Chapter III (2)

Monsieur, I am always the gentleman. Am I forced into a vulgar role? Well, then, there is something about me that redeems it from vulgarity. I am a movable advertisement, but none the less I am an advertisement of dignity. Those clothes they furnish, I 'ave made under my own direction. I adorn my foot in the most poetical of boots. Only a Frenchman might 'ave created my coat. My trousers are poems. I am dressed with that inspiration of elegance which only a man of my imagination might devise.

Monsieur, I am always the artist. That 'at, I nevaire let 'im go up with a pop like a jacking-jump. 'E is not to startle the most sensitive of ladies. W'en 'e arise, 'e arise slowly. 'E is majestic in 'is movement. 'E ascend with gravity. 'E go up with dignity.

For three hours each day, I thus set aside my finer emotions. And all the town smile; and many 'undreds rush to buy the anti-fat of Monsieur Blinn. 'Ow is it that the Widow Flanagan----

Curses upon the perfidy of woman! Do not 'old me, I say! Let me go! I will leap from your window to the stones below! Well, I will restrain myself. Yes, I will 'ave a drink. _Merci!_

'Ow is it that the Widow Flanagan does not perceive that I thus make of my 'ead a billboard three hours each day? Monsieur, all Frenchmen are of an originality w'en driven to it by fate, and not the least of them am I! To 'er I am still the poor but 'andsome artist. It is in the parlours of the agent of advertising that I dress myself, I don the 'at, each day. I wear before my eyes a thick spectacles; I 'ide my black 'air beneath a gray wig; I 'ave shave my own beard and each day put on moustache and royal of a colour the same with the wig. There is no danger that the grave foreigner, so courteous, so elegant, so much the statesman, who condescend to advertise the anti-fat of Monsieur Blinn, shall be--shall be--w'at you call 'im?--spotted by the Widow Flanagan. She does not connect 'im with the 'andsome artist who in'abit 'er skylight chamber. To do so would be to kill my 'opes. For love is not to be made ridiculous.

I prosper. I 'ave money each week. I eat. I acquire me some clothes which are not the same with those worn by the employee of Monsieur Blinn. I buy me a silk 'at which 'ave no clockwork in 'is inside. I acquire the--w'at you call 'im?--the front. I dine at the café of the Widow Flanagan beyond the street. I chat with the Widow Flanagan w'en I pay my check. Monsieur, the Widow Flanagan at las' know the 'andsome Frenchman exist! The front, 'e work like a charm. 'E give the genius beneath 'im the chance to show w'at 'e can do. The front, 'e make--'ow you call 'im?--'e make good.

'Ave I said enough? You are my friend; you see me, w'at I am. Is it possible that the Widow Flanagan should look upon me and not be of a flutter throughout? I 'ave said enough. She see me; she love me. With women, it is always so!

The day is name; we will marry. Already I look forward to the time that I am no longer compelled to the service of the anti-fat of Monsieur Blinn. Already I indulge my fancy in my 'appiness with the beautiful Widow Flanagan, whose 'usband 'ave fortunately die and leave 'er so ver' well fix. But, _hélas!_

Grasp me! Restrain me! Again my grief 'ave overpower! 'Ave you a rough-on-rats in the 'ouse? 'Ave you a poison? Yes, you are my friend. Yes, I will restrain myself. Yes, I will 'ave a drink. _Merci!_

The day is name. The day arrive. I 'ave shave. I 'ave bathe. I am 'appy. I skip; I dance; I am exalt; all the morning I 'urn a little tune--O love, love, love! And such a widow--so plump and so well fix!

The wedding is at the 'ome of Madame Flanagan. Meantime, I am with a friend. The hour approach. The guests are there; the priest is there; the mother of the Widow Flanagan, come from afar, is there. We arrive, my friend and me. It is at the door that we are met by the mother of the Widow Flanagan. It is at the door she grasp my 'and; she smile, and then, before I 'ave time to remove my 'at----

Accursed 'at! Restrain me! I will do myself a mischief! Well, yes, I will be calm. I will 'ave a drink. _Merci_, my friend.

I see 'er face grow red. She scream. She lift 'er and as if to strike me. She scream again. I know not w'at I must think. The Widow Flanagan she 'ear 'er mother scream. She rush downstairs. I turn to the Widow Flanagan, but she 'as no eyes for me. She is gazing on my 'at. Monsieur, then I know. I 'ave got the wrong one in dressing; and I feel that accursed thing are lifting itself up to say to my bride and her mother:

YOU ARE TOO FAT!

DR. BLINN

WILL MAKE YOU THIN

And be'ind the Widow Flanagan and 'er mother come crowding fifty guests, and everyone 'as seen my 'at make those remarks! Accursed widow! The door is slam in my face! I am jilted!

Ah, laugh, you pigs of guests, laugh, till you shake down the dwelling of the Widow Flanagan! Were it not that I remember that I once loved you, Madame Flanagan, that 'ouse would now be ashes.

Monsieur, I 'ave done. I 'ave spoken. Now I will die. 'Ave you a rope? Well, I will calm myself. _Oui_, I will 'ave a drink. _Merci,_ monsieur!

ROONEY'S TOUCHDOWN

Football,” said Big Joe, the friendly waiter, laying down the sporting page of my paper with a reminiscent sigh, “ain't what it was twenty years ago. When I played the game it was some different from wood-tag and pump-pump-pull-away. It's went to the dogs.”

“Used to be a star, huh?” said I. “What college did you play with, Joe?”

“No college,” said Joe, “can claim me for its alma meter.”

He seated himself comfortably across the table from me, as the more sociably inclined waiters will do in that particular place. “I don't know that I ever was a star. But I had the punch, and I was as tough as that piece of cow you're trying to stick your fork into. And I played in one game the like of which has never been pulled off before or since.”

“Tell me about it,” said I, handing him a cigar. Joe sniffed and tasted it suspiciously, and having made sure that it wasn't any brand sold on the premises, lighted it. There was only one other customer, and it was near closing time.

“No, sir,” he said, “it wasn't any kissing game in my day. Ever hear of a place called Kingstown, Illinois? Well, some has and some hasn't. It's a burg of about five thousand souls and it's on the Burlington. Along about the time of the Spanish war it turned out a football team that used to eat all them little colleges through there alive.

“The way I joined was right unexpected to me. I happened into the place on a freight train, looking for a job, and got pinched for a hobo. When they started to take me to the lock-up I licked the chief of police and the first deputy chief of police, and the second deputy, but the other member of the force made four, and four was too many for me. I hadn't been incarcerated ten minutes before a pleasant looking young fellow who had seen the rumpus comes up to the cell door with the chief, and says through the bars:

“'How much do you weigh?'

“'Enough,' says I, still feeling sore, 'to lick six longhaired dudes like you.'

“'Mebby,' says he, very amiable, 'mebby you do. And if you do, I've got a job for you.'

“He was so nice about it that he made me ashamed of my grouch...

“'No offence meant,' says I. 'I only weigh 230 pounds now. But when I'm getting the eats regular I soon muscles up to 250 stripped.'

“'I guess you'll do,' says he, 'judging by the fight you put up. We need strength and carelessness in the line.'

“'What line is that?' says I, suspicious.

“'From now on,' says he, 'you're right tackle on the Kingstown Football Team. I'm going to get you a job with a friend of mine that runs a livery stable, but your main duty will be playing football. Are you on?'

“'Lead me to the training table,”' says I. And he paid me loose and done it.

“This fellow was Jimmy Dolan, and he had once played an end on Yale, and couldn't forget it. He and a couple of others that had been off to colleges had started the Kingstown Team. One was an old Michigan star, and the other had been a half-back at Cornell. The rest of us wasn't college men at all, but as I remarked before, we were there with the punch.

“There was Tom Sharp, for instance. Tom was thought out and planned and preforedestinated for a centre rush by Nature long before mankind ever discovered football. Tom was about seventeen hands high, and his style of architecture was mostly round about. I've seen many taller men, but none more circumferous as to width and thickness. Tom's chest was the size and shape of a barrel of railroad spikes, but a good deal harder. You couldn't knock him off his feet, but if you could have, it wouldn't have done you any good, for he was just as high one way as he was another--and none of it idle fat. Tom was a blacksmith during his leisure hours, and every horse and mule for miles around knowed him and trembled at his name. He had never got hold of nothing yet that was solid enough to show him how strong he was.

“But the best player was a big teamster by the name of Jerry Coakley. Jerry was between six and eight feet high, and to the naked eye he was seemingly all bone. He weighed in at 260 pounds _ad valorem_, and he was the only long bony man like that I ever seen who could get himself together and start quick. Tom Sharp would roll down the field calm and thoughtful and philosophic, with the enemy clinging to him and dripping off of him and crumpling up under him, with no haste and no temper, like an absent-minded battleship coming up the bay; but this here Jerry Coakley was sudden and nefarious and red-headed like a train-wreck. And the more nefarious he was, the more he grinned and chuckled to himself. 'For two years that team had been making a reputation for itself, and all the pride and affection and patriotism in the town was centred on to it. I joined on early in the season, but already the talk was about the Thanksgiving game with Lincoln College. This Lincoln College was a right sizable school. Kingstown had licked it the year before, and there were many complaints of rough play on both sides. But this year Lincoln had a corking team. They had beat the state university, and early in the season they had played Chicago off her feet, and they were simply yearning to wipe out the last year's disgrace by devastating the Kingstown Athletic Association, which is what we called ourselves. And in the meantime both sides goes along feeding themselves on small-sized colleges and athletic associations, hearing more and more about each other, and getting hungrier and hungrier.

“Things looked mighty good for us up to about a week before Thanksgiving. Then one day Jerry Coakley turned up missing. We put in 48 hours hunting him, and at the end of that time there was a meeting of the whole chivalry and citizenry of Kingstown in the opery hall to consider ways and means of facing the public calamity. For the whole town was stirred up. The mayor himself makes a speech, which is printed in full in the Kingstown _Record_ the next day along with a piece that says: 'Whither are we drifting?'

“Next day, after practice, Jimmy Dolan is looking pretty blue.

“'Cheer up,' says I, 'Jerry wasn't the whole team.'

“'He was about a fifth of it,' says Captain Dolan, very sober.

“'But the worst was yet to come. The very next day, at practice, a big Swede butcher by the name of Lars Olsen, who played right guard, managed to break his ankle. This here indignity hit the town so hard that it looked for a while like Lars would be mobbed. Some says Lars has sold out to the enemy and broke it on purpose, and the Kingstown _Record_ has another piece headed: 'Have we a serpent in our midst?'

“That night Dolan puts the team in charge of Berty Jones, the Cornell man, with orders to take no risks on anything more injurious than signal practice, and leaves town. He gets back on Wednesday night, and two guys with him. They are hustled from the train to a cab and from the cab to the American House, and into their rooms, so fast no one gets a square look at them.

“But after dinner, which both of the strangers takes in their rooms, Dolan says to come up to Mr. Breittmann's room and get acquainted with him, which the team done. This here Breittmann is a kind of Austro-Hungarian Dutchman looking sort of a great big feller, with a foreign cast of face, like he might be a German baron or a Switzer waiter, and he speaks his language with an accent. Mr. Rooney, which is the other one's name, ain't mentioned at first. But after we talk with the Breittmann person a while Jimmy Dolan says:

“'Boys, Mr. Rooney has asked to be excused from meeting any one to-night, but you'll all have an opportunity to meet him to-morrow--after the game.'

“'But,' says I, 'Cap, won't he go through signal practice with us?'

“Dolan and Breittmann, and Berty Jones, who was our quarterback and the only one in the crowd besides Dolan who had met Mr. Rooney, looked at each other and kind of grinned. Then Dolan says: 'Mr. Breittmann knows signals and will run through practice with us in the morning, but not Mr. Rooney. Mr. Breittmann, boys, used to be on the Yale scrub.'

“'Dem vas goot days, Chimmie,' says this here Breittmann, 'but der naturalist, Chimmie, he is also the good days. What?'

“The next day, just before the game, I got my first glimpse of this Rooney when he come downstairs with Breittmann and they both piled into a cab. He wore a long overcoat over his football togs, and he had so many headpieces and nose guards and things on to him all you could see of his face was a bit of reddish looking whisker at the sides.

“'He's Irish by the name,' says 1, 'and the way he carries them shoulders and swings his arms he must have learned to play football by carrying the hod.' He wasn't a big man, neither, and I thought he handled himself kind of clumsy.

“When we got out to the football field and that Lincoln College bunch jumped out of their bus and began to pass the ball around, the very first man we see is that there Jerry Coakley.

“Yes, sir, sold out!

“Dolan and me ran over to the Lincoln captain.

“'You don't play that man!' says Dolan, mad as a hornet, pointing at Jerry. Jerry, he stood with his arms crossed, grinning and chuckling to himself, bold as Abraham Lincoln on the burning deck and built much the same.

“'Why not?' says the college captain, 'he's one of our students.'

“'Him?' says I. 'Why, he's the village truck-driver here!' And that there Jerry had the nerve to wink at me.

“'Mr. Coakley matriculated at Lincoln College a week ago,' says the captain, Jerry he grinned more and more, and both teams had gathered into a bunch around us.

“'Matriculated? Jerry did?' says Jimmy Dolan. 'Why, it's all Jerry can do to write his name.'

“'Mr. Coakley is studying the plastic arts, and taking a special course in psychology,' says the captain.

“'Let him play, Dolan,' says Tom Sharp. 'Leave him to me. I'll learn him some art. I'll fix him!'

“'O, you Tom!' says Jerry, grinning good-natured.

“'O, you crook!' says Tom. And Jerry, still grinning good-natured, hands Tom one. It took the rest of the two teams to separate them, and they both started the game with a little blood on their faces. We made no further kick about Jerry playing. All our boys wanted him in the game. 'Get him!' was the word passed down the line. And after that little mix-up both sides was eager to begin.

“We kicked off. I noticed this here Rooney person got down after the kick-off rather slow, sticking close to his friend Breittmann. He was at left tackle, right, between Breittmann at guard, and Dolan, who played end.

“Jerry, he caught the kick-off and come prancing up the field like a prairie whirlwind. But Dolan and me got to him about the same time, and as we downed him Tom Sharp, quite accidental, stepped on to his head with both feet.

“'Foul!' yells the referee, running up and waving his hand at Tom Sharp. 'Get off the field, you! I penalize Kingstown thirty yards for deliberate foul play!'

“But Jerry jumped up--it took more'n a little thing like that to feaze Jerry--and shoved the referee aside.

“'No, you don't put him out of this game,' says Jerry. 'I want him in it. I'll put him out all right!'

“Then there was a squabble, that ended with half of both teams ordered off the field. And the upshot of which was that everybody on both sides agreed to abolish all umpires and referees, and get along without any penalties whatever, or any officials but the time-keeper. No, sir, none of us boys was in any temper by that time to be interfered with nor dictated to by officials.

“No, what followed wasn't hampered any by technicalities. No, sir, it wasn't drop the handkerchief. There wasn't any Hoyle or Spalding or Queensberry about it. It was London prize ring, _savate_, jiu juitsi and Græco-Roman, all mixed up, with everybody making his own ground rules. The first down, when Tom Sharp picked up that Lincoln College Captain and hit Jerry Coakley over the head with him, five Lincoln College substitutes give a yell and threw off their sweaters and run on to the field. Then we heard another yell, and our substitutes come charging into the fray and by the end of the first half there was eighteen men on each side, including three in citizens' clothes who were using brass knucks and barrel staves.”

Joe paused a moment, dwelling internally upon memories evidently too sweet for words. Then he sighed and murmured: “No, sir, the game ain't what it was in them days. Kick and run and forward pass and such darned foolishness! Football has went to the dogs!

“Well,” he resumed, flexing his muscles reminiscently, “neither side wasted any time on end runs or punts. It was punch the line, and then punch the line some more, and during the first ten minutes of play the ball didn't move twenty yards either way from the centre of the field, with a row on all the time as to whose ball it ought to be. As a matter of fact, it was whoever's could keep his hands on to it.

“It was the third down before I noticed this fellow Rooney particular. Then our quarterback sent a play through between guard and tackle. It was up to Rooney to make the hole for it.

“As the signal was give, and the ball passed back, Breittmann laid his arm across Rooney's shoulders, and I heard him say something in Dutch to him. They moved forward like one man, not fast, but determined like. A big college duffer tried to get through Rooney and spill the play. This here Rooney took him around the waist and slammed him on to the ground with a yell like a steamship that's discovered fire in her coal bunkers, and then knelt on the remains, while the play went on over 'em. I noticed Breittmann had a hard time getting Rooney off of him. They carried the fellow off considerably sprained, and two more Lincoln College fellows shucked their wraps and run in to take his place.

“The very next play went through the same hole, only this time the fellow that went down under Rooney got up with blood soaking through his shoulder padding and swore he'd been bit. But nobody paid any attention to him, and the Lincoln boys put Jerry Coakley in opposite Rooney.

“'You cross-eyed, pigeon-toed Orangeman of a hod-carrier, you,' says Jerry, when we lined up, trying to intimidate Rooney, 'I'll learn you football.'

“But Rooney, with his left hand hold of Breittmann's, never said a word. He just looked sideways up at Breittmann like he was scared, or mebby shy, and Breittmann said something in Dutch to him.

“That play we made five yards, and we made it through Jerry Coakley, too, Mr. Rooney officiating. When Breittmann got his friend off Jerry, Jerry set up and tried to grin, but he couldn't. He felt himself all over, surprised, and took his place in the line without saying a word.

“Then we lost the ball on a fumble, which is to say the Lincoln centre jumped on to Tom Sharp's wrists with both feet when he tried to pass it, and Jerry Coakley grabbed it. The first half closed without a score, with the ball still in the centre of the field.

“The second half, I could see right away, Jerry Coakley had made up his mind to do up Rooney. The very first play Lincoln made was a guard's back punch right at Rooney. I reckon the whole Lincoln team was in that play, with Jerry Coakley in the van.

“We got into it, too. All of us,” Joe paused again, with another reflective smile. Pretty soon he continued.

“Yes, sir, that was some scrimmage. And in the midst of it, whoever had the ball dropped it. But for a minute, nobody seemed to care. And then we discovered that them unsportsmanlike Lincoln College students had changed to baseball shoes with metal spikes between the halves. We hadn't thought of that.

“After about a minute of this mauling, clawing mess, right out of the midst of it rolled the ball. And then came this here Rooney crawling after it--_crawling_ I say!--on his hands and feet.

“He picked it up and straightened himself.

“'Run, Rooney, run!' says I. And he had a clear field. But he didn't seem to realize it. He just tucked that ball under one arm, and ambled.

“Half a dozen of us fell in and tried to make interference for him--but he wouldn't run; he just dog-trotted, slow and comfortable. And in a second Jerry Coakley sifted through and tackled him.

“Rooney stopped. Stopped dead in his track, as if he was surprised. And then, using only one hand--only one hand, mind you--he picked that there Jerry Coakley up, like he was an infant, give him one squeeze, and slung him. Yes, sir, Jerry was all sort of crumpled up when he lit!

“And he kept on, slow and easy and gentle. The Lincoln gang spilled the interference. But that didn't bother Rooney any. Slow and certain and easy he went down that field. And every time he was tackled he separated that tackier from himself and treated him like he had Jerry.

“Yes, sir, he strung behind him ten men out of the nineteen players Lincoln College had in that game, as he went down the field. From where I was setting on top of the Lincoln centre rush, I counted 'em as he took 'em. Slow and solemn and serious like an avenging angel, Mr. Rooney made for them goal posts, taking no prisoners, and leaving the wounded and dead in a long windrow behind him. It wasn't legalized football, mebby, but it was a grand and majestic sight to see that stoop-shouldered feller with the red whiskers proceeding calmly and unstoppably forward like the wrath of God.

“Yes, sir, the game was ours. We thought it was, leastways. All he had to do was touch that there ball to the ground! The whole of Kingstown was drawing in its breath to let out a cheer as soon as he done it.

“But it never let that yell. For when he reached the goal----”

Here Joe broke off again and chuckled.

“Say,” he said, “you ain't going to believe what I'm telling you now. It's too unlikely. I didn't believe it myself when I seen it. But it happened. Yes, sir, that nut never touched the ground with the ball!

“Instead, with the ball still under one arm, he climbed a goal post. Climbed it, I tell you, with both legs and one arm. And setting straddle of that cross bar believe me or not, he began to shuck. In front of all that crowd, dud after dud, he shucked.

“And there wasn't no cheers then, for in a minute there he set, _a monkey!_ Yes, sir, the biggest blamed monkey you ever seen, trying to crack that football open on a goal post under the belief that it was a cocoa-nut. Monkey, did I say? Monkey ain't any word for it! He was a regular ape; he was one of these here orang-outang baboons! Yes, sir, a regular gosh-darned Darwinian gorilla!”

Joe took a fresh light for his cigar, and cocked his eye again at my sporting supplement. “I notice,” he said, sarcastically, “Princeton had a couple of men hurt yesterday in the Yale game. Well, accidents is bound to happen even in ring-around-the-rosy or prisoner's base. What?”

TOO AMERICAN

Is it a real English cottage?” we asked the agent suspiciously, “or is it one that has been hastily aged to rent to Americans?”

It was the real thing: he vouched for it. It was right in the middle of England. The children could walk for miles in any direction without falling off the edge of England and getting wet.

“See here!” I said. “How many blocks from Scotland is it?”

“Blocks from Scotland?” He didn't understand.

“Yes,” I said, “blocks from Scotland.” I explained. My wife and I had been trying to get a real English accent. That was one of the things we had come to England for. We wanted to take it back with us and use it in Brooklyn, and we didn't want to get too near Scotland and get any Scottish dialect mixed up with it. It seemed that the cottage was quite a piece from Scotland. There was a castle not far away--the fifteenth castle on the right side as you go into England. When there wasn't any wind you didn't get a raw sea breeze or hear the ocean vessels whistle.

“Is it overgrown with ivy,” asked Marian, my wife.

Yes, it was ivy-covered. You could scarcely see it for ivy--ivy that was pulling the wall down, ivy as deep-rooted as the hereditary idea.

“Are the drains bad?” I asked.

They were. There would be no trouble on that score. What plumbing there was, was leaky. The roof leaked.

There was neither gas nor electricity, nor hot and cold water, nor anything else.

“I suppose the place is rather damp?” I said to the agent. “Is it chilly most of the time? Are the flues defective? Are the floors uneven? Is the place thoroughly uncomfortable and unsanitary and unhabitable in every particular?”

Yes, it had all these advantages. I was about to sign the lease when my wife plucked me by the sleeve in her impulsive American way. “Is there a bathroom?” she asked.

“My dear Mrs. Minever,” said the agent with dignity, “there is not. I can assure you that there are no conveniences of any kind. It is a real English cottage.”

I took the place. It was evening of the third day after we took possession that I discovered that we had been taken in. All the other Americans in that part of England were sitting out in front of their cottages trying to look as if they were accustomed to them, and we--my wife and Uncle Bainbridge and I--were sitting in front of ours trying to act as English as we knew how, when a voice hailed me.

“You are Americans, aren't you, sir?” said the voice.

The voice was anyhow; so we shamefacedly confessed.

“I thought you looked like it,” said the voice, and its owner came wavering toward us through the twilight.

“What makes you think we look like it?” I said, a trifle annoyed; for it had been my delusion that we had got ourselves to looking quite English--English enough, at least, so that no one could tell us in the faint light.

“Our clothes don't fit us, do they?” asked my wife nervously.

“They can't fit us,” said I; “they were made in London.”

I spoke rather sharply, I suppose. And as I was speaking, a most astonishing thing happened--the person I had been speaking to suddenly disappeared. He was, and then he was not! I sprang up, and I could tell from my wife's exclamation that she was startled, too. As for Uncle Bainbridge, he seldom gives way to emotion not directly connected with his meals or his money.

“Here, you!” I called out loudly, looking about me.

The figure came waveringly into view again.

“Where did you go to?” I demanded. “What do you mean by acting like that? Who are you, anyhow?”

“Please, sir,” said the wavery person, “don't speak so crosslike. It always makes me vanish. I can't help it, sir.”

He continued timidly:

“I heard a new American family had moved here and I dropped by to ask you, sir, do you need a ghost?”

“A ghost! Are you----”

“Yes, sir,” with a deprecating smile. “Only an American ghost; but one who would appreciate a situation all the more, sir, for that reason. I don't mind telling you that there's a feeling against us American ghosts here in England, and I've been out of a place for some time. Maybe you have noticed a similar feeling toward Americans? I'm sure, sir, you must have noticed a discrimination, and----”

“Don't say 'sir' all the time,” I told him.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he rejoined: “but it's a habit. I've tried very hard to fit myself to English ways and it's got to be second nature, sir. My voice I can't change; but my class--I was a barber in America, sir--my class I have learned. And,” he repeated rather vacantly, “I just dropped by to see if you wanted a ghost. Being fellow Americans, you know, I thought----” His voice trailed off into humble silence, and he stood twisting a shadowy hat round and round in his fingers.

“See here!” I said. “Should we have a ghost?”

“Beg pardon, sir, but how much rent do you pay?” I told him.

He answered politely but with decision, “Then, sir, in all fairness, you are entitled to a ghost with the place. It gives a certain tone, sir.”

“Why weren't we given one, then?” I asked

“Well----” he said, and paused. If a ghost can blush with embarrassment, he blushed. “You see,” he went on, making it as easy for me as he could, “English ghosts mostly object to haunting Americans, just as American ghosts find it difficult to get places in English houses and cottages. You see, sir, we are----”

He halted lamely, and then finished, “We're so _American_ somehow, sir.”

“But we've been cheated!” I said.

“Yes, sir,” said the American ghost, “regularly _had_” He said it in quite an English manner, and I complimented him on his achievement. He smiled with a child's delight.

“Would I do?” he urged again, with a kind of timid insistence.

My sympathies were with him. “You don't mind children?” I said. “We have two.”

“No,” he replied; “leastways, if they aren't very rough, I am not much frightened of them.”

“I guess,” I began, “that----” I was about to say that he would do, when my wife interrupted me.

“We do not want a ghost at all,” she said firmly.

“But, my dear----”

She raised her eyebrows at me, and I was silent. After looking from one to the other of us wistfully for a moment, the applicant turned and drifted away, vanishing dejectedly when he reached the gate.

“You heard what he said, Henry?” said my wife as he disappeared. “It is lucky that you have me by you! Do you want to saddle yourself with an American ghost? For my part, I will have an English ghost or none!”

I realized that Marian was right; but I felt sorry for the ghost.

“What did--the fellow--want?” roared Uncle Bain-bridge, who is deaf, and brings out his words two or three at a time.

“Wanted to know--if we wanted--a ghost!” I roared in reply.

“Goat? Goat? Huh-huh!” shouted Uncle Bain-bridge. “No, sir! Get 'em a pony--and a cart--little cart! That's the best--thing--for the kids!”

Uncle Bainbridge is, in fact, so deaf that he is never bothered by the noises he makes when he eats. As a rule when you speak to him he first says, “How?” Then he produces a kind of telephone arrangement. He plugs one end into his ear, and shoves a black rubber disk at you. You talk against the disk, and when he disagrees with you he pulls the plug out of his ear to stop your foolish chatter, and snorts contemptuously. Once my wife remarked to me that Uncle Bainbridge's hearing might be better if he would only cut those bunches of long gray hair out of his ears. They annoy every one except Uncle Bainbridge a great deal. But the plug was in, after all, and he heard her, and asked one of the children in a terrible voice to fetch him the tin box he keeps his will in.

Uncle Bainbridge is _my_ uncle. My wife reminds me of that every now and then. And he is rather hard to live with. But Marian, in spite of his little idiosyncrasies, has always been generous enough to wish to protect him from designing females only too ready to marry him for his money. So she encourages him to make his home with us. If he married at all, she preferred that he should marry her cousin, Miss Sophia Calderwod. That was also Miss Sophia's preference.

We did get a ghost, however, and a real English ghost. The discovery was mine. I was sitting in the room we called the library one night, alone with my pipe, when I heard a couple of raps in, on, about, or behind a large bookcase that stood diagonally across one corner. It was several days after we had refused the American applicant, and I had been thinking of him more or less, and wondering what sort of existence he led. One half the world doesn't know how the other half lives. I suppose my reflections had disposed my mind to psychic receptivity; for when I heard raps I said at once:

“Are there any good spirits in the room?” It is a formula I remembered from the days when I had been greatly interested in psychic research.

Rap! rap! came the answer from behind the bookcase.

I made a tour of the room, and satisfied myself that it was not a flapping curtain, or anything like that.

“Do you have a message for me?” I asked.

The answer was in the affirmative.

“What is it?”

There was a confused and rapid jumble of raps. I repeated the question with the same result.

“Can you materialize?”

The ghost rapped no.

Then it occurred to me that probably this was a ghost of the sort that can communicate with the visible world only through replying to such questions as can be answered by yes or no. There are a great many of these ghosts. Indeed, my experience in psychic research has led me to the conclusion that they are in the majority.

“Were you sent down by the agent to take this place?” I asked.

“No!” It is impossible to convey in print the suggestion of hauteur and offended dignity and righteous anger that the ghost managed to get into that single rap. I have never felt more rebuked in my life; I have never been made to feel more American.

“Sir or madam,” I said, letting the regret I felt be apparent in my voice, “I beg your pardon. If you please, I should like to know whose ghost you are. I will repeat the alphabet. You may rap when you wish me to stop at a letter. In that way you can spell out your information. Is that satisfactory?”

It was.

“Who are you?”

Slowly, and with the assured raps of one whose social position is defined, fixed, and secure in whatever state of existence she may chance to find herself, the ghost spelled out, “Lady Agatha Pelham.”

I hope I am not snobbish. Indeed, I think I have proved over and over again that I am not, by frankly confessing that I am an American. But at the same time I could not repress a little exclamation of pleasure at the fact that we were haunted by the ghost of a member of the English aristocracy. You may say what you will, but there is a certain something--a manner--an air--I scarcely know how to describe it, but it is there; it exists. In England, one meets it so often--I hope you take me.

My gratification must have revealed itself in my manner. Lady Agatha rapped out, if anything with more haughtiness than she had previously employed--yes, even with a touch of defiance:

“I was at one time a governess.”

I gradually learned that while her own family was as good as the Pelham family, Lady Agatha's parents had been in very reduced circumstances, and she had had to become a governess. When Sir Arthur Pelham had married her, his people acted very nasty. He hadn't any money, and they had wanted him to marry some. He got to treating her very badly before he died. And during his lifetime, and after it, Lady Agatha had had a very sad life indeed. Still, you know, she was an aristocrat. She made one feel that as she told her story bit by bit. For all this came very gradually, as the result of many conversations, and not at once. We speedily agreed upon a code, very similar to the Morse telegraphic code, and we still further abbreviated this, until our conversations, after a couple of weeks, got to be as rapid as that of a couple of telegraph operators chatting over the wires. I intimated that it must be rather rough on her to be haunting Americans, and she said that she had once lived in our cottage and liked it.

In spite of her aristocracy, I don't suppose there ever was a more domestic sort of ghost than Lady Agatha. We all got quite fond of her, and I think she did of us, too, in spite of our being American. Even the children got into the habit of taking their little troubles and perplexities to her. And Marian used to say that with Lady Agatha in the house, when Uncle Bain-bridge and I happened to be away, she felt so _safe_ somehow.

I imagine the fact that she had once been a governess would have made it rather difficult for Lady Agatha in the house of an English family of rank. On the other hand, her inherent aristocratic feeling made it quite impossible for her to haunt any one belonging to the middle or lower classes. She could haunt us, as Americans, and not feel that the social question mattered so much, in spite of what the American ghost had hinted. We Americans are so unclassified that the English often take chances with individuals, quite regardless of what each individual's class would naturally be if he had a class. Even while they do this they make us feel very often that we are hopelessly American; but they do it, and I, for one, am grateful. Lady Agatha sympathized with our desire to become as English as possible, she could quite understand that. I find that many Englishmen approve the effort, although remaining confident that it will end in failure.

Lady Agatha helped us a great deal. We used to have lessons in the evenings in the library. For instance, the children would stand at attention in front of the bookcase, and repeat a bit of typical English slang, trying to do it in an absolutely English way. They would do it over and over and over, until finally Lady Agatha would give a rap of approval. Or I would pretend that I was an Englishman in a railway carriage, and that an American had just entered and I was afraid he would speak to me. I got rather good at this, and made two or three trips to London to try it out. I found that Americans were imposed on, and actually in one instance I made one Englishman think that I was an Englishman who thought he was an American. He was a nobody, however, and didn't really count. And then, I am afraid, I spoiled it all. We Americans so often spoil it all! I enjoyed it so that I told him. He looked startled and said, “But how American!” He was the only Englishman I ever fooled.

But Lady Agatha's night classes were of great benefit to us. We used to practise how to behave toward English servants at country houses, and how to act when presented at court, and dozens of things like that: not that we had been asked to a country house, or expected to be presented at court soon. Marian and I had agreed that the greater part of this information would be quite useless while Uncle Bainbridge was still spared to us. Even in Brooklyn Uncle Bainbridge had been something of a problem at times. But we thought it just as well to prepare ourselves for the sad certainty that Uncle Bainbridge would pass into a better world before many years.

Uncle Bainbridge, who is very wealthy indeed, affects more informality than the usual self-made man. He used to attend our evening classes with a contemptuous expression upon his face, and snort at intervals. Once he even called me “Puppy!” Then he thrust his telephone arrangement before my face and insisted that I tell him whether I was sane or not.

“Puppy!” he bellowed. “Quit apin' the English! I get along with 'em myself--without any nonsense! Treat 'em white! Always treat me white! No foolishness! Puppy!”

My wife and I soon discovered that Lady Agatha and Uncle Bainbridge were on the most friendly terms. He would sit for hours in the library, with his telephone receiver held patiently near the bookcase, shouting questions and smiling and nodding over the answers. Marian and I were afraid that Uncle Bainbridge, by his lack of polish, might offend Lady Agatha. And at first it was her custom to hover about anxiously while they were talking to each other. But Uncle Bainbridge discovered this, and resented it to such an extent that she had to be cautious indeed.

His talks with Lady Agatha became longer and longer, and more and more frequent, until finally he received more of her attention than all the rest of us put together. Indeed, we need not have worried about Uncle Bainbridge's offending Lady Agatha: the friendship grew closer and closer. We were certain finally that it was taking on a strong tinge of sentimentality. One day my wife stopped me just outside the library door and said in a whisper, indicating the general direction of Lady Agatha's bookcase with a wave of her hand:

“Henry, those two old things in there are calling each other Hiram and Agatha!”

I listened, and it was so. A week later I heard Uncle Bainbridge seated by the bookcase, bellowing out a sentimental song. He was having a great deal of difficulty with it, and in order that he might hear himself he was singing with the black disk arrangement held directly in front of his own mouth.

I cannot say that Uncle Bainbridge became etherealized by the state of his feelings toward Lady Agatha, whatever the exact state of his feeling may have been. But he did change a little, and the change was for the better. He cut out the bunches of gray hair from his ears, and he began to take care of his fingernails. Lady Agatha was having a good influence upon him.

One day, as he and I were standing by the front gate, he suddenly connected himself for speech and roared at me, with a jerk of his thumb toward the house.

“Fine woman!”

“Who?” I shouted back.

“Aggie.”

“Why, yes. I suppose she--was.”

“No nonsense!” he yelled. “Husband was a brute! Marry her myself! In a minute--if possible. Ain't possible! Shame! Bet she could make--good dumplings--apple dumplings! Huh!”

Uncle Bainbridge is very fond of apple dumplings. His final test of a woman is her ability to make good apple dumplings. Several women might have married him had they been able to pass that examination. He can pay no higher compliment to a woman than to be willing to believe her able to make good dumplings.

“Aggie, in there!” he roared again, impatient because I was slow in answering. “Dumplings! That kind of woman--could have made--good dumplings!”

I felt, somehow, that it was going a bit too far to imagine Lady Agatha at so plebeian a task as making apple dumplings.

“Uncle Bainbridge,” I shouted, “the upper classes--in England--can't make--apple dumplings!”

Even as I shouted I was aware that some bypasser, startled at our loud voices, was pausing just outside the gate. I turned to encounter for a moment the haughty glare of the most English-looking elderly woman I have ever seen. She had a large, high nose, and she was a large, high-looking handsome woman generally. She said no word to me; but as she stared her lips moved ever so slightly. I fancied that to herself she said, “Indeed!” I have never felt more utterly superfluous, more abjectly American. She turned from me with an air that denied my existence, a manner that indicated that such things as I _could not_ exist, and it would be foolish to try to make her believe they did exist. She bowed to Uncle Bainbridge, smiled as he returned her bow, and passed on. Uncle Bainbridge's eyes followed her admiringly.

“'Mother fine woman!” he thundered, so that she must have heard him. “Friend of mine! Sensible woman! No frills!”

I tried to ask him who she was, when and where he had become acquainted with her, and a dozen other questions; but Uncle Bainbridge unplugged himself, cutting off all communication with the outer world, and resolutely refused any information. That he should know the lady did not surprise me, however. It had happened several times since we had been in England that Uncle Bainbridge had become friendly with people whom we did not know. We never got from him any exact idea as to the social status of these persons, and indeed we always found that he had no really definite ideas on that subject to communicate.

Our dear Lady Agatha was almost the only English friend my wife and I had made.

My wife and I were very well contented that Uncle Bainbridge's feeling for Lady Agatha should grow stronger and stronger. We argued that while he was so intimately friendly with dear Lady Agatha he would not be so likely to fall a prey to any person who might want to marry him for his wealth. So we decided to encourage the friendship in every way possible, and would have been only too glad to have it go on indefinitely.

“I feel so at peace about Uncle Bainbridge now,” was the way my wife expressed it, “with him and dear Lady Agatha so wrapped up in each other.”

But this cheerful condition of affairs was not destined to last many weeks. One day my wife received a letter from her cousin, Miss Sophia Calderwood. Cousin Sophia was in London, and would be with us on the coming Saturday. She had spoken of the possibility of paying us a visit while we were in England, and of course we had urged her to do so; although at the time the possibility had seemed rather remote to us.

Miss Sophia was past her first youth, but still very girlish at times. Under her girlishness there was a grim determination. She had made up her mind to marry Uncle Bainbridge. My wife, as I have already said, had been inclined to favour the idea, since it would keep strangers from getting hold of Uncle Bainbridge's money. But now that Uncle Bainbridge and Lady Agatha were getting along so well together my wife had begun to hope that Uncle Bainbridge would never marry anybody. We both thought the friendship might become an ideal, but none the less overmastering, passion; one of those sacred things, you know, of the sort that keeps a man single all his life. If Uncle Bainbridge remained unmarried out of regard for Lady Agatha, we agreed, it would be much better for him at his time of life than to wed Miss Sophia.

So we both considered Miss Sophia's visit rather inopportune. Not that we felt that Uncle Bainbridge was predisposed toward her. On the contrary, he had always manifested more fear than affection for her. But, I repeat, she was a determined woman. The quality of her determination needed no better evidence than the fact that she had, to put it vulgarly, pursued her quarry across the seas. It was evident that the citadel of Uncle Bainbridge's heart was to undergo a terrible assault. As for him, when he heard she was coming, he only emitted a noncommittal snort.

Miss Sophia, when she arrived, had apparently put in the months since we had seen her in resolute attempts at rejuvenation. She was more girlish than I had known her in fifteen years. And she had set up a lisp. She greeted Uncle Bainbridge impulsively, effusively.

“You dear man,” she shrilled into his telephone, “you don't detherve it, but gueth what I've brought you all the way acroth the ocean! A new rethipe for apple dumplings!”

“How?” said Uncle Bainbridge. “What say?” And when she repeated it he said “Umph!” disconnected himself, and blew his nose loudly. He rarely said anything to her but “Umph!” walking away afterward with now and then a worried backward glance.

When we told Miss Sophia about Lady Agatha, and she finally understood the intimacy that had grown up between Lady Agatha and Uncle Bainbridge, she looked reproachfully at my wife, as if to say, “You have been a traitor to my cause!” And then she announced very primly, quite forgetting her lisp, “I am quite sure that I, for one, do not care to make the acquaintance of this person!”

“Cousin Sophia,” said my wife sharply, “what do you mean by that?”

“I think, Cousin Marian, that my meaning is sufficiently clear.”

“You forget,” rejoined my wife icily, “that dear Lady Agatha is our guest.”

Miss Sophia sniffed, and was silent.

“Besides,” continued Marian, “what can you possibly have against her?”

“Marian,” said Miss Sophia, “will you answer me one question?”

“Perhaps, Cousin Sophia.”

“Cousin Marian, where, I ask you, _where_ is Sir Arthur Pelham?”

“Why, how should I know, Cousin Sophia?” My wife was genuinely puzzled by the question, and so was I.

“Exactly!” And Miss Sophia's voice was acid. “How should you know? I imagine it is a point upon which Lady Agatha Pelham, under the circumstances, has not been very communicative.”

“But, Cousin Sophia----” I began.

She interrupted me. “Cousin Henry,” she said, “do you mean to say that you approve of these goings-on in your house? The idea of a married woman entering into a perfectly open flirtation with a man, as this Lady Agatha Pelham has done! Not that I blame Hiram Bainbridge; for men are susceptible when skillfully practised upon--especially with arts which I have never stooped to employ. It is shameless, Cousin Henry, shameless! If Cousin Marian's mother were alive, she would at least see that the children were sent back to America before they become contaminated by this atmosphere. Cousin Henry, to think that you have been so corrupted by European ways already that you acquiesce in this anomalous relationship!”

“I should hardly call it that, Cousin Sophia,” I ventured, “and for the life of me I cannot see anything wrong.”