Chapter VI (1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Curse 'em!” he moaned.

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

Death caught him off his base.

POLITICS

(Annals of The Bend)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I says I'll assemble wit' 'em.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ESSLEIN GAMES

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

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

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

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

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

“I've got 'em, and there they be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There stood John, chief of the Essleins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PAINFUL ERROR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was Albert Weed with you?”

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

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

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

* * * * *

The principal thereupon lambasted the daylights out of Albert Weed.

THE RAT

(Annals of The Bend)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An' them sparks is recovered.

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

CHEYENNE BILL

(Wolfville)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Pres'dent,” responds Dave Tutt, “if I'm in order, an' to get the feelin' of the meetin' to flowin' smooth, I moves we takes this Cheyenne an' proceeds with his immolation. I ain't basin' it on nothin' in partic'lar, but lettin' her slide as fulfillin' a long-felt want.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BLIGHTED

(By the Office Boy)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doesn't your father love me, pet?”

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

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

“And my brother?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was not Imogene O'Sullivan!

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

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

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

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

“Oh, woman, in our hour of ease,

Uncertain, coy, and hard to please;

But, seen too oft, familiar with her face;

We first endure, then pity, then embrace!”

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

But George D'Orsey did not come.

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

And still George D'Orsey came not.