the street today when i saw you i never look at fellows on the street well i look at you i never looked at anything before that i thought was half as pretty shall i keep the change yes i reckon so i reckon you could keep anything i've got i reckon i'm what you would call a rough man but i could be awful good to anybody i liked i've had a rough time of it up yonder but i beat the game five thousand ounces of dust was what i cleaned up while i was there goodness exclaimed miss colby obligingly sympathetic it must be an awful dirty place wherever it is then her eyes closed the voice of the man from gnome had a monotony in its very earnestness besides what dull talk was this of brooms and sweeping and dust she leaned her head back against the wall miss said the man from gnome with deeper goodness and monotony i never saw anybody i liked as well as i do you i know you can't think that way of me right yet but can't you give me a chance won't you let me know you and see if i can't make you like me the head of the girl from seber mason's slid over gently and rested upon his shoulder sweet sleep had won her and she was dreaming rapturously of the wholesale fish dealer's assistant's ball the gentleman from gnome kept his arms to himself he did not suspect sleep yet he was too wise to attribute the movement to surrender he was greatly and blissfully thrilled but he ended by regarding the head upon his shoulder as an encouraging preliminary merely advanced as a harbinger of his success and not to be taken advantage of one small speck of alloy discounted the gold of his satisfaction had he spoken too freely of his wealth he wanted to be liked for himself i want to say miss he said that you can count on me they know me in the Klondike from Juno to Circle City and down the whole length of the Yukon many a night i've laid in the snow up there where i worked like a slave for three years and wondered if i'd ever have anybody to like me i didn't want all that dust just myself i thought i'd meet just the right one sometime and i'd done it today money's a mighty good thing to have but to have the love on you like best is better still if you was ever to marry a man miss which would you rather he'd have cash the word came sharply and loudly from miss Colby's lips giving evidence that in her dreams she was now behind her counter in the great department store of seber mason her head suddenly bobbed over sideways she awoke sat straight and rubbed her eyes the man from gnome was gone leave i've been asleep said miss Colby wonder what became of the white wings end of the fairy