Chapter III (1)

A month afterward the Kid came to the consulate in response to a message sent by Thacker.

He looked the young Spanish _caballero_. His clothes were imported, and the wiles of the jewelers had not been spent upon him in vain. A more than respectable diamond shone on his finger as he rolled a shuck cigarette.

"What's doing?" asked Thacker.

"Nothing much," said the Kid calmly. "I eat my first iguana steak to-day. They're them big lizards, you _sabe_? I reckon, though, that frijoles and side bacon would do me about as well. Do you care for iguanas, Thacker?"

"No, nor for some other kinds of reptiles," said Thacker.

It was three in the afternoon, and in another hour he would be in his state of beatitude.

"It's time you were making good, sonny," he went on, with an ugly look on his reddened face. "You're not playing up to me square. You've been the prodigal son for four weeks now, and you could have had veal for every meal on a gold dish if you'd wanted it. Now, Mr. Kid, do you think it's right to leave me out so long on a husk diet? What's the trouble? Don't you get your filial eyes on anything that looks like cash in the Casa Blanca? Don't tell me you don't. Everybody knows where old Urique keeps his stuff. It's U. S. currency, too; he don't accept anything else. What's doing? Don't say 'nothing' this time."

"Why, sure," said the Kid, admiring his diamond, "there's plenty of money up there. I'm no judge of collateral in bunches, but I will undertake for to say that I've seen the rise of $50,000 at a time in that tin grub box that my adopted father calls his safe. And he lets me carry the key sometimes just to show me that he knows I'm the real little Francisco that strayed from the herd a long time ago."

"Well, what are you waiting for?" asked Thacker angrily. "Don't you forget that I can upset your apple cart any day I want to. If old Urique knew you were an impostor, what sort of things would happen to you? Oh, you don't know this country, Mr. Texas Kid. The laws here have got mustard spread between 'em. These people here'd stretch you out like a frog that had been stepped on, and give you about fifty sticks at every corner of the plaza. And they'd wear every stick out, too. What was left of you they'd feed to alligators."

"I might as well tell you now, pardner," said the Kid, sliding down low on his steamer chair, "that things are going to stay just as they are. They're about right now."

"What do you mean?" asked Thacker, rattling the bottom of his glass on his desk.

"The scheme's off," said the Kid. "And whenever you have the pleasure of speaking to me address me as Don Francisco Urique. I'll guarantee I'll answer to it. We'll let Colonel Urique keep his money. His little tin safe is as good as the time-locker in the First National Bank of Laredo as far as you and me are concerned."

"You're going to throw me down, then, are you?" said the consul.

"Sure," said the Kid cheerfully. "Throw you down. That's it. And now I'll tell you why. The first night I was up at the colonel's house they introduced me to a bedroom. No blankets on the floor--a real room, with a bed and things in it. And before I was asleep, in comes this artificial mother of mine and tucks in the covers. 'Panchito,' she says, 'my little lost one, God has brought you back to me. I bless his name forever.' It was that, or some truck like that, she said. And down comes a drop or two of rain and hits me on the nose. And all that stuck by me, Mr. Thacker. And it's been that way ever since. And it's got to stay that way. Don't you think that it's for what's in it for me, either, that I say so. If you have any such ideas, keep 'em to yourself. I haven't had much truck with women in my life, and no mothers to speak of, but here's a lady that we've got to keep fooled. Once she stood it; twice she won't. I'm a low-down wolf, and the devil may have sent me on this trail instead of God, but I'll travel it to the end. And now, don't forget that I'm Don Francisco Urique whenever you happen to mention my name."

"I'll expose you to-day, you--you double-dyed traitor," stammered Thacker.

The Kid arose and, without violence, took Thacker by the throat with a hand of steel, and shoved him slowly into a corner. Then he drew from under his left arm his pearl-handled .45 and poked the cold muzzle of it against the consul's mouth.

"I told you why I come here," he said, with his old freezing smile. "If I leave here, you'll be the reason. Never forget it, pardner. Now, what is my name?"

"Er--Don Francisco Urique," gasped Thacker.

From outside came a sound of wheels, and the shouting of some one, and the sharp thwacks of a wooden whipstock upon the backs of fat horses.

The Kid put up his gun, and walked toward the door. But he turned again and came back to the trembling Thacker, and held up his left hand with its back toward the consul.

"There's one more reason," he said slowly, "why things have got to stand as they are. The fellow I killed in Laredo had one of them same pictures on his left hand."

Outside, the ancient landau of Don Santos Urique rattled to the door. The coachman ceased his bellowing. Señora Urique, in a voluminous gay gown of white lace and flying ribbons, leaned forward with a happy look in her great soft eyes.

"Are you within, dear son?" she called, in the rippling Castilian.

"_Madre mio, yo vengo_ [mother, I come]," answered the young Don Francisco Urique.

AN OLD-TIME SINGER

BY FRANK L. STANTON

I don't want any hymnbook when the Methodists is nigh,
A-linin' out the ol' ones that went thrillin' to the sky
In the ol' campmeetin' seasons, when 'twuz "Glory hallelu!"
An' "Brother, rise an' tell us what the Lord has done fer you!"

Fer I know them songs so perfect that when I git the swing
O' the tune they want to go to I kin shet my eyes an' sing!
"On Jordan's stormy banks," an' ol' "Amazin' Grace"--they seem
So nat'ral, I'm like some one that's singin' in a dream!

Oh, when it comes to them ol' songs I allus does my part;
An' I've got the ol'-time Bible down, as you might say, "by heart!"
When the preacher says the fust word in the givin' of his text
I smile with satisfaction, kaze I know what's comin' next!

The wife says: "That's amazin'!" an' the preacher says--says he,
With lots o' meanin' in his voice, an' lookin' queer at me "Sence
you know more o' the Bible than the best o' us kin teach,
Don't you think you orter practice what you're payin' us to preach?"

Well, _that_ gits me in a _corner_--an' I sorter raise my eyes
An' the tune about them titles to the "mansions in the skies"!
I want the benediction then--I'm ready to depart!
But when it comes to singin'--well, I've got the hymns by heart!

BREITMANN IN POLITICS

SHOWING HOW MR. HIRAM TWINE "PLAYED OFF" ON SMITH

BY CHARLES GODFREY LELAND

VIDE LICET: Dere vas a fillage
Whose vode alone vouldt pe
Apout enoof to elegdt a man,
Und gife a mayority;
So de von who couldt scoop dis seddlement
Vould make a pully hit;
Boot dough dey vere Deutschers, von und all,
Dey all go von on Schmit.

Now it happenet to gome to bass
Dat in dis liddle town
De Deutsch vas all exshpegdin
Dat Mishder Schmit coom down,
His brinciples to fore-setzen
Und his ideés to deach,
(Dat is, fix oop de brifate pargains)
Und telifer a pooblic sbeech.

Now Twine vas a gyrotwistive cuss,
Ash blainly ish peen shown,
Und vas alfays an out-findin
Votefer might pe known;
Und mit some of his circumswindles
He fix de matter so
Dat he'd pe himself at dis meetin
And see how dings vas go.

Oh shtrangely in dis leben
De dings kits vorked apout!
Oh voonderly Fortuna
Makes toorn us insite out!
Oh sinkular de luck-wheel rolls!
Dis liddle meeding dere
Fixt Twine _ad perpendiculum_--
Shoost suit him to a hair!

Now it hoppenit on dis efenin
De Deutschers, von und all,
Vere avaitin mit impatience
De openin of de ball;
Und de shates of nite vere fallin
Und de shdars begin to plink,
Und dey vish dat Schmit vouldt hoorry,
For 'dvas dime to dake a trink.

Dey hear some hoofs a-dramplin,
Und dey saw, und dinked dey knowed,
Der bretty greature coomin,
On his horse along de road;
Und ash he ride town in-ward
De likeness vas so plain
Dey donnered out, "Hooray for Schmit!"
Enough to make it rain.

Der Twine vas shtart like plazes;
Boot oopshtarted too his wit,
Und he dinks, "Great Turnips! what if I
Could bass for Colonel Schmit?
Gaul dern my heels! _I'll do it_,
Und go the total swine!
Oh, Soap-balls! what a chance!" said dis
Dissembulatin Twine.

Den 'twas "Willkomm! willkomm, Mishder Schmit!"
Ringsroom on efery site;
Und "First-rate! How dy-do yourself?"
Der Hiram Twine replied.
Dey ashk him, "Come und dake a trink?"
But dey find it mighdy queer
Ven Twine informs dem none boot hogs
Vould trink dat shtinkin bier;

Dat all lager vas nodings boot boison;
Und ash for Sherman wein,
He dinks it vas erfounden
Exshbressly for Sherman schwein;
Dat he himself vas a demperanceler--
Dat he gloria in de name;
Und atfise dem all, for tecency's sake,
To go und do de same.

Dese bemarks among de Deutschers
Vere apout ash vell receife
Ash a cats in a game of den-bins,
Ash you may of coorse peliefe:
De heat of de reception
Vent down a dootzen tegrees,
Und in place of hurraws dere vas only heardt
De rooslin of de drees.

Und so in solemn stille
Dey scorched him to de hall,
Vhere he maket de oradion
Vitch vas so moosh to blease dem all;
Und dis vay he pegin it:
"Pefore I furder go,
I vish dat my obinions
You puddin-het Dootch should know.

"Und ere I norate to you,
I think it only fair
We should oonderstand each other
Prezactly, chunk and square.
Dere are boints on vhich ve tisagree,
And I will plank de facts--
I don't go round slanganderin
My friendts pehind deir packs.

"So I beg you dake it easy
If on de raw I touch,
Vhen I say I can't apide de sound
Of your groontin, shi-shing Dutch.
Should I in the Legisladure
As your slumgullion shtand,
I'll have a bill forbidding Dutch
Troo all dis 'versal land.

"Should a husband talk it to his frau,
To deat' he should pe led;
If a mutter breat' it to her shild,
I'd bunch her in de head;
Und I'm sure dat none vill atfocate
Ids use in public schools,
Oonless dey're peastly, nashdy, prutal,
Sauerkraut-eaten vools."

Here Mishder Twine, to gadder breat,
Shoost make a liddle pause,
Und see sechs hundert gapin eyes,
Sechs hundert shdarin chaws,
Dey shtanden erstarrt like frozen;
Von faindly dried to hiss;
Und von set: "Ish it shleeps I'm treamin?
Gottausend! vat ish dis?"

Twine keptet von eye on de vindow,
Boot poldly went ahet:
"Of your oder shtinkin hobits
No vordt needt hier pe set.
Shtop goozlin bier--shtop shmokin bipes--
Shtop rootin in de mire;
Und shoost _un-Dutchify_ yourselfs:
Dat's all dat I require."

Und _denn_ dere coomed a shindy,
Ash if de shky hat trop:
"Trow him mit ecks, py doonder!
Go shlog him on de kop!
Hei! Shoot him mit a powie-knifes;
Go for him, ganz and gar!
Shoost tar him mit some fedders!
Led's fedder him mit tar!"

Sooch a teufel's row of furie
Vas nefer oop-kickt before:
Soom roosh to on-climb de blatform--
Soom hoory to fasten te toor:
Von veller vired his refolfer,
Boot de pullet missed her mark:
She coot de cort of de shandelier:
It vell, und de hall vas tark!

Oh, vell was it for Hiram Twine
Dat nimply he couldt shoomp;
Und vell dat he light on a misthauf,
Und nefer feel de boomp;
Und vell for him dat his goot cray horse
Shtood sattled shoost outside;
Und vell dat in an augenblick
He vas off on a teufel's ride.

Bang! bang! de sharp pistolen shots
Vent pipin py his ear,
Boot he tortled oop de barrick road
Like any mountain deer:
Dey trowed der Hiram Twine mit shteins,
But dey only could be-mark
Von climpse of his vhite obercoadt,
Und a clotterin in de tark.

So dey all versembled togeder,
Ein ander to sprechen mit,
Und allow dat sooch a rede
Dey nefer exshpegd from Schmit--
Dat he vas a foorst-glass plackguard,
And so pig a Lump ash ran;
So, _nemine contradicente_,
Dey vented for Breitmann.

Und 'twas annerthalb yar dereafter
Before der Schmit vas know
Vot maket dis rural fillage
Go pack oopon him so;
Und he schvored at de Dootch more schlimmer
Ash Hiram Twine had tone.
_Nota bene_: He tid it in earnesht,
Vhile der Hiram's vas pusiness fun.

Boot vhen Breitmann heard de shdory,
How de fillage hat peen dricked,
He shvore bei Leib und Leben
He'd rader hafe been licked
Dan be helped bei sooch shumgoozlin;
Und 'twas petter to pe a schwein
Dan a schwindlin honeyfooglin shnake,
Like dat lyin Yankee Twine.

Und pegot so heafy disgoosted
Mit de boledicks of dis land,
Dat his friendts couldn't barely keep him
From trowin oop his hand,
Vhen he helt shtraidt flush, mit an ace in his poot;
Vich phrase ish all de same,
In de science of de pokerology,
Ash if he got de game.

So Breitmann cot elegtet,
Py vollowin de vay
Dey manage de elegdions
Unto dis fery day;
Vitch shows de Deutsch _Dummehrlichkeit_,
Also de Yankee "wit":
Das ist Abenteuer
How Breitmann lick der Schmit.

LOVE SONG

BY CHARLES GODFREY LELAND

Overe mine lofe a sugar-powl,
De fery shmallest loomp
Vouldt shveet de seas from bole to bole,
Und make de shildren shoomp.
Und if she vere a clofer-fieldt,
I'd bet mine only pence,
It vouldn't pe no dime at all
Pefore I'd shoomp de fence.

Her heafenly foice it drill me so,
It really seems to hoort;
She ish de holiest anamile
Dat roons oopon de dirt.
De re'nbow rises ven she sings,
De sonn shine ven she dalk,
De angels crow und flop deir vings
Ven she goes out to valk.

So livin vhite--so carnadine--
Mine lofe's gomblexion glow;
It's shoost like abendcarmosine
Rich gleamin on de shnow.
Her soul makes plooshes in her sheek,
As sommer reds de wein,
Or sonlight sends a fire-life troo
An blank karfunkelstein.

De ueberschwengliche idées
Dis lofe put in my mind,
Vould make a foostrate philosoph
Of any human kind.
'Tis shuderned sweet on eart' to meet
An himmlisch-hoellisch qual,
Und treat mit whiles to kümmel schnapps
De Shoenheitsideál.

CONTENTMENT

"_Man wants but little here below_"

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Little I ask; my wants are few;
I only wish a hut of stone,
(A _very plain_ brownstone will do,)
That I may call my own;--
And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me;
Three courses are as good as ten;--
If Nature can subsist on three,
Thank Heaven for three. Amen!
I always thought cold victual nice;--
My _choice_ would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;--
Give me a mortgage here and there,--
Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,
Or trifling railroad share,--
I only ask that Fortune send
A _little_ more than I shall spend.

Honors are silly toys, I know,
And titles are but empty names;
I would, _perhaps_, be Plenipo,--
But only near St. James;
I'm very sure I should not care
To fill our Gubernator's chair.

Jewels are bawbles; 'tis a sin
To care for such unfruitful things;--
One good-sized diamond in a pin,--
Some, _not so large_, in rings,--
A ruby, and a pearl, or so,
Will do for me;--I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire;
(Good, heavy silks are never dear;)--
I own perhaps I _might_ desire
Some shawls of true Cashmere,--
Some marrowy crapes of China silk,
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive
So fast that folks must stop and stare;
An easy gait--two, forty-five--
Suits me; I do not care;--
Perhaps, for just a _single spurt_,
Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own
Titians and Raphaels three or four,--
I love so much their style and tone,--
One Turner, and no more,
(A landscape,--foreground golden dirt,--
The sunshine painted with a squirt.)

Of books but few,--some fifty score
For daily use, and bound for wear;
The rest upon an upper floor;--
Some _little_ luxury _there_
Of red morocco's gilded gleam,
And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems,--such things as these,
Which others often show for pride,
_I_ value for their power to please,
And selfish churls deride;--
_One_ Stradivarius, I confess,
_Two_ Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;--
Shall not carved tables serve my turn,
But _all_ must be of buhl?
Give grasping pomp its double share,--
I ask but _one_ recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for Midas' golden touch;
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them _much_,--
Too grateful for the blessing lent
Of simple tastes and mind content!

TOM'S MONEY

BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD

Mrs. Laughton had found what she had been looking for all her life--the man under her bed.

Every night of her nearly thirty years of existence this pretty little person had stooped on her knees, before saying her prayers, and had investigated the space beneath her bed, a light brass affair, hung with a chintz valance; had then peered beneath the dark recess of the dressing-case, and having looked in the deep drawer of the bureau and into the closet, she fastened her door and felt as secure as a snail in a shell. As she never, in this particular business, seemed to have any confidence in Mr. Laughton, in spite of the fact that she admired him and adored him, neither his presence nor his absence ever made any variation in the performance. She had gone through the motions, however, for so long a time that they had come to be in a manner perfunctory, and the start she received on this night of which I speak made her prayers quite impossible.

What was she to do? She, a coward _par eminence_, known to be the most timorous of the whole family; her tremors at all sorts of imagined dangers affording laughter to the flock of sisters and brothers. Should she stay on her knees after having seen that dark shape, as if going on with her prayers, while revolving some plan of procedure? That was out of the question. Scream? She couldn't have screamed to save her life. Run? She could no more have set one foot before the other, than if her body had melted from the waist down. She was deadly faint and cold and shaking, and all in a second, in the fraction of a second, before she had risen from her stooping posture.

Oh, why wasn't it Virginia instead? Virginia had always had such heroic plans of making the man come out of his hiding-place at the point of her pistol; and Virginia could cock a pistol and wasn't covered with cold shivers at the sight of one, as she was. If it had only been Francie, whose shrill voice could have been heard over the side of the earth, or Juliet, whose long legs would have left burglar, and house, too, in the background between the opening and slamming of a door. Either of them was so much more fit than she, the chicken-hearted one of the family, to cope with this creature. And they were all gone to the wedding with Fred, and would not be at home till to-morrow; and Tom had just returned from the town and handed her his roll of bills, and told her to take care of it till he came back from galloping down to the works with Jules; and she had tucked it into her belt, and had asked him, a little quakingly, what if any of the men of the Dead Line that they had heard of or Red Dan or an Apache came along; and he had laughed, and said she had better ask them in and reproach them for making such strangers of themselves as not to have called in the two years she had been in this part of the country; and she had the two maids with her, and he should be back directly. And she had looked out after him a moment over the wide prairie to the hills, all bathed in moonlight, and felt as if she were a spirit alone in a dead world. And here she was now, the two maids away in the little wing, locked out by the main house, alone with a burglar, and not another being nearer than the works, a half-mile off.

How did this man know that she was without any help here? How did he know that Tom was coming back with the money to pay the men that night? How did he happen to be aware that Tom's money was all in the house? Evidently he was one of the men. No one else could have known anything about it. If that money was taken, nobody would believe the story; Tom would be cashiered; he never could live through the disgrace; he would die of a broken heart, and she of another. They had come out to this remote and lonesome country to build up a home and a fortune; and so many people would be stricken with them! What a mischance for her to be left with the whole thing in her hands, her little, weak, trembling hands--Tom's honor, his good name and his success, their fortune, the welfare of the whole family, the livelihood of all the men, the safety of the enterprise! What made Tom risk things so! How could he put her in such jeopardy? To be sure, he thought the dogs would be safeguard enough, but they had gone scouring after him. And if they hadn't, how could dogs help her with a man under the bed?

It was worse than any loss of money to have such a wretch as this so near one, so shudderingly, so awfully near, to be so close as this to the bottomless pit itself! What was she to do? Escape? The possibility did not cross her mind. Not once did she think of letting Tom's money go. All but annihilated by terror in that heartbeat, she herself was the last thing she thought of.

Light and electricity are swift, but thought is swifter. As I said, this was all in the fraction of a second. Then Mrs. Laughton was on her feet again and before a pendulum could have more than swung backward. The man must know she saw him. She took the light brass bedstead and sent it rolling away from her with all her might and main leaving the creature uncovered. He lay easily on one side, a stout little club like a policeman's billy in his hand, some weapons gleaming in his belt, putting up the other hand to grasp the bedstead as it rolled away.

"You look pretty, don't you?" said she.

Perhaps this was as much of a shock to the man as his appearance had been to her. He was not acquainted with the saying that it is only the unexpected that happens.

"Get up," said she. "I'd _be_ a man if I _was_ a man. Get up. I'm not going to hurt you."

If the intruder had any sense of humor, this might have touched it; the idea of this little fairy-queen of a woman, almost small enough to have stepped out of a rain-lily, hurting him! But it was so different from what he had been awaiting that it startled him; and then, perhaps, he had some of the superstition that usually haunts the evil and ignorant, and felt that such small women were uncanny. He was on his feet now, towering over her.

"No," said he, gruffly; "I don't suppose you're going to hurt me. And I'm not going to hurt you, if you hand over that money."

"What money?" opening her eyes with a wide sort of astonishment.

"Come! None of your lip. I want that money!"

"Why, I haven't any money! Oh, yes, I have, to be sure, but--"

"I thought you'd remember it," said the man, with a grin.

"But I want it!" she exclaimed.

"I want it, too!" said he.

"Oh, it wouldn't do you any good," she reasoned. "Fifteen dollars. And it's all the money I've got in the world!"

"I don't want no fifteen dollars," said the man; "and I don't want none of your chinning. I want the money your husband's going to pay off with--"

"Oh, Tom's money!" in quite a tone of relief. "Oh! I haven't anything to do with Tom's money. If you can get any money out of Tom it's more than _I_ can do. And I wouldn't advise you to try, either; for he always carries a pistol in the same pocket with it, and he's covered all over with knives and derringers and bull-dogs, so that sometimes _I_ don't like to go near him till he's unloaded. You have to, in this country of desperadoes. You see--"

"Yes, I see, you little hen-sparrer," his eyes coming back to her from a survey of the room, "that you've got Tom's money in the house here, and would like to throw me off the scent!"

"If I had," said she, "you'd only get it across my dead body! Hadn't you better look for it, and have me tell you when you're hot and when you're cold?"

"Come!" said he, again; "I've had enough of your slack--"

"You're not very polite," she said, with something like a pout.

"People in my line ain't," he answered, grimly. "I want that money! and I want it now! I've no time to lose. I'd rather come by it peaceable," he growled, "but if--"

"Well, you can take it; of course, you're the stronger. But I told you before, it's all I have, and I've very particular use for it. You just sit down!" she cried, indicating a chair, with the air of really having been alone so long in these desolate regions as to be glad of having some one to talk to, and throwing herself into the big one opposite, because in truth she could not stand up another moment. And perhaps feeling as if a wren were expostulating with him about robbing her nest, the man dropped the angry arm with which he had threatened her, and leaned over the back of the chair.

"There it is," said she, "right under your hand all the time. You won't have to rip up the mattress for it, or rummage the clothes-press, or hunt through the broken crockery on the top shelves of the kitchen cupboard," she ran on, as if she were delighted to hear the sound of her own voice, and couldn't talk fast enough. "I always leave my purse on the dressing-case, though Tom has told me, time and again, it wasn't safe. But out here--"

"Stop!" thundered the man. "If you know enough to stop. Stop! or I'll cut your cursed tongue out and make you stop. And then, I suppose, you'd gurgle. That's not what I want--though I'll take it. I've told _you_, time and again, that I want the paymaster's money. That isn't right under my hand--and where is it? I'll put daylight through that little false heart of yours if you don't give it to me without five more words--"

"And I've told you just as often that I've nothing to do with the paymaster's money, and I wish you would put daylight _anywhere_, for then my husband would come home and make an end of you!" And with the great limpid tears overflowing her blue eyes, Rose Laughton knew that the face she turned up at him was enough to melt the sternest heart going.

"Do you mean to tell me--" said he, evidently wavering, and possibly inclining to doubt if, after all, she were not telling the truth, as no man in his senses would leave such a sum of money in the keeping of such a simpleton.

"I don't mean to tell you anything!" she cried. "You won't believe a word I say, and I never had any one doubt my word before. I _hate_ to have you take that fifteen dollars, though. You never would in the world, if you knew how much self-denial it stands for. Every time I think I would like an ice-cream, out in this wilderness, where you might as well ask for an iceberg, I've made Tom give me the _price_ of one. You won't find anything but ribbons _there_. And when I've felt as if I should go wild if I couldn't have a box of Huyler's candy, I've made Tom give me the price of _that_. There's only powder and tweezers and frizzes in those boxes," as he went over the top of the dressing-case, still keeping a lookout on her. "And when we were all out of lager and apollinaris, and Tom couldn't--that's my laces, and I wish you wouldn't finger them; I don't believe your hands are clean--and Tom couldn't get anything to drink, I've made him put in the price of a drink, and lots of ten-cent pieces came that way, and--But I don't imagine you care to hear about all that. What makes you look at me so?" For the man had left his search again, and his glance was piercing her through and through. "Oh, your eyes are like augers turning to live coals!" she cried. "Is that the way you look at your wife? Do you look at your children the same way?"

"That lay won't work," said he, with another grin. "I ain't got no feelings to work on. I ain't got no wife or kids."

"I'm sure that's fortunate," said Mrs. Laughton. "A family wouldn't have any peace of their lives with you following such a dangerous business. And they couldn't see much of you either. I must say I think you'd be a great deal happier if you reformed--I mean--well, if you left this business, and took up a quarter-section, and had a wife and--"

"Look here!" cried the man, his patience gone. "Are you a fool, or are you bluffing me? I've half a mind to knock your head in," he cried, "and hunt the house over for myself! I would, if there was time."

"You wouldn't find anything if you did," she returned, leaning back in her chair. "I've looked often enough, when I thought Tom had some money. I never found any. What are you going to do now?" with a cry of alarm at his movement.

"I'm going to tie you hand and foot first--"

"Oh, I wouldn't! I'd rather you wouldn't--really! I promise you I won't leave this chair--"

"I don't mean you shall."

"Oh, how can you treat me so!" she exclaimed, lifting up her streaming face. "You don't look like a person to treat a woman so. I don't like to be tied; it makes me feel so helpless."

"What kind of a dumb fool be you, anyway?" said the man, stopping a moment to stare at her. And he made a step then toward the high chest of drawers, half bureau, half writing-desk, for a ball of tape he saw lying there.

"Oh!" she cried, remembering the tar-baby. "Don't! Don't go there! For mercy's sake, don't go there!" raising her voice till it was like the wind in the chimney. "Oh, please don't go there!" At which, as if feeling morally, or rather immorally, sure that what he had come for was in that spot, he seized the handles of the drawer, and down fell the lid upon his head with a whack that jammed his hat over his eyes and blinded him with pain and fury for an instant. And in that instant she had whipped the roll of money from her belt, and had dropped it underneath her chair. "I knew it!" she cried. "I knew it would! It always does. I told you not to go."

"You shet your mouth quick!" roared the man, with a splutter of oaths between each word.

"That's right," she said, leaning over the arm of the chair, her face like a pitying saint's. "Don't mind me, I always tell Tom to swear, when he jams his thumb. I know how it is myself when I'm driving a nail. It's a great relief. I'd put some cold water on your head, but I promised you I wouldn't stir out of the chair--"

The man went and sat down in the chair on whose back he had been leaning.

"I swear, I don't know what to make of you," said he, rubbing his head ruefully.

"You can make friends with me," said she. "That's what you can do. I'm sure I've shown you that I'm friendly enough. I never believe any harm of any one till I see it myself. I don't blame you for wanting the money. I'm always in want of money. I've told you you might take mine, though I don't want you to. But I shouldn't give you Tom's money, even if I knew where it was. Tom would kill me if I did, and I might as well be killed by you as by Tom--and better. You can make friends with me, and be some protection to me till my husband comes. I'm expecting him and Jules every moment."

The man started to his feet.

"Do you see that?" he cried, holding his revolver under her nose. "Look right into that gun! We'll have no more fooling. It'll be your last look if you don't tell me where that money is before I count three."

She put out her hand and calmly moved it aside.

"I've looked into those things ever since I've lived on the prairie," said she. "And I dare say it won't go off--mine won't. Besides, I know very well you wouldn't shoot a woman, and you can't make bricks without straw; and then I've told you I don't know anything about that money."

"You are a game one," said he.

"No, I'm not," she replied. "I'm the most tremendous coward. I've come out here in this wild country to live, and I'm alone a great deal, and I quake at every sound, every creak of a timber, every rustle of the grass. And you don't know anything about what it is to have your heart stand still with horror of a wild beast or a wild Indian or a deserter--a deserting soldier. There's a great Apache down there now, stretched out in his blanket on the floor, before the fire in the kitchen. And I came up here as quick as I could, to lock the door behind us and sit up till Tom came home, and I declare, I never was so thankful in all my life as I was just now to see a white face when I looked at you!"

"Well, I'll be--! Apache!" cried the visitor. "See here, little one, you've saved your husband's money for him. You're a double-handful of pluck. I haven't any idea but you know where it's hid--but I've got to be making tracks. If it wasn't for waking that Apache I'd leave Red Dan's handwriting on the wall."

And almost while he was speaking he had swung himself out of the window to the roof of the porch and had dropped to the ground and made off.

Mrs. Laughton waited till she thought he must be out of hearing, leaning out as if she were gazing at the moon. Then she softly shut and fastened the sash, and crept with shaking limbs to the door and unlocked it, and fell in a dead faint across the threshold. And there, when he returned some three-quarters of an hour later, Tom found her.

"Oh, Tom!" she sobbed, when she became conscious that she was lying in his arms, his heart beating like a trip-hammer, his voice hoarse with fright as he implored her to open her eyes; "_is_ there an Apache in the kitchen?"

RUBAIYAT OF MATHIEU LETTELLIER

BY WALLACE BRUCE AMSBARY

Dere's six chil_dren_ in our fam'lee,
Dey's mos'ly girls an' boys;
'Toinette an' me wos t'ankful sure
For all de happy joys;
Dere's Pierre, an' little Rosalie,
Antoine, Marie an' Jeanne,
An' Paul he's com' now soon twelf year,
Mos' close to be a man.

I's lof' all of _la petite femme_,
De garçon mak' me proud,
I haf gr'ad aspiratione
For all dat little crowd;
My Pierre shall be wan doctor mans,
Rosalie will teach school,
Antoine an' Jeanne shall rone de farm,
Marie som' man will rule.

An' Paul shall be a _curé_ sure,
I'll haf heem educate',
I work it all out on my head,
Oh, I am moch elate;
Dis all of course w'en dey grow op;
But I t'ink 'bout it now;
So w'en de tam' was com' for ac',
I'll know de way an' how.

Long tam' ago, w'en Paul firs' com',
He mak' a lot of noise;
He's keep me trot, bot' day an' night,
He was wan naughty boys;
At wan o'clock, at two o'clock,
Annee ol' tam' suit heem,
He's mak' us geeve de gran' parade
Jus' as he tak' de w'im.

Sooding molass' an' peragork,
On heem ve pour it down,
An' soon he let his music op,
An' don' ac' more lak' clown,
An' den _ma femme_ an' me lay down
To get a little doze,
For w'en you are wan fam'lee man
You don' gat moch repose.

But w'at's de use to mak' de kick,
Dees fellows boss de place;
I'd radder hear de healt'y lung
An' see de ruddy face
Dan run a gr'ad big doctor's bill,
An' geeve de ol' sex_tone_
De job, for bury all my kids,
An' leave me all alone.

An' so our hands is quite ver' full,
Will be, for som' tam' long,
But ven old age is dreeft our vay
An' rest is our belong,
It's den ve'll miss de gran' rac_quette_,--
May want again de noise
Of six more little children
An' mos'ly girls and boys.

BIGGS' BAR

BY HOWARD V. SUTHERLAND

'Twas a sultry afternoon, about the middle of July,
And the men who loafed in Dawson were feeling very dry.
Of liquor there had long been none except a barrel or two,
And that was kept by Major Walsh for himself and a lucky few.

Now, the men who loaf in Dawson are loafers to the bone,
And take it easy in a way peculiarly their own;
They sit upon the sidewalks and smoke and spit and chew,
And watch the other loafers, and wonder who is who.

They only work in winter, when the days are short and cold,
And then they heat their cabins, and talk and talk of gold;
They talk about provisions, and sometimes take a walk,
But then they hurry back again and talk, and talk, and talk.

And the men who loaf in Dawson are superior to style,
For the man who wears a coat _and_ vest is apt to cause a smile;
While he who sports suspenders or a belt would be a butt,
And cause ironic comment, and end by being cut.

The afternoon was sultry, as I said some time before;
'Twas fully ninety in the shade (in the sun a darn sight more),
And the men who sat on the sidewalks were, one and all, so dry
That only one perspired, though every one did try.

Six men were sitting in a line and praying God for air;
They were Joaquin Miller and "Lumber" Lynch and "Stogey" Jack
Ver Mehr,
"Swift-water" Bill and "Caribou" Bill and a sick man from the hills,
Who came to town to swap his dust for a box of liver pills.

I said they prayed for air, and yet perhaps I tell a lie,
For none of them are holy men, and all of them were dry;
And so I guess 'tis best for me to say just what I think--
They prayed the Lord to pity them and send them all a drink.

Then up spoke Joaquin Miller, as he shook his golden locks,
And picked the Dawson splinters from his moccasins and socks
(The others paid attention, for when times are out of joint
What Joaquin Miller utters is always to the point):

"A foot-sore, weary traveler," the Poet then began,
"Did tell me many moons ago,--and oh! I loved the man,--
That Biggs who owns the claim next mine had started up a bar.
Let's wander there and quench our thirst." All answered, "Right
you are."

Now, Biggs is on Bonanza Creek, claim ninety-six, below;
There may be millions in it, and there may not; none will know
Until he gets to bedrock or till bedrock comes to him--
For Arthur takes it easy and is strictly in the swim.

It is true, behind his cabin he has sunk a mighty shaft
(When the husky miners saw it they turned aside and laughed);
But Biggs enjoys his bacon, and smokes his pipe and sings,
Content to be enrolled among the great Bonanza Kings.

'Tis full three miles from Dawson town to Biggs' little claim;
The miners' curses on the trail would make you blush with shame
The while they slip, or stub their toes against the roots, or sink
Twelve inches in the mud and slime before their eyes can wink.

But little cared our gallant six for roots, or slime, or mud,
For they were out for liquor as a soldier is for blood;
They hustled through the forest, nor stopped until they saw
Biggs, wrapt in contemplation, beside his cabin door.

He rose to greet his visitors, and ask them for the news,
And said he was so lonesome that he always had the blues;
He hadn't seen a paper for eighteen months, he said,
And that had been in Japanese--a language worse than dead.

They satisfied his thirst for news, then thought they of their own,
And Miller looked him in the eye and gave a little groan,
And all six men across their mouths did pass a sun-burnt hand
In a manner most deliberate, which all can understand.

"We heard you keep a bar, good Biggs," the gentle Poet said!
"And so we thought we'd hold you up, and we are almost dead!"
He said no more. Biggs understood, and thusly spoke to them
In accents somewhat British and prefixed with a "Hem!"

"The bar you'll find a few yards hence as up that trail you go;
I never keep my liquor in the blooming 'ouse, you know.
Just mush along and take a drink, and when you are content
Come back and tell me, if you can, who now is President."

They mushed along, those weary men, nor looked to left or right,
But thought of how each cooling drink would trickle out of sight;
And very soon they found the goal they came for from afar--
_A keg, half full of water, in a good old gravel bar!_

THE BACKSLIDING BROTHER

BY FRANK L. STANTON

De screech owl screech f'um de ol' barn lof';
"You drinked yo' dram sence you done swear off;
En you gwine de way
Whar' de sinners stay,
En Satan gwine ter roas' you at de Jedgmint Day!"

Den de ol' ha'nt say, f'um de ol' chu'ch wall:
"You des so triflin' dat you _had_ ter fall!
En you gwine de way
Whar' de brimstone stay,
En Satan gwine ter roas' you at de Jedgmint Day!"

Den I shake en shiver,
En I hunt fer kiver,
En I cry ter de good Lawd, "Please deliver!"
I tell 'im plain
Dat my hopes is vain,
En I drinked my dram fer ter ease my pain!

Den de screech owl screech f'um de north ter south
"You drinked yo' dram, en you _smacked_ yo' _mouth_!
En you gwine de way
Whar' de brimstone stay,
En Satan gwine ter roas' you at de Jedgmint Day!"

YE LEGEND OF SIR YRONCLADDE

BY WILBUR D. NESBIT

Now, whenne ye goode knyghte Yroncladde
Hadde dwelte in Paradyse
A matter of a thousand yeares,
He syghed some grievous syghes,
And went unto the entrance gate
To speake hym in thys wyse:

"Beholde, I do not wysh to make
A rackette, nor a fuss,
And yet I fayne wolde hie awaye
And cease from livyng thus;
For it is moste too peaceful here,
And sore monotonous."

"Oh, verie welle," ye keeper sayde,
"You shall have your desyre:
Go downe uponne ye earth agayne
To see whatte you admyre--
But take goode heede that you shall keepe
Your trolley on ye wyre."

Ryghte gladde was goode Sir Yroncladde
To see ye gates unsealed.
He toke a jumpe strayghte through ye cloudes
To what was there revealed,
And strayghtwaye lit uponne ye grounde
Whych was a footeball field!

"Gadzookes!" he sayde; "now, here is sporte!
Thys is a goodlie syghte.
For joustynges soche as here abound
I have an appetyte;
So I will amble to ye scrappe,
For that is my delyghte."

He strode into ye hurtlynge mass,
Whence rose a thrillynge sounde
Of class yelles, sygnalles, breakynge bones,
And moanynges all arounde;
And thenne ye footeballe menne tooke hym
And pushed hym in ye grounde!

They brake hys breastplayte into bits,
And shattered all hys greaves;
They fractured bothe hys myghtie armes
Withynne hys chaynemayle sleeves,
And wounde hys massyve legges ynto
Some oryentalle weaves.

Uppe rose ye brave Sir Yroncladde
And groaned, "I hadde no wrong!
I'll hustle back to Paradyse,
And ryng ye entraunce gong;
For thys new croppe of earthlie knyghtes
At joustynge is too strong;
And henceforth thys is my resolve:
To staye where I belong!"

WINTER DUSK

BY R. K. MUNKITTRICK

The prospect is bare and white,
And the air is crisp and chill;
While the ebon wings of night
Are spread on the distant hill.

The roar of the stormy sea
Seem the dirges shrill and sharp
That winter plays on the tree--
His wild Æolian harp.

In the pool that darkly creeps
In ripples before the gale,
A star like a lily sleeps
And wiggles its silver tail.

A MOTHER OF FOUR

BY JULIET WILBOR TOMPKINS

"You are fortunate to find us alone, Mrs. Merritt. With four girls, it is simply terrible--callers underfoot wherever you stir. You must know something about it, with two daughters; so you can fancy it multiplied by two. Really, sometimes I get out of all patience--I haven't a corner of my house to myself on Sundays! But I realize it is the penalty for having four lively daughters, and I have to put up with it."

Mrs. Merritt, the visitor, had a gently worried air as she glanced from the twins, thin and big-boned, reading by the fire, to pretty, affected Amélie at the tea-table, and the apathetic Enid furtively watching the front steps from the bay window. Something in her expression seemed to imply a humble wonder as to what might constitute the elements of high popularity, since her two dear girls--

"Of course, mine have their friends," she asserted; it was an admission that perhaps the door-bell was not overworked. "I enjoy young life," she added.

"Oh, yes, in moderation!" Mrs. Baldwin laughed from the depths of the complacent prosperity that irradiated her handsome white hair and active brown eyes, her pleasant rosiness, and even her compact stoutness, suggesting strength rather than weight. "But since Enid became engaged, that means Harry all the time--there's my library gone; and with the other three filling both drawing-rooms and the reception-room, I have to take to the dining-room, myself! There they begin," she added, as Enid left the window and slipped out into the hall, closing the door after her. "Now we shall have no peace until Monday morning. You know how it is!"

Mrs. Merritt seemed depressed, and soon took her leave.

The twins, when they were left alone in the drawing-room, lifted their heads and exchanged long and solemn looks; then returned to their reading in silence. When it grew too dark by the fire, they carried their books to the bay window, but drew back as they saw a pale and puny youth with a retreating chin coming up the front steps.

"The rush has begun," murmured Cora.

"Amélie can have him," Dora returned. "Let's fly."

They retreated up-stairs and read peacefully until tea-time. The bell did not ring again. When they came down, Mrs. Baldwin eyed them irritably.

"Why don't you ask the Carryl boys in to Sunday tea some time? They will think you have forgotten them. And Mr. White and that nice Mr. Morton who lives with him--I am afraid you have offended them in some way. They used to be here all the time."

"They only came twice, and those were party calls," said Dora bluntly.

"My dear, you have forgotten," was the firm answer. "They were here constantly. I shall send them a line; I don't like to have them think we have gone back on them."

"Oh, I--I wouldn't," began Cora, but was put down with decision:

"When I need your advice, Cora, I will ask for it. Amélie, dear, you look tired; I am afraid you have had too much gaiety this afternoon."

"Oh, I love it! It's the breath of life to me," said Amélie rapturously. The twins again exchanged solemn looks and sat down to their tea in silence. Mrs. Baldwin attacked them peevishly at intervals; she was cross at Enid also, who had not kept Harry to supper, and preserved an indifferent silence under questioning. "When I was your age--!" was the burden of her speech.

"I must give a dance for you young people," she decided. "You need livening up."

"Oh, lovely!" exclaimed Amélie.

"We have not had one this winter--I don't know what I have been thinking about," Mrs. Baldwin went on with returning cheerfulness. "We won't ask more than a hundred. You must have a new frock, Amélie. Enid, how is your blue one?"

"Oh, all right," said Enid indifferently. Mrs. Baldwin turned to the twins, and found them looking frankly dismayed.

"Well, what is it now?" she exclaimed. "I am sure I try to give you as good times as any girls in town; not many mothers on my income would do half so much. And you sit looking as if you were going to execution!"

"We--we do appreciate it, mother," urged Cora, unhappily.

"But we aren't howling successes at parties," Dora added.

"Nonsense! You have partners to spare." Mrs. Baldwin was plainly angry. "No child of mine was ever a wallflower, nor ever will be. Never let me hear you say such a thing again. You would have twice the attention if you weren't always poking off by yourselves; and as it is, you have more than most girls. You frighten the men--they think you are proud. Show a little interest in them and see how pleased they will be!"

The twins looked dubious, and seized the first chance to escape. In their own room they confronted each other dismally.

"Of course they will ask us, in our own house; we won't have to sit and sit," said Cora with a sigh.

"But it's almost worse when they ask you for that reason," objected Dora.

"I know! I feel so sorry for them, and so apologetic. If mother would _only_ let us go and teach at Miss Browne's; then we could show we were really good for something. We shouldn't have to shine at parties."

"We shouldn't have to go to them! Come on, let's do some Latin. I want to forget the hateful thing."

Cora got down the books and drew their chairs up to the student-lamp. "I know I shouldn't be such a stick if I didn't have to wear low neck," she said. "I am always thinking about those awful collar-bones, and trying to hold my shoulders so as not to make them worse."

"Oh, don't I know!" Dora had slipped on a soft red wrapper, and threw a blue one to her sister. When they were curled up in their big, cushioned chairs, they smiled appreciatively at each other.

"Isn't this nicer than any party ever invented?" they exclaimed. Dora opened her books with energy, but Cora sat musing.