Chapter IV: Part 4

"What have you been doing of late?" a voice broke in that was clear-cut, sharp, and almost offensively authoritative. It came from a third man standing near, unnoticed. The coatless stranger regarded him steadily, his face hardening. He saw a short, rotund figure, almost swallowed up in a fur coat now thrown open, a heavy chain across the prominent paunch, an enormous diamond above, a prominent curved nose and sweeping black moustache. An elbow on the counter supported a jewelled hand that poised a fat black cigar with an ash half an inch long.

The eyes of the two men met, Celt and Hebrew. A moment of strained silence and something passed. What? Eternity's messages travel many channels. The Irishman's resentment faded; his lips framed a slow, sardonic grin.

"Me? Sure, I been searchin' for the Christ! Do ye mind that ye saw Him along the way ye came?"

"No," said the other simply. "He does not live in New York! You spoke of going for good. Where--without a coat--by the bridge route?"

"An' is't your business?" The Irish blood flared.

"Perhaps," replied the Hebrew, coolly flicking the ash. And then:

"Wouldn't you rather put it off and take a job?"

The red faded from the face in front of him, the pale lips parted in silence, and one hand caught the counter.

"If you would, come to my place, The Star Pool and Billiard Palace, four blocks above the Bridge, and I'll start you at twelve and a half a week. One of my men skipped with forty dollars' worth of billiard balls yesterday--I am looking for them now. You can have his job. A man who will pawn his coat a night like this for his wife and baby and don't get drunk won't steal billiard balls. It's a business proposition."

He drew from his pocket a fat roll of bills and peeled off a five.

"Take this on account," he concluded, studiously avoiding the other's gaze. "It will loosen up things at home until to-morrow. Here, take your coat along."

From the door the Irishman rushed back, seized the garment, extended his hand, but suddenly withdrew it.

"Not now, sor," he stammered brokenly. "Sure, I can't say it! I'll say it ivery day I work for ye."

"Good! You're all right! Now hustle, my boy!"

* * * * *

The woman in the room sat prone on the floor, her thin shawl sheltering herself and wailing infant. Not an article of furniture remained, not even her little charcoal burner--it had been the last to go. The firm, quick footsteps in the hallway carried a message that brought her face up and drew her eager gaze to the door. The man who stepped within carried an armful of packages. With her eyes riveted on these, her own arms tightened around the emaciated form she held.

"Maery!" said the newcomer gently. "Ye have been telling me I'd be finding the Christ Child if I tried hard--I do remember ye said He always came to the pooer an' sick first; to the honest an' thrue! Ye knew, Maery, me girl! Sure, it's in the holy name of ye--the faith. Well, I found Him to-night!"

He stood silent, his lips twitching and his face drawn against an emotion that shamed him.

A wordless cry came from the woman. She struggled to her knees and leaned toward him, her eyes shining with the light that ever is on land and sea where angels pass.

"Mike! Where?"

The packages slipped from Mike's arms to the floor, and his lifted face blanched with the wonder of some far-away scene, and a revelation undreamed of in his hard, narrow life. And then with a twinkle in his Irish eyes:

"In the heart of a Jew," he whispered.

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PATCHES

By Francis E. Norris

Van Gilder, although worth an easy million in his own name, was proud to be able to write M. D. after it. He had a practice, to be sure, but it was mostly upon poor dumb beasts made sick or otherwise to suit his passing purpose. This engrossed most of his time and attention. "It was so fascinating." This pastime was called research, and, being a man of means, he could devote himself at will to it.

And so it happened that one day when on his way to the laboratories he chanced to see the very specimen he "needed" for the day's investigation. It was indeed a poor, wretched beast by the side of a still more wretched human who was on the corner begging. This was luck. Van Gilder usually was lucky.

He stopped his electric alongside the curb and approached the pair.

"Mister, would y' be kind enough----"

"Yes, surely, I can help you. Here's ten dollars for your dog."

"Ten dollars? For Patches? Oh, no."

"Well, then, make it twenty-five. You need the money, and the dog will be out of your way."

"Patches? Sell him for twenty-five? To get him out of the way?" The wretched, shrivelled soul seemed dazed. "Why, sir, not for a thousand could you have that dog."

It was now Van Gilder's turn to be puzzled. Nay, more; he was interested. Here was a man wretched, destitute, in the clutches of poverty, yet he said that not for a thousand dollars would he part with a mere useless dog. _Could_ he mean it? Could a dog mean that much to any one? Or was he merely speaking in hyperbole? The question held Van Gilder. A thousand dollars. What would he do if actually offered a thousand dollars? This was research along a new line, but Van Gilder was determined to find out. A trip to the bank, and he returned with ten one-hundred-dollar bills.

"You say you wouldn't sell that cur for a thousand dollars?"

"Not for a thousand dollars--would I, Patches?"

"Y' sure? Here's a thousand dollars. Can I take the dog?"

The sad, drawn face looked at the ten crisp golden bills as if in a trance, but never for a moment did the owner waver.

"No, not for a thousand. Patches and I have seen better days, comrades we've been for years; he is as loyal to me to-day as ever, and we'll not part till death does it. I could not sell my best friend, could I, Patches? All the rest have left me, but _you_ have never once complained, have you, old fellow? No, my friend, I'm pretty low, but I'll never be as low as that. I thank you for the offer, but I can't accept."

Van Gilder, a puzzled, thoughtful man, got into his car and drove off. But not to the laboratories. Like Saul on the road to Damascus, a new light had burst upon him.

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THE ARM AT GRAVELOTTE

By William Almon Wolff

He was an old man, with snow-white hair and a patriarch's beard. One sleeve of his coat was empty. He had lived in the village for many years--since five years after the great war, men said. He had prospered; when the new war of 1914 broke out he was the largest landholder for miles around.

It was not far from the French border, this village of which Hans Schmidt was patriarch. It had no railway station, but a line of rail came to it and ended in long platforms in open fields. Twice, of late years, trains had rolled up beside those platforms, discharging soldiers of the Fatherland, engaged in manœuvres. Now, in the first week of August, there was real use for the platforms. For three days trains rolled up in a never-ending procession, discharging their living freight of men in a misty, gray-green uniform that melted into the background of grass and shrubs at a hundred paces, with even the spikes of their helmets covered with cloth.

Westward moved the soldiers, like a swarm of locusts. But they left something behind, an integral part of themselves, their collective brain. About the house of Hans Schmidt sentries were posted. Mechanics, working quietly, swiftly, as if they had known long since what they must do, laid wires into his modest parlour, connected it by telephone and telegraph with Berlin, with the ever-moving forces to the west. In Hans Schmidt's bed slept a corps commander; the whole house was given up to the staff. He himself was allowed a cot in the kitchen. His house was chosen for headquarters.

From the parlour the general ordered the movements of forty thousand men, playing their part, like a piece in a game of chess, in the plan of invasion of the Great Headquarters Staff. Vastly important were these movements; each corps must coördinate absolutely with every other. Confusion here might ruin the whole great plan.

The high-born general was very busy. But on the second day he deigned to notice Hans Schmidt, who had drawn back, his one arm raised in the salute, as the general passed him.

"_Ach!_" said the general. "You have lost an arm! An old soldier, _nicht wahr_?"

"Yes, my general. I left my arm at Gravelotte."

"So! I was in that business, too. I got my company that day, when Steinmetz lost half his corps. _Ach!_ This time we shall finish them even more quickly! Von Kluck is halfway through Belgium; the Crown Prince is hammering at Verdun! We shall be in Paris within the month!"

Hans Schmidt listened respectfully, as became him. The general went to his desk. Hans Schmidt, in his garden, looked at the western sky. Flying low, nearby, was an aeroplane, blunt, snub-nosed. He knew it for a Taube, though no monoplanes had circled over Gravelotte. It turned, and flew eastward, out of sight. Still he peered into the west. High in the air something flashed gold in the rays of the sun, shining upward from behind a cloud. Hans Schmidt went slowly into the kitchen.

There a hot, smokeless fire of hard coal burned to roast two suckling pigs for the dinner of the general and the high-born officers of the staff. He sent out a maid whose duty it was to watch the pigs. Hans Schmidt took a bag from his pocket, emptied it into the fire, added a pile of kindling wood. He went back into the garden. Thoughtfully he looked at the chimney, from which there rose suddenly a thick column of oily black smoke. Straight up it went, higher and higher.

"In Berlin you would be fined for that," said a young staff officer, coming up beside him.

"The maids are careless," answered the patriot.

The officer gaped at the smoke. Hans Schmidt looked to the west. Again he caught the gleam of the sun on metal. From the west a monoplane was coming, flying like a hawk. It took shape. A mile away a gun spoke; another, and another. Above, below the monoplane, hung three fleecy balls of white smoke, where shells had burst. Followed a volley. Other officers came from the house to stare upward. On came the monoplane.

"A French flyer!" cried one.

It was overhead. It paused in its flight, circled. A tiny black thing hurtled down. The side wall of Hans Schmidt's house vanished. In a moment more there was no house--only a heap of smoking ruins. Amid fused wires a thing that had been a man, in the uniform of a general, dragged itself, shrieking, till it died.

"The smoke!" cried an officer. "It was a signal! Headquarters was betrayed!"

"Fools!" cried Hans Schmidt, as they turned on him. "The arm I left at Gravelotte carried a French _chassepôt_! _Vive la France! Vive Alsace--jamais plus Elsass! Vive la rep_----"

A revolver spat in his face. But as he lay his staring eyes were turned to the west, to a monoplane that was flying home to France.

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THE BAD MAN

By Harry C. Goodwin

"Prisoner to the bar," called the Clerk of the Court.

The prisoner came forward, closely followed by a dog, which, because it had been evidence during the trial, had become known as Exhibit A. In one hand the man held what might have been a hat when new. The other hand hung at his side so the dog could reach up and give it an affectionate lick now and then--when the man needed sympathy and encouragement.

In answer to questions put, the prisoner said he was John Brent, twenty-seven years old, and his mother's name was Mary.

"And your father's name?" asked the clerk, thinking Brent had overlooked this detail.

"Never had none."

The judge looked up, glanced in sympathy at the prisoner, then looked down again.

The famous Von Betz, who had caused Brent's arrest and trial, sneered.

Some women present, attracted by the high social and professional standing of the great Von Betz, looked shocked.

Possibly they were shocked.

Exhibit A moved closer and gave the hand of his master two or three encouraging licks and wagged his tail joyfully in recognition of the prisoner's friendly smile.

"The jury," said the judge, "has found you guilty of assault, with intent to kill, on the person of Dr. Enrich Von Betz. You have had a fair trial. The evidence seems to justify the verdict. Have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed?"

"I would like to say something, judge, 'cause I got a hunch you'll understand. I got a feelin' you'd done the same thing I did. I never had a father, and the world seems to blame me. But it wasn't my fault, and I've never blamed my mother, neither. She was a good girl. I've had a pretty tough time--nobody but my mother, the dog, and God has given me a square deal. Sometimes God forgot, I guess."

The judge leaned forward, interested. The dog licked the prisoner's hand and wagged his tail. Thus encouraged, Brent continued:

"There ain't been a day since my mother died that some one ain't come along and made me feel in the way. Every time I'd get a new start some one would say I didn't have a father, an' back I'd go.

"I got to thinkin' I must be a pretty bad man until Yip, the dog, fell in with me three years ago. Guess he saw somethin' in me others didn't. He didn't ask if I had a father. He's stuck by me, he's starved fer me, an I've starved fer him. Just see how he looks at me, judge. A dog don't look at a man like that unless he sees some good in all the bad.

"I pulled Yip out from under a trolley car and went under myself. They took me to the hospital and sent Yip to the pound. I was in for a long time, and on the day I left I did this thing I'm going up for.

"I was passing a building on the grounds when I heard a dog yelp. It was Yip. I don't know how I got in, but I did. I don't know exactly what I did when I got in. I guess I did come near killing the doctor.

"But judge," and his voice grew thick from anger, "when I got in I saw Yip stretched out on his back. They had straps pulling his legs one way and his head another way so he couldn't move. All he could do was cry--cry just like a baby that knows he's being hurt but don't know why.

"And the doctor, judge, was standing over Yip and the knife in his hand was all bloody."

"Go on," said the judge.

"I ain't got anything more to say, except that I want you to send Yip along when you send me away. If you don't, judge, and the doctor gets Yip and kills him, I'll kill the doctor when I gets out, because I've got just as much right fer killin' the doctor as he's got to kill Yip. That's all I got to say, judge."

"I know how you feel, Brent," said the judge, in a rather husky voice. "I've got a dog at home--a dog like Yip. And--and--but duty compels me to sentence you to ten years at hard labour, and I impose a similar sentence on the dog Yip----"

"Thanks, judge, thanks, fer sending Yip along. You know, judge. You got a heart, you got feelings, just like Yip and your dog has. You----"

"But in view of the circumstances that provoked the assault," interrupted the judge, "I'll suspend your sentence during good behaviour."

"But Yip," begged the man without a father.

"I'll suspend Yip's sentence, too," smiled the judge.

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NEMESIS

By Mary Clark

The Little White Mare stirred uneasily in the narrow stall, and shifted her weight from one three-legged balance to another. There was no room to lie down, and the warm stench of ankle-deep manure could not rise as far as the small opening where, occasionally, penetrated a flickering beam from the arc light at the corner.

The day's work had been hard, and supper inadequate; in her dreams there came the taste of a carrot, succulent, crunchy, tender, but solid, a carrot such as the little boy used to give her--the little boy who lived on the long street of the hard pavement and the many car-tracks. That was in the days when Estevan and she had carried fruit and vegetables in the old cart, and pleasantly, had stopped before many houses, often three and four times in a block. By her association memory (the only memory psychologists allow her kind) she recognized that street whenever she crossed it in her journeys--the Street of the Carrots.

But, latterly, they carried other things in the cart, heavy, jangly things, queer, knobby sacks that Estevan gathered hastily, a few at a time, at strange hours, in quiet places. In night journeys to dark alleys and courtyards the loads were transferred to other Mexicans, who counted small jingling pieces into Estevan's ready palm. Nowadays there were no carrots, no rest under spreading cottonwoods and chinaberries. With Estevan there never had been anything to associate but work and blows. Such is life--far too little dirty water from a dirty pail; roughage for food, with, now and then, a grudging heap of cheapest grain; a galling harness; a filthy stall; work--never-ending work; a child and a carrot the only memory of a kindness!

El Paso she knew, not as you know it--its mountain vistas, its blocks of substantial homes and pleasant bungalows, but as her half-starved, rickety old frame knew it: hard-paved streets that hurt her feet; dreadful, unpaved ones where she stumbled in the ruts and mud or choked with dust; the mountain winds of winter; the wicked summer gusts that gather up adjacent Mexico and blow it to the Mesa, only, a few days later, to resume the burden and with it madly assail Mt. Franklin; the cruel summer heat when, afternoon long, Estevan dozed in the cool 'dobe while she stood in the pitiless glare, harnessed and helpless, envious of the paltry, flapping shadow cast by the red rag that floated over the abarroteria, telling, though she neither knew nor cared, that carne, fresh carne, was for sale that day. And heat, glare, red rag, dreadful streets of Chihuahuita, their memory association was--flies, millions, billions, black, busy, buzzing, biting flies.

Now, even in her sleep, she heard them.

Disturbed in their myriad sleep, the flies buzzed mightily. Estevan's heavy slap fell on her shoulder, and in the starry darkness he hustled her out of the stall and into harness. Past dark rows of 'dobes and one-storied shops--jog--jog; jolt--jolt over rough tracks where the shrieking engines run; a smothered "'Spero" brought the Little White Mare to an obedient halt in the black shadow of a freight-car.

Men waited there for Estevan, there were signs and whispers. What business of hers! She lowered her head to nose a pile of sacks; one was torn; cautiously she smelled, then licked it. Heavenly! a substance rough like salt, that turned magically on one's tongue to smooth, slippery, ineffable sweetness! Sugar it was, a carload, sent from dangerous Mexico to the safety of these United States. In the deep shadow the thieves skilfully shifted the sacks from the car to Estevan, who swung them into his cart.

Something amiss! The men muttered to each other, crouched, dropped from cart to car, disappeared in the black beyond. Industriously the Little White Mare nuzzled the torn burlap into whose folds the delightful fodder was receding.

Dazzling light--big men--men different from Estevan--everywhere--in the cart--around it at her head.

"Vamoosed! Hell take it!" was the verdict.

"And will you look who's here," cried the biggest, turning his torch on the laden cart. "Lord love you, it's a haul for a Packard truck! They sure got this old bonebag anchored! Must be a ton or two on that wagon. Well, men, shift most of this to the patrol, seal the car, and run in this outfit as evidence."

The Little White Mare stood at ease, contented, warm and sleepy, while the big man at her head rubbed back of her ear in a delightful and unaccustomed way.

The patrol whirled away.

"All right, Bourke," they called, "you can escort the corpse."

"Look out for the speed-cop, bo. It's four blocks to the boneyard."

Bourke swung into the driver's seat, clucked comfortably, and always obedient, the Little White Mare turned from the freight yard into the dusty road.

A strange creature, this man with the big, soft hands--no sharp, jerking rein, the whip, forgotten; maybe he slept; when Estevan slept he awoke with, always, a crueler lash.

For all animals Bourke had a tender friendliness, and the sight of the scarred, decrepit back patiently jogging between the shafts irritated him, as did the nervous wince the old mare gave when he joggled the whip-handle in the broken socket. The idea grew in grim delectability that she might, of her own habit, deliver her tormentor to the law.

"Now's your chance to get even, old girl," he muttered; then louder, "take me to him--_casa--sige casa!_"

Reins flat on her back, a full stomach and an easy mind, that strange association memory said to the Little White Mare that it was time to be at home, in the dirty stall, with the empty manger and the sleeping flies.

Jog, jog, past the sleeping 'dobes, past the shops, into the familiar alley--home, at last!

Bourke was gone; from the house beyond the stable partition came Estevan's voice, high, whining, pleading.

A shrill whistle outside; other voices; the whir of the patrol speeding townward; silence; sleep.

The Little White Mare was avenged.

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THE BLACK DOOR

By Gordon Seagrove

"Lieutenant Townley," said Captain Von Dee sharply, "as a spy you will be executed in two hours. Pursuant to my custom you will be given a choice in the matter. Either you may elect to be shot in the customary manner, or you may pass through the Black Door which you see behind me. State your choice when the hour comes."

Von Dee--"Von Dee the whimsical" they called him in the trenches--turned to his reports while Lieutenant Townley was led back to the cell. A great hopelessness fell upon the latter. So this was the end then? All his hopes, his plans with regard to marriage to Cecile were to be swept away. It was difficult to realize that in another hour he would be separated by an unfathomable void from the woman whom he loved like life itself and trusted like no man had ever trusted woman before.

"Shot ... or the Black Door...." Von Dee's words came back to him. What horrible fate--which legend held was worse than death--met those who passed beyond the Black Door? He knew that not one of death prisoners had dared to pass beyond it. Each had chosen death at the hands of the firing squad.

A half hour passed. Then, suddenly, a scrap of paper fluttered into his hands. He opened it and read:

"Choose the Black Door. I know." It was signed Cecile.

Now the hour for the execution could not come soon enough. Cecile had remembered! Cecile had saved him. Perhaps behind the Black Door he would only be maimed or crippled and could go back to Cecile. As the guards led him into Von Dee's quarters his heart pounded gladly. In the gloom of the room he could see Von Dee and a stranger talking. In another moment he would tell Captain Von Dee that he, Lieutenant Townley, elected to pass through the Black Door.

He waited. Apparently his presence was not noted. He could hear scraps of conversation: "I've always maintained," Von Dee was saying, "that, no matter how brave a man, he will choose a known form of death rather than an unknown...."

There was a lull, and then the other voice said: "And you are the only one who knows what lies beyond the Black Door?"

"No," Von Dee answered his brother. "A woman knows." Then he added with a light laugh: "She was a former mistress of mine!"

Lieutenant Townley heard, trembled, turned white, then stiffened. Von Dee was before him, talking. "Well, Lieutenant," he said, "do you elect the Black Door?"

"I do not!" the prisoner answered. Von Dee nodded to the guards who led Lieutenant Townley away. A moment later came the report of the firing squad on the drill grounds.

"What did I tell you!" cried Von Dee to his brother. "Lieutenant Townley, one of the bravest, couldn't face the unknown. He went the usual way." For several moments he puffed his cigar silently, then: "Birwitz," he asked suddenly, "do you know what lies beyond the Black Door?"

The younger Von Dee shook his head.

"Freedom," said Captain Von Dee. "And I've never met a man brave enough to take it!"

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THE MAN WHO TOLD

By John Cutler

Toward midnight in the smoking-room of the trans-Atlantic liner Howard, the author, held forth on realism and romance. In one of his pauses another of the company broke in:

"Realism," said the interrupter, "is but the word with which those who can see nothing but the ordinary and humdrum in life try to excuse their blindness to the romances that unfold themselves all about us every day. The last time I heard the doctrine of realism preached was in the home of a wealthy New Yorker who declared that in his life there had never been the least tinge of the unusual or the romantic. He had never fallen in love and never had any adventures. Three days later in the morning he was found seated in a chair on the piazza of his summer home dead from a stab wound through the heart. Three hundred thousand dollars in cash which he had received from the sale of a block of bonds was missing from his office safe where he had placed it the preceding late afternoon because his bank was closed. The only clue found to the murderer was a blood-stained stiletto which was discovered between the Old and the New Testaments in a big family Bible on a high shelf in the library of the murdered man's summer home. The mystery of the murder was never solved."

"The plot of a very interesting story," commented Howard and went on with his monologue. A little later the party broke up. On his way to his stateroom Winton, who had been one of them, dropped in at the wireless room and sent a message.

Three days later at the New York pier the man who had interrupted Howard was arrested for murder committed four years before. "I was once a member of the force," explained Winton to Howard; "that stiletto was never found until he told where to look for it that night in the smoking-room."

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THE UNANSWERED CALL

By Thomas T. Hoyne

Six months of married life had not staled the two great adventures in each week day of Delia Hetherington's placid existence--the morning leavetaking and the evening return of her husband. His departure was a climax of lingering kisses, admonitions, and exhortations; his return a triumph. Did he not put all to the touch with Fortune at every parting and go forth to strive all day, a dauntless hero, 'mid motor juggernauts and rushing trolley cars, 'neath dangling safes and dropping tiles, beside treacherous pitfalls and yawning manholes? But ever he bore a charmed life and returned to his love in the dark of the evening with thrilling tales of his salesmanship and of repartee to his boss.

Delia hummed a plaintive, childish melody as she set the little, round dining-table for two persons. As is the habit of brides, she laid the places side by side instead of opposite each other. A light shadow of curiosity flickered across her mind, and she carefully laid a saucer on the table to note the effect of a third place. She snatched it up again, blushing, although there was no one else in all the length and breadth of the four-room apartment where she and Fred, upheld by the installment plan, had built their nest. She resumed her singing, bird-like in its thin simplicity. Such a song, one could imagine, Mrs. Cock Robin sang while awaiting the home-coming of her mate.

A soft knocking at the back door drew Delia from happy contemplation of the glistening forks that lay beside the two plates on the dining-room table. She hurried into the kitchen, wisely remembering Fred's insistence that she must never unlock the screen door to a stranger before she discovered his design. No well-dressed youth seeking to pay his way through college by getting subscriptions for "The Woman's Life and Fashion Bazaar" could find in his patter the countersign to win him admittance; no grizzled gypsy with shining tins to barter for old shoes knew the magic word to make the hook fly up under Delia's cautious hand.

But the man who stood on the narrow porch, panting like a Marathon runner, was none of these.

"The steps," he gasped, pressing one hand over his heart, "too much for me."

To climb the four flights of stairs to the Hetherington apartment at the top of the building was a test for a strong man. He who knocked at the screen door was slight in build and looked ill.

With quick sympathy Delia unhooked the door and pushed it open.

"Come in and sit down a minute," she said gently.

The man staggered across the threshold and dropped into the chair she offered him. The screen door shut with a slam.

He shivered as if a draft of icy air had struck him.

"Close the inside door--quick," he panted; and Delia, under the spell of her sympathy, obeyed without thought.

"It's too bad to trouble you," he said nervously, "but I'm not a well man."

Delia handed him a glass of water. He sipped at it between gasps.

"Don't light the gas," he cried sharply.

Delia had scratched a match, for night was falling rapidly. She snapped out the little flame and looked at him half afraid.

"Just let me rest a moment," he said. "There's no harm in me. I couldn't hurt a baby if I wanted to."

He almost whimpered as he looked curiously around the room.

"You're all alone, eh? I'm glad you weren't afraid to let me in. Some women would have left me standing out there."

"What would I be afraid of?" she asked simply, feeling uneasy nevertheless.

"Oh, I don't know," he answered irritably. "Only most people seem to be afraid of a sick man. They don't want him around. They won't give him a chance."

"That can't be so," said Delia. "Every one naturally feels sorry for a sick person."

"No, they don't," he contradicted roughly. "Do you know what would happen if I fainted in the street? Do you think any one would help me? Not much. I could lie there like a dog while the crowd went by. The men would laugh; the women would say, 'Disgusting.' I know. It has happened to me."

He coughed slightly and finished the glass of water.

A faint sound outdoors caught his ear. He stepped quickly to the window and peered out. Starved and unkempt he looked, but a quaint neatness about his clothing hinted at the regular habits of a workingman.

He turned to Delia suddenly.

"I've got to tell you," he whispered swiftly. "They're coming up here. You've got some sympathy for a man and you ain't afraid."

She looked at him and began to understand.

"I'm a thief," he said bluntly, and gulped on the word. "I stole a few dollars and the police are after me."

"A thief!" she cried, staring at him. "I have no money."

"I know, I know," he mumbled in desperate hurry. "I don't want to rob you. I want to get away. I was forced to do it."

"Forced!"

"We were starving. I'm married, the same as you are. Wouldn't your husband steal for you?"

He stopped short and listened. Loud knocking sounded somewhere below.

"All I want you to do is to let me out the front door; and don't tell. Say you didn't see me."

Already he had shuffled through the dining-room, Delia following him into the narrow, short, dark hall.

"If any one knocks don't answer," he whispered. "Don't light any lights."

He opened the front door cautiously.

"They'll think no one's here." He turned and looked at her. "It'll give me a chance--just a chance is all I want. You'll never be sorry."

He closed the door softly behind him.

Delia stood listening, breathless.

Voices questioned and answered on the porch below, but she could not distinguish the words. She felt as if she herself were guilty of some crime.

Suddenly the telephone bell on the wall beside her rang with startling abruptness.

She did not move. Heavy feet were mounting the stairs to the back porch.

Again the telephone rang out against the stillness in the little apartment.

She dared not move, but stood pressed against the wall. Through the darkness she could see the doorway into the lighter kitchen like a black frame.

The telephone rang again, long and insistently.

Heavy knocking shook the back door, but it got no response from Delia. There was a pause of silence and then a voice cried out with the rapidity of excitement:

"No one's home, Jim. He couldn't get through here."

This was what she had been listening for.

The noise of descending footsteps died away.

Delia sprang to the telephone and waited eagerly. But the bell did not ring again.

* * * * *

"Any trace of him, Jim?" asked the desk sergeant, as the big patrolman entered the police station.

"Naw. Anybody identify the body?"

"He had cards on him that gave his name and address. The poor guy never knew what hit him. He didn't get the chance to give up his dough; one white-livered sneak croaked him from behind with a piece of lead pipe. We called up his home, but couldn't raise anybody."

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THE WOMEN IN THE CASE

By Mary Sams Cooke

Jack Burroughs' dog broke from him and made a sudden dive down the first opening. The usual clear whistle made no impression. "Jim" was off. Jack quickly followed, and to his relief saw a big Irishman patting "Jim's" head; "Jim," with unmistakable signs of delight, jumping up and down and rubbing against the man.

That started the strange friendship between Jack Burroughs, lawyer, sportsman, and Dennis O'Sullivan.

Dennis lived in the last house on "Grasshopper Hill." It was a little less ramshackle, a little more independent looking than the rest of the row that faced on a small bluff above the railroad tracks, and its garden bloomed like a rose. Dennis himself was large, burly, rather red of face, but with the twinkling blue eyes and the genial courtesy of the true son of Erin.

Later Dennis brought out to the almost palatial suburban home of Jack Burroughs rare bulbs and old-fashioned flowers; Jack got Dennis to help him in making his own garden beautiful.

As the war dragged its fearful way along they, strange to say, never even mentioned it, until one day in June suddenly Jack said: "Dennis, I have written to a cousin in England to know if it's possible for me to get a commission in the English army."

Dennis looked up from the border he was working and demanded:

"For why and I would like to know?"

"Well, Dennis, you see, my great-grandfather was an Irish patriot, and came over here during Emmet's rebellion; but now Ireland needs me, and I'm going."

"From what part of the ould country was yer grandfather?"

"Oh, from near Lough Neagh."

"Are ye maning County Antrim, Misther Burroughs?"

"Sure, Dennis."

"Thin I'm yer boy, and will go with ye."

Jack was rather startled, but on second thought he decided to take the risk.

"Dennis, will you sign the pledge if I take you?"

Dennis' blue eyes twinkled, and with a comical smile he lifted his cap from his fiery head and said, "Shure, yer honour."

Both gardens bloomed gayly in the June sunshine; both men talked and worked and planned in secret for their swift going. At last the letter came.

Jack, as gay as a boy, went first to Dennis. "Come out to the house to-night, Dennis, and we will make our final arrangements."

"Ye can count on me, and I will be that grateful to ye for the whole o' me life."

With this letter held high, Jack, with "Jim" at his heels, gayly waved it to a sweet girl that he caught a glimpse of on a neighbouring porch.

"Can I come in, Eleanor?" he called.

The blue eyes gave him welcome. He sat on the lower step and, leaning against the post, looked up at the girl.

"Eleanor, I am off to the war!"

The smile froze on the sweet lips, the slender, strong hands clenched, but the girl's voice was quiet as she answered:

"I hardly understand, Jack."

Then he eagerly explained how his cousins in England, with the same strain of Irish blood in their veins, were fighting--nay, some dying--on the battlefields in France, and call had come to him, and he must go.

He stood tall and straight, his gray eyes flashing--those eyes she so loved--his head thrown back. Ah! The girl felt he would lead his men even unto death. He gave his warm, merry smile; surely she would understand.

"Sit down, Jack dear. Yes, I understand," she smiled into those eager eyes; "but you do not understand. No, wait, please--you are an American, Jack, first, last, and all the time; and now soon, only too soon, your country might need all such men as you. You cannot desert your country now! You cannot, cannot, Jack, dear!"

And Jack understood.

How to tell Dennis, how to break the news to him; what was he to say?

As later he saw the big man walking slowly up the path Dennis touched his cap to Jack.

"Will ye pardon me pipe, Misther Burroughs, being that low in me mind I kinnot spake without it?"

Jack smiled.

"I am a bit low meself, Dennis."

"Well, I had best out with it like a man, Misther Burroughs. I went to spake to me Nora and she said, 'Dennis O'Sullivan, have ye lost the little bits o' wits ye be blessed with? Not one foot do ye stir from your own country. Did ye not become an American citizen this five years back?' And, shure, Misther Burroughs, 'twas true the word she spake!"

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THE CAT CAME BACK

By Virginia West

Leonard Raymond was temperamentally a naturalist. Had circumstances not compelled him to make a living he would no doubt have been an Audubon, or a Gray. He spent his spare moments studying the habits of the living things about town, English sparrows, pigeons, stray cats, homeless dogs, and so forth. Old man Peterkin, whose wife kept the boarding-house at which Raymond was getting his meals, who did nothing but collect the board bills, grow fat, and hold the position of church deacon, had told him that the crows in the cupola of the Eutaw Place synagogue had been nesting there for eleven years. Raymond did not know whether to regard that as an interesting item about crows, or as evidence against Mr. Peterkin's veracity. However, Mr. Peterkin and the crows have nothing to do with this story.

In the backyard of the Linden Avenue house in which he lived with his married sister Raymond raised flowers, and on Sundays and holidays he would often go to the country to study the wild flowers and the birds.

One summer evening he sat in the backyard among the flowers. He was hot and lonesome, the thermometer being close to ninety, the family being out of town, and no vacation for himself in sight. To-morrow, he reflected, he would return to his post of teller in the bank, and hand out more money than he would ever own in a lifetime; the day after he would do the same thing----

His melancholy reflections were broken in upon by what seemed to be a ball of fire on top of the tall board fence. In an instant it disappeared, and he saw the long black form of a cat slide down the fence, and light in the yard. The beast went to a garbage can in the corner of the yard, sniffed about it, observed that the lid was on, and then, turning the gleaming ball upon Raymond, sprang up the fence and disappeared.

The same thing happened the next evening. On the third evening when the cat appeared Raymond advanced cautiously, and tried to be friendly. The cat hesitated, but when the man's hand was almost on him he streaked up, and over the fence.

The following evening when Raymond walked uptown from the bank, as he approached Richmond market he thought of the cat, and stopping at a stall bought a small portion of meat.

The meat was put on the ground near the fence on which at the regular time the cat appeared. The eye gleamed. Raymond was wondering why both eyes did not gleam when the cat seemed to fall straight down upon the meat. Raymond sat as still as a stone, and heard the meat crunching between the cat's jaws. The animal was licking its chops when he advanced--it met him halfway, and while Raymond rubbed his fur, the cat purred. Sitting down upon a bench, the cat leaped into his lap, curled up, and settled down for a nap. Then it was that he found about the cat's neck a small chain with a tag on it.

When he went into the house the cat followed him, and by the gas light he read on the tag a Madison Avenue address. Also he observed that the cat had but one eye, and forthwith he christened him Cyclops. He wondered why a person who thought enough of the cat to provide him with a chain and tag should have left him to search for his victuals in alleys and backyards like an ordinary stray.

Cyclops stuck by Raymond like a twin brother. And every evening when Raymond came from business he stopped in Richmond market and bought meat for Cyclops. One day the man in the stall asked him if he were a family man.

One Sunday morning Raymond strolled across Eutaw Place and up to the Madison Avenue address. The house was closed for the summer, but the policeman on the post told him who lived there.

Summer was nearly at an end when Raymond happened to see in the paper that the people at the Madison Avenue house had returned to town. Now, Raymond was an honest man--had he been anything else he would not have been allowed to handle the bank's money, so on Saturday evening with Cyclops under his arm, he sadly went up Madison Avenue to return the cat to his lawful owner. Boys on the street made personal remarks about the man and the cat, and Cyclops' great eye turned green with wrath as he glared at them.

A coloured woman of the Mammy type answered his ring. She looked and gasped. Before Raymond could explain she thrust her head into the hall and shouted in strident tones:

"Come heah, Miss 'Liza! Bress de Lawd ef heah ain't yo' cat!"

In a moment appeared the prettiest girl that Raymond's eyes had ever rested upon. She had blue eyes and a mass of golden hair. Though comparatively young, and quite in the eligible class, Raymond was not a lady's man. With much embarrassment he told the history of the cat.

While she held Cyclops to her bosom, the girl explained that she had left him with a friend to keep for her during the summer, and he had run away. She had given him up for lost.

"Dat cat know whut he doin'," snickered the Mammy, who was standing back in the hall. "Dat cat kin see further'n you kin ef he ain't got but one eye."

Raymond went off catless. All the way home he was thinking of a way by which he might call on the beautiful Miss 'Liza. Sunday afternoon he went out to the country, to the woods, the flowers, the birds, and his soul was full of poetry and his mind of thoughts of the girl.

That evening old Cyclops was back on the fence! His great eye had a gleam of mischievousness. Down the fence he slid, and straight to Raymond, who decided that he must take the cat back to his owner immediately.

While Cyclops prowled about the parlour with tail erect, rubbing against every article of furniture, Raymond talked to Miss 'Liza.

Every evening Cyclops returned to Raymond, and every evening he as promptly took him home. Thus time passed from autumn into early winter.

One evening sitting before the little wood fire in her parlour, Raymond said to Miss 'Liza: "I don't see but one way to keep our cat in one place!"

Then Miss 'Liza blushed, and said she didn't see but one way either!

Then he kissed her!

And old Cyclops rubbed against both of them and purred to beat the band.

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"SOLITAIRE" BILL

By Arthur Felix McEachern

Captain Billy MacDonald was one of those dour Highland Scotsmen; deep-water men; exhaling an unmistakable atmosphere of the sea. Past middle age, taciturn; yet there was that indescribable glimmer in his gray eyes betraying a sense of humor. If indications pointed to a "spell of weather," Captain Billy habitually retired to his cabin, leaving orders with the mate to "call me if it breezes up," and when the first puff of a squall bellied the sails of the _Lizzie MacDonald_--named after his daughter, and second only to her in his affections--heeling the bark in to her lee scuppers, Captain Billy would hastily leave his game of solitaire and bound on deck. One glance at the heavens sufficed for his decision. With him decision and action were synonymous; and when he bellowed the order, "All hands shorten sail," every man-Jack jumped to the ratlines, for "Solitaire" Bill, as the captain was known to seafaring men from Glasgow to the Horn, was an Absolute Monarch when at sea.

For twenty years the bark _Lizzie MacDonald_ had freighted hither and yon about the Atlantic, and was one of the few of her type which had managed to stay in the running against modern steam tramp competition. She lay in the roads at Kingston, Jamaica, having discharged a cargo of dry fish from Boston, and was all ready to clear for Liverpool with sugar and molasses. War conditions had boosted freight rates, and the _Lizzie_ had been paying her owners as never before.

It was 102 degrees in the shade, and at ten o'clock in the forenoon "Solitaire Bill" sat in his cabin at a rickety table apparently oblivious to everything except the inevitable solitaire. It was not generally known that the captain could more clearly map out a course or think of foreign subjects to better advantage when thus engaged than at any other time, and when the Yankee mate came aboard in a bum-boat, he coughed apologetically before disturbing the skipper.

"Well," said Captain Billy, looking up in the act of placing the ten of diamonds on the queen of spades, "what's the good word?"

"Nothing stirring," answered the mate, an angular, weather-beaten man with the unmistakable nasal twang of the New-Englander. "The cook's the only one of the outfit of them with the spunk of a rabbit. It was as I anticipated. The crew were afraid of the German submarines, and they jumped north on the steam tramp that left for New York this morning."

"So there's no chance to get a crew," ruminated the captain. "It is too bad that we are to be delayed at this time when freight rates are so high, but I suppose it cannot be helped. We can't sail without men, that's sure."

"There ain't a sailorman without a ship in Kingston," averred the mate. "If we were steam we could ship a dozen or so of these niggers, but they won't do on a square-rigger. They wouldn't know the main't'gall'n's'l halyards from the bobstay," and the mate went on deck leaving "Solitaire" Bill pursuing the pastime which was his hobby.

That afternoon when a slight breeze swept through the city from the mountain behind, "Solitaire" Bill had the cook put him ashore. He intended cabling his agents that he would be indefinitely delayed owing to lack of a crew. Mechanically he walked through the sun-blistered streets past the squat white houses with negroes lolling in the doorways, to the Custom House, where he found a cablegram awaiting him.

As he perused the typewritten sheet a smile flitted over his care-worn features. It was as he had hoped, although he had made it a point to never meddle in his daughter's affairs. He had scrimped to give her the education which neither he nor her dead mother had enjoyed, and though he had seen her never more than twice yearly, he had known of her reciprocation to the love of Douglas MacGillis, and had approved of her choice. He reread the cablegram: "Douglas and I to be married March 30th. He leaves for the front early April. Expect you Liverpool before 30th."

Since the death of his wife, fifteen years before, his daughter, Lizzie, had been the constant object of "Solitaire" Bill's care and affection. She was to marry a Scotsman; a gentleman; and one who was going to the firing line to "do his bit" for King and country. Many a time since the outbreak of war had Captain Billy wished that he were younger. Gladly would he have donned the khaki to fight for Britain in the trenches. His was the indomitable spirit of the Highlander. But, though vigorous and keen of mind as are the majority of men of half his years, he was beyond the active service age limit, so he devoted himself to the equally patriotic task of bringing supplies to Britain to keep her wheels of commerce humming.

"If I had a crew," he muttered, as he shuffled the dog-eared deck of cards in the solitude of his cabin while awaiting the evening meal, "I could make Liverpool, weather permitting, in time for the wedding. If I could do that--well, that's all I ask----"

Suddenly Captain "Solitaire" Bill burst into a paroxysm of laughter. "By the Powers, I'll try it," he cried, as he bounded up the companionway with boyish light-heartedness.

"Supper's ready," called the cook from the door of the galley.

"Get supper ready for a full crew," ordered the skipper, "and will you come ashore with me, Mr. Smith?" he said to the mate. "I want you to round up a crew of those niggers, while I go to the Custom House and clear. We sail as soon as you get them."

The mate looked incredulously. "The niggers can't box the compass even, and----"

"Never mind about that," commanded "Solitaire" Bill, "you get them aboard and leave the rest to me."

* * * * *

"Well, I might as well explain now; it's too good to keep a moment longer," chuckled "Solitaire" Bill, as he ordered the driver of the taxi waiting in front of the church to drive to the Liverpool House.

"We are assuredly anxious to learn what you and Mr. Smith are laughing about," chorused Lieut. Douglas MacGillis and his wife in unison. The mate, Mr. Smith, was obviously uncomfortable in what he termed his "moonlight clothes," nevertheless he laughed immoderately as he indulged in retrospection.

"I've always been a fiend for solitaire," said Captain Billy, "and after getting your cable I was in a quandary, and sought solace in a game with myself. I wanted to get to this wedding more than anything else, but I couldn't get here without a crew to work the ship, and sailormen were about as plentiful as hen's teeth in Kingston. But the cards gave me an inspiration. I shipped a crew of niggers who did not know one rope from another on a square-rigged ship--but they all knew how to play cards. I fastened a playing card to each of the principal ropes and sails, and those niggers were like cats aloft.