Chapter VI: Part 6

Tommy left the tintypes on the mantelpiece, hoping he was disturbing nothing by so doing; imploring Mrs. McGibney not to bother with them if she thought they would take up too much room, begging her to throw them in the ashes or burn them, or jump on them if they should be the slightest annoyance to her; then he went away.

Back in five minutes. Well, after all, “Maddy-gascar” was pretty far away and he had heard stories about the Esquimaux there, so he would take the tintypes back with him; Clara might wonder where they were. Five minutes later. Back again. Perhaps Mrs. McGibney had better not say anything to anyone about the tintype matter. Bowing, bobbing, scraping.

Oh, not a word would Mrs. McGibney say! Rest assured of that! Indeed, she had quite enough to do in attending to her own affairs. Mrs. McGibney promised to say nothing, and like a busy little housewife with too much to do to waste time gossiping, breathed not a word of it till McGibney came in.

“It’s all Tommy’s fault!” said McGibney.

“I’m afraid Clara is a good deal to blame,” said Mrs. McGibney.

“Oh, yes, always stand up for the man, of course!”

“Oh, yes, take the woman’s part every time, won’t you?”

The next time the McGibneys saw Clara, there was no persuading her to go home. She had no home.

“Because,” said Clara, “when we found there wasn’t no use in our trying to get along together, we just broke up and gave away everything in the rooms and went down the stairs and down the stoop together. We didn’t so much as say good-bye nor nothing; he went up the street and I went down.”

“That’s right!” declared McGibney, “when two people can’t get along together, it’s best for them to part, I say!”

“You say!” cried indignant Mrs. McGibney. And scornful Mrs. McGibney!

“Well, I’m entitled to speak, ain’t I?” grumbled McGibney.

“No!” firmly. “Leastwise, not when you talk like that.” She looked her scorn and continued:

“No, Clara, there’s nobody dearer to any woman than her own husband.” Looked at McGibney as if he were a pile of wash just toppled over into the ash-pan. “Your husband will be with you when others are far away.” Looked at him as if he were two piles of wash toppled over into three ash-pans. “There ain’t any luck in any such advice as he’s giving you. I know how I love my own dear husband, and you know you’re the same, and you’ll find what the world is when you’re alone in it.” Glared her indignation, scorn, contempt for McGibney, who mumbled, with an air of sagacity, astonishing to himself:

“Ain’t wimmen the queer things, though!”

“I’ve flew the coop on him forever!” said Clara, with her broad, amiable, unintelligent smile. “I got a little hall room for myself, and—me go back to him? Oh, my! is that a step on the stairs? I wouldn’t wish it, not for the world, for him to find me here! I never want to see the face of him again!” Clara looked around for a place to hide; ran to the door of the front room, and, with her hand on the knob, stood listening.

“’Tain’t him! It’s someone going upstairs,” she said, smiling her relief. “I’ll never go back to him.”

A week later. Clara again. And Clara was out of breath.

“Oh, Mrs. McGibney, has the man come yet? I thought I saw him over on Ninth Avenue, and I run clear around the block for fear he’d be after me and track me here. I was just buying a bit of furniture and going to start rooms for myself, when I get a few bits together. And is it too much to ask you to store them for me till I get rooms, Mrs. McGibney?”

“We’re only too glad—” began Mrs. McGibney.

“Oh, on your life, don’t stir! It’s him! He mustn’t know where I am, or he might try to get me back! I don’t never want to see him again!” whispered Clara. “On your life, not giving no orders, don’t stir, or he’ll know you’re in and see me here.”

There was a rap on the door.

“Oh, my! Look out—would he hear us?”

Out in the hall:

“McGibney! Anyone know where McGibney lives?”

“Oh!” breathed Clara, “that’s all right. It’s the furniture men.”

And two men from a Ninth Avenue furniture store came in with a bureau. At least they set it in the hall, and turned to hasten down the stairs; paused to do little better than that, and rolled the bureau half way into the room; turned to run back to the store, but, in turning, thrust back with their heels, and pushed the bureau quite into the room, which was conscientious enough delivering of goods to suit anybody.

“I bought that!” said Clara, proudly. The bureau was rolled into the front room, and she helped, her hands caressing more than pushing. There was no back to the bureau. The varnish was worn off. Some one had broken open the top drawer, splintering the wood on each side of the keyhole.

“It’s mine!” said Clara rapturously. “It took three days of hard scrubbing on hands and knees, for me to buy that. It’ll be every bit as good as new, with a few boards nailed on the back, and a little oil rubbed over it.”

The bureau was rolled to a corner of the front room, but Clara could not leave it, hovering over it, stooping and pulling out drawers, one by one, gazing delightedly at the disgraceful old wreck.

“Yes!” said Clara. “The other day when I was scrubbing the restaurant floor, there was customers looking at me, and they says, ‘Look at that poor woman! Ain’t some got hard lots in life!’ They needn’t of pitied me! I was earning that! Just a few boards and a little oil is all it needs, and I’ll get as fine a home together as anybody’s got—what’s that?”

Clara ran to the kitchen to listen.

“I’m so afraid he’ll find me that I do be hearing sounds all the time!” she said. “Ain’t that bureau something elegant? I’ll have my own bit of a home and never see him again.” Then, as McGibney came out to the kitchen, shutting the front-room door behind him, she asked;

“Ain’t that sounds of excitement in the street? Maybe there’s a fire!” Clara ran to the front room and pretended to look out the window. She had heard nothing; it was only a pretext to get back to the disgraceful old wreck. On her own hands and knees she had earned it.

“Ain’t it nice!” said Clara, ecstatically. “I got my eye on a gilt-framed mirror I’ll buy next week. It’s nice, ain’t it?”

Clara went away. Back in five minutes.

“I guess maybe I left my rolled-up apron in the front room.” Whether she had or not, she stood looking at the bureau; turned to go; looked again; moved it to get a better light on it; stepped toward the door; paused and looked back.

“I bought that!”

And she went away, leaving McGibney standing in the front room. With an expression of deep melancholy he stood looking at the clumsy, broken bureau. He looked at his best furniture surrounding it—fragile, gilded chairs, on a big rug better than any other rug in the neighborhood—a sideboard with French plate glass in it; the very fine curtains. He was a log-shaped man, and not remarkably æsthetic, but his eye was sorely offended.

“Oh, well,” said the melancholy, log-shaped man, “if us poor folks don’t help each other, who will?” And the eye of Mrs. McGibney was equally offended; but Mrs. McGibney was not melancholy, for here was an opportunity for her to bustle. Out with the sofa and around in front of the bureau! The standing lamp placed where it would help to conceal the bureau. To hide the bureau was quite a problem, but Mrs. McGibney rejoiced in it. She bustled.

The next Saturday night Clara bought a wicker rocking-chair. Fearful-looking old rocking-chair! Interstices of it filled with white paint; all paint worn off wherever arms, legs, and backs had rested on it.

“It’s nice, ain’t it?” said Clara, dreamily, fondly.

McGibney sat straight, as if he had just dug through the oil-cloth and feared reprimanding. Then he fell back limply.

“Yes, ve-ry,” he said, without enthusiasm.

“It’ll fill out your front room nice, while I’m waiting for it, won’t it?”

“Oh, ye-es; it’ll be ve-ry nice.”

“And so comfortable!” said Clara. She sat in the chair and clumsily rocked it. “Try it, Mrs. McGibney! You ain’t got no idea how comfortable it is. You sit in it, Mr. McGibney. Just lie back and push with your feet and see what a comfort it is. My! I can just see myself in it, me with my shoes off and resting after the day. Such comfort in it! I don’t guess I ever made such a bargain before. But what do you think? That mirror I was so set on was bought! That’s mean, ain’t it? I was awful provoked when I heard it. Just the same, I got my eye on a stove that’s fine and well worth the four dollars they ask for it. It’s all nickel in front, and only one of the bricks broken, and can be fixed with five cents’ worth of fire-clay. It’ll look nice in your front room, won’t it?”

“Ve-ry nice!” answered distressed McGibney.

Clara got up to go. Had to sink back and take another rock in the chair, so comfortable after the day’s work, and one’s shoes off. It was indeed worth scrubbing for! Up to go. Well, just one more rock—away back and slowly down again, you know. And you, too, look again at it! My! but what a bargain! And Clara bought it! On her own hands and knees she had earned it. Before going away, Clara lingered at the door. Perhaps they would laugh at her if she should take another rock, but she might look at the chair for another moment.

“Ain’t this pretty oil-cloth you got!” Looking only at the chair.

“I must get a kitchen table like yours.” Looking only at her own rocking-chair. She left McGibney staring gloomily, but saying, sturdily:

“Us poor folks must help each other!”

Mrs. McGibney bustled.

It was a different Clara when seen again. Her face was flushed; the unintelligent but soft eyes were like eyes that could not see outward things, as if they were engaged in the unusual occupation of looking within at her own mind. Convince Clara that she had a grievance, and thick, obstinate brooding replaced uncomplaining stolidity.

By force of habit, Clara’s slow, amiable smile flickered, but her eyes were as if turned upon brooding within.

“Someone’s did that a-purpose!” said Clara, slowly, deliberately, staring, seeming to see neither McGibney nor Mrs. McGibney. “Me that thought I didn’t have a enemy in the world! Where would I get a enemy, me always kind to everybody? I had my heart set on that stove that only needed a little fire-clay. Someone’s bought it, just to annoy me. When the mirror went, I didn’t think nothing of it, but the stove too, is to annoy me. They won’t make nothing by that, and bad luck will come upon them for it.”

“Why, Clara, it only happened that way,” reasoned Mrs. McGibney. “Nobody would go and be as mean as that to you, specially as they’d have to spend money.”

“It’s tricks done me!” declared sullen, dogged Clara. “Oh, there’s somebody at the door. Maybe it’s him after me. Say I’m not here, Mrs. McGibney! On your life, don’t let him find me! I got to work for my living, anyway, and I’ll work for myself and not divide with no man. Never—oh, I guess it’s the kitchen table!”

“A kitchen table, Clara?” demanded McGibney. “Did you say a kitchen table?”

“Yes!” said Clara, brightening. “It’s nice! You can put it in the centre of your front room and maybe have ornaments onto it. It’s a very nice kitchen table.”

Door opened; a table thrust into the room; heels flying down the stairs.

“Don’t you think it’s nice?” Clara asked eagerly.

“Nice?” repeated honest McGibney. “Oh, is that the table?”

Scratched legs to it; two plain boards forming the top of it; heads of nails sunk in the boards, and once filled with putty; putty fallen out.

Clara shook it to show that the legs were firm. She would varnish it and cover it with a beautiful table cover she had seen in the five-and-ten-cent store, though there was one just as good in the three-and-nine-cent store.

“Next week,” said brightened Clara, “it’s going to be portcheers. They’re chenille and grand for a doorway. No room ain’t complete without portcheers.” She again shook the table to show how firm the legs were and then went away.

McGibney and Mrs. McGibney stood out on the front stoop of the rust-stained frame house, looking at the tailor, who was putting up a new sign: “Pants pressed, ten cents. Full-dress suits cleaned and pressed, one dollar.” McGibney thought of “full-dress” suits and looked down the street, at rags and dirt and ashes. It was Saturday night and they were going over to Ninth Avenue, to Paddy’s Market. Along came Clara, reaching the stoop, starting up the stoop, half up the stoop before she saw the McGibneys.

“Oh, is it you?” said Clara, with only the beginning of the slow, amiable smile.

“The portcheers is gone!” she said, without excitement. “My heart was set on them—the portcheers has gone. Would you say to me, now, that it only happens that way, Mrs. McGibney? Is there somebody playing mean, low tricks on me, or ain’t there? Does three times in succession just happen? The portcheers was bought last Monday. Was that only accident? Oh, but I came around to see would you lend me fifty cents? There’s a hat-rack I want. It’s meant for a front hall, but the mirror in it is nice and there’s a bit of marble to it, and it’ll look nice in my rooms, where, to my longest day, no man’ll ever hang his hat on it, unless you, Mr. McGibney, when you and Mrs. McGibney come and see me. I don’t like to ask you for fifty cents, Mrs. McGibney, and you just going to do your bit of marketing.”

“There’s fifty dollars in the bank that you can have any time you say so, Clara!” exclaimed McGibney.

“We’d rather have you owing it than have it in the bank, Clara,” said Mrs. McGibney, “because the bank might bust.”

Clara looked embarrassed. “Don’t you want to come look at the hat-rack?” she asked. “It’ll set your front room off fine!” The McGibneys pinched each other’s arms, as if saying, “Oh, Lord, preserve us!” All three went down the street toward Ninth Avenue, Clara preferring one side of the street; then, thinking the other side was darker, choosing the darker side so that if they should meet “him” he might not recognize them.

Torches on wagons, wagonloads of oranges, twenty for twenty-five cents; pairs of rabbits slung on headless barrels, plump rabbits hanging outside, furry rags, shot to pieces, inside the barrels; piles of soup greens and mounds of cabbages; cries of “Everything cheap! Only a few more left!” Paddy’s Market! Then the second-hand furniture store, with bed springs and pillows outside it; stoves with covers and legs in the ovens; rolls of matting; everything second-hand, even crockery and tea-kettles. Clara went into the store, Mrs. McGibney having paused to dig a thumb-nail into potatoes to see whether they were frozen, McGibney lingering with her, because he would have to carry the potatoes.

Clara came back to the sidewalk. Again her eyes were unseeing. “The hat-rack,” said Clara, staring at nothing visible, “is sold. I ain’t been gone from here ten minutes. It’s sold. Everything I got my heart on is sold. I don’t know who’s doing it, but they’ll never have a day’s luck for it.”

“But what could I do, lady?” The furniture man came cringing out to her. “You know you didn’t leave no deposit. Would you like to look at some mats for your front hall? You didn’t leave no deposit, so what could I do? I got a very heavy, rich and elegant mat here for your front hall; though the number of a house is onto it.”

“Look here, Jack,” said McGibney. “Who’s buying up all the things this lady looks at? Is it any particular party?”

“Come to think of it, it is,” answered the furniture man. “He’s the gent took the unfurnished rooms upstairs. ‘What’s he look like?’ Well, he bows most polite every time my wife waits on him and I see his head was some bald——”

“Wait for me!” said Clara. “Up on the next floor, you say? Just only wait one minute for me, Mrs. McGibney, and I’ll only go to tell him what I think of this latest meanness he’s playing me. Then I’ll be through with him forever. This is the last trick he’ll play me!” And she went to the stairs leading to the rooms over the store.

“It must be Tommy,” said McGibney.

“And I always took him for such a perfect little gentleman,” was Mrs. McGibney’s comment.

“Just wait a minute!” Clara had said; but, after several minutes, McGibney became uneasy.

“I’ll go up and see,” he said. “It maybe ain’t Tommy, and Clara may start mixing it with some stranger that’s got as much right to the furniture as her.”

But it was Tommy, for, as the McGibneys went up the stairs, Clara’s words, plainly audible, told them so.

“Never!” they heard—“Was it my dying day, I’d never forgive you. It was too cruel and I’ll never forget it.”

“Ain’t she the stubborn thing!” snapped Mrs. McGibney.

“Did I live to be as old as Mickthusalem, I’d not forgive you for it! Oh, Tommy, how could you go up the street when I went down? To treat me so! Don’t never mind nothing else; play me tricks and scold me and don’t do right nor anywheres near right, but how could you do that? Oh, Tommy, how could you go up the street when I went down? Me expecting your feet after me every second, me looking back at the corner. You going up, and me going down! Rob me of them portcheers I see you got there, and play me tricks with that mirror, and do like you want to about all the hall-racks in the world, but you never come to find me when I was hiding away! Have the red portcheers and welcome to everything my heart was set on, but you never come to me when I was hiding, and how could I tell you where I was hiding away? Oh, I been so unhappy without you, Tommy; there’s nobody got any sympathy for a deserted wife, but just a jeer at her and say, ‘No wonder he left, if you take one look at her big platter face’—but my eyes is nice and my hair is lovely, I was always told. Take away the red portcheers my heart was set on, Tommy, and I know you don’t love me, but we belong to each other, just the same, but don’t—oh, if you ain’t looking to break my heart—don’t never again go up a street when I’m going down!”

The McGibneys saw them standing in the centre of the room, arms about each other, hands patting each other’s shoulder-blades.

Tommy began to whimper. Arms mothered him. Steady tapping away on his shoulder-blades. Then Tommy blubbered outright:

“Oh, Clara, I been missable! I been missable something fierce, living alone! I ain’t ate nor slept, but been working straight along and got a good job and doing pretty good, and so much as a day’s work you’ll never have to do. No! not if it’s your longest day!” A bow and a bob and a scrape, for he had discovered the McGibneys standing irresolute in the hall. He continued to blubber and he continued to tap away at shoulder-blades.

“But why didn’t you come to find me, Tommy, when I was hiding away? I told the Finnigans and everybody, so you must of known where I was hiding away!”

Clara would not have seen a hundred McGibneys. Clara was tapping most mightily with both hands upon shoulder-blades.

“On account of the brass lamp!” blubbered Tommy. A bob and a bow and a scrape! “I done fierce bad spending our savings that was for the brass lamp, and I couldn’t go find you where you was hid till I had that here, in this new home, for you to see, and be complete, and then you’d know I was sorry and it would prove I was going to do right. But it wasn’t tricks, Clara! Honest, it wasn’t tricks! Me standing on the other side of the street, and looking in the store window at you, and no overcoat, because I needed every cent to show I was going to do right. And you look at the mirror. I say, ‘Clara likes that mirror. Then Clara must have that!’ Me standing with my toes all pinched up, as my shoes is bad, and you looking at them red portcheers. Then Clara must have red portcheers! Me jumping up and down, like I’m froze, but standing there every Saturday night to see what Clara likes and Clara’s going to have that!” Bobbing, bowing, and scraping toward the hall, from Tommy; from Clara, rather a look of resentment toward the hall.

A final tap on shoulder blades and: “Why, come in and see where we’re going to start up again!”

“Ain’t it strange!” said calm, stolid Clara. “He found me, after all!”

And from all four of them, and all four meaning every word:

“In all the world, there ain’t nobody like your own! If it ain’t but big enough to hold a trunk, there’s no place like your own!”

“And,” said supremely happy Tommy and Clara, “now we’ll celebrate!”

_Carter, in New York American_]

_The Money Power_

“All things come to him that waits.” Fifteen or sixteen years ago, when the Farmers’ Alliance was flourishing throughout the West and South, it was a matter of common occurrence to hear some old horny-handed farmer, on a Saturday at the county seat, disputing with his neighbor about existing conditions. Almost invariably the Alliance man blamed the “money power” for causing things to go criss-cross. Occasionally the country merchant or small banker would butt into the discussion. “The money power,” he would say, with infinite scorn, “Humph! Why, you poor fool, there ain’t any such thing as ‘the money power.’ Might as well talk of the agricultural power, or the mercantile power. There are rich bankers and rich farmers and rich merchants—but that don’t make them a ‘power’ in the sense you use that term.”

For a number of years the “money power” has been given a much needed rest in the West and South. Most of the pioneers there have substituted the term “plutocracy.” But in the East reformers are just now beginning to sit up and take notice. One hears the term frequently. “Roosevelt,” said Jacob Riis, in a recent interview in the _New York Herald_, “is fighting the greatest tyrant of them all. Slavery affected only the South, but the Money Power means the enslavement of all human beings and all homes.” Many an old, long-whiskered farmer said the same thing just as well fifteen years ago—and the _Herald_ called him an anarchist.

“The Senate,” says Ernest Crosby in the March _Cosmopolitan_, “is now the agent of the Money Power—the representative of Wall Street.” Absolutely true; and no one can doubt the sincerity of either Mr. Crosby or the _Cosmopolitan_; but when the farmers of the West and South said the same thing fifteen years ago, they were greeted with hoots and jeers from the East. I don’t say that Messrs. Riis and Crosby joined in the hooting and jeering; I am quite sure they did not; but they are accorded a respectful hearing in making statements for the making of which thousands of respectable men fifteen years ago were branded as anarchists, wild-eyed fanatics, lunatics, and so forth.

The world _do move_.

L. H. B.

_The Russian Apostle of Populism_

BY THOMAS C. HUTTON

Fifty years ago a grayheaded prisoner, neglected, gaunt, unbefriended, died in the dungeons of Schlüsselburg, and today a thousand Russian cities are ringing with the name of Mikal Bakunin, the apostle of Populism, one of the many reformers who were stoned by a contemporary public and sainted by its descendants.

Russia spurned the impassioned orator; Germany exiled him, after a few months of toleration, and now his projects are discussed by millions who seem determined to give them a fair trial.

“A pack of knout-serving flunkeys,” Bakunin called the German officials who enforced the frontier-laws in the interest of the Czar, and soon after a messenger in uniform served him with a copy of the Prussian press-laws, and a hint at the expedience of making himself invisible.

His virulent tongue hurt him a good deal, and his popularity was somewhat modified by his social radicalism; but the long neglect of his revenue plan is one of the strangest facts in the literature of political economy. One might as well reject Kepler’s solar hypothesis, because the great astronomer got a little cloudy on the question of witchcraft.

And, after all, Bakunin only whispered his matrimonial theories, but shouted his tax-protests before multitudes who ought to have known better than to class them with his chimeras.

Briefly stated, his main reform plan is this: That governments ought to earn their own revenues as they cast their own cannon and build their own battleships.

“Look at your great Government stud-farm of Trakehnen,” said he, in a speech on the old Breslau market-square. “Model stables, model granaries, fine pastures, all more than self-supporting, monthly auctions of forage and surplus horses. Oats are barreled in airy magazines, and, for greater security, the granary warden breeds cats, and hires two boys to take care of them.

“All lovely, so far. But now suppose those boys were to break in a private cottage and snatch away a poor youngster’s kitten, on the pretext that the Government might have need of it? At sight of a club, the little lad would have to let his pet go, but could you blame him for growling?—Why don’t you get oats of your own? And let my little kitten alone?—And that is exactly what I am growling about when I see tax-collectors confiscate a poor man’s last milch-cow or nanny-goat.”

The orator then described the estate of Prince Gorkas, a semi-independent land-magnate near Tiflis, in the southern Caucasus. The Prince’s tenants pay a moderate rent; freeholders keep his good will by buying his cattle and coal. Free schools, fairly good, and no tax-collectors—a pattern of what an empire ought to be on a large scale. Foreseeing the eventual need of money for the purchase of a neighboring estate, the Prince had a mountain-side planted with plum trees, to sell the dried fruit. His engineers opened a mine of cannel-coal, and soon had a large market. Their master hoarded and was thought capable of driving a sharp bargain, but gossips would have risked the lunatic-asylum if they had spread a report that Prince Gorkas had broken into the little crossroad store and helped himself to a share of the old storekeeper’s savings.

Fruit plantations are also managed by the Shah of Persia, and mines of vast values by the Russian Government. Prussia and Austria own extensive timber forests and realize a handsome profit after paying reasonable wages to thousands of wardens, rangers and woodcutters.

Saxony operates national mines and large national glass-works.

Do kings need ordnance? Let them hire foundries to cast it for them. Do they need gunpowder? Hire chemists to mix it for them.

Do they need money? Why, let them hire business-men to earn it for them. Not the faintest ghost of a doubt but it can be done.

A little more difficult than raising royal race-horses? Perhaps so. But does that give His Majesty the right to race down a peddler and take his money away from him? Now reflect, and do not let your verdict be biased by the idea that might makes right, or that a long-established absurdity becomes reasonable.

Why collect revenues by Government highway robbery, by Government hold-up methods, by harpies in Government uniform, when the test of practical experience proves that revenues can be raised by Government industries?

Would you bring the State in unfair competition with individuals? “Don’t for one moment,” says Bakunin, “believe that lie of lazybones. Secretaries of Finance find it easier to hire marauders than to hire skilled mechanics, that’s all.”

Who is hurt by the great stockfarm at Trakehnen? It could be enlarged twenty times, and still give private enterprise a chance to raise prize-horses at a considerable profit. Who complains about Government forestry? It gives bread to hundreds of thousands; it protects the fountains of fertilizing streams; it prevents droughts, but does not prevent individuals from conducting timber-plantations at a profit exceeding that of grain farms.

The Belgian Government owns coal-mines, but private mine-owners will continue to prosper till they exhaust the supply of the mineral. No glass-worker has ever objected to the Government glass-works of Saxony. They invite co-operation; the demand for artistic glass products exceeds the supply.

If Government mines and factories, why not Government commerce, and, above all, Government real estate transactions—Government landlordism to an extent that will hurt no other landlord, and benefit millions of tenants?

Found new communities on the plan of reserving a certain percentage of building lots for state purposes, and lease those reservations for five to ten years to the highest bidder. If the Government erects buildings, let them be models of their kind—fire-proof storehouses, sanitary tenements.

Government plantations ought to be drained till gnat-plagues are no more; equipped with improved machinery, with airy cottages; a blessing to all concerned, and yet an undoubted source of revenue, since experience proves that wholesale farming operations are the most profitable.

One tobacco plantation of the French Government yields a yearly net revenue of 2,000,000 francs, and the only objection is the nature of the crop; national agriculture could raise profitable harvests without catering to a stimulant habit. Government commission houses should import Jamaica bananas, rather than Jamaica rum.

On the Bakunin plan, national revenue industries should, as a rule, select their ground where the strain of competition is the least likely to be felt. After that, objectors should be referred to a chronicle of such alternatives as trust despotism.

“No governments,” he asks, “decline to dirty their hands delving for boodle? Oh, ye prayerful pirates! Lineal descendants of the bushwhacker princes who preferred clubs to spades! Below their dignity to cut wood, but did cut purses and throats. Too highborn to clean out a pig-sty, but did clean out peddlers and often whole caravans.

“And now the descendants of those beautiful buccaneers, too proud to mine or farm, but not ashamed to fall upon a poor farmer’s homestead and confiscate his last horse! Not too dignified to hold up a crippled huckster and collar two-thirds of his hard earned pennies. Too sensitive to work the windlass of a silvermine, but rough-handed enough to wring silver from a consumptive shopkeeper. Our grandiose rulers, I should say, are in small business when they break in to snatch a widow’s kettle and cot-bed.

“Yet that’s done every day in the year. Statistics claim that somewhere on earth a child is born every second. And at least every minute sees the birth of a child that will have to die of hunger, because its mother’s bread has been filched by tax-collectors.

“Have Governments a right to supply their needs at the expense of widows and orphans, while thousands of able-bodied young men stand ready to earn revenue for them?”

High tariff bullies, says the Russian reformer, are marine highway robbers. At first sight, the burden of spoliation seems shifted to the shoulders of foreigners, but, look closer, and you find natives obliged to buy imports at extortion rates.

Passengers, waiting to be examined by custom-house officers, says Bakunin, always remind him of travelers, lined up to be searched by footpads.

“How commerce revives,” he says, “wherever those shackles are partly removed! How would it flourish if they were altogether abolished? Traffic that now obliges skippers to starve their sailors could be made abundantly profitable.”

A hundred years before the birth of Henry George, a revenue system, closely resembling the “Single Tax” plan, was recommended by the father of Gabriel Mirabeau, and by the Roget School of French Communists.

“It _would_ relieve some classes of our wage-earners,” says Bakunin, “but would burden others, and why harass them, if we can undoubtedly find ways to get along without direct taxation?”

Why make land the scapegoat of a sin that might be avoided?

In 1849 the Russian Government got its clutches on the bold reformer, and silenced him by the usual argument of despots. The voice that had entranced mass-meetings in a hundred cities of southern and western Europe was stifled in the catacombs of Schlüsselburg.

But Time, the All-Avenger, has made the martyr’s name a rallying cry of East-European reformers, and America should honor the memory of Mikal Bakunin as that of a hero and pioneer of reform—a man whose marvelous gift of intuition had recognized all the ideals of Populism, all its principles and promises, but who succumbed to the superhuman task of effecting its progress under the handicap of a monarchical government.

_Naturally_

KNICKER—There goes a man who would rather fight than eat.

BOCKER—Soldier?

KNICKER—No, dyspeptic.

BY ELLIOT WALKER.]

“I’ve got twenty dollars for the rent an’ fifteen more for what’s likely to come up,” observed Enos Matchett cheerfully, as he put down his teacup. “There’s nothin’ to worry about this first of month, anyhow. Eh, Martha?”

His wife fingered her napkin in a nervous way, usual to her when the appalling call of their landlord was due, not to mention others who fished from pockets soiled packages of rubber-banded slips to draw out tentatively and none too expectantly those alarming accounts marked at their tops with the discredited name of Enos Matchett.

Poor Martha. The “Oh! Yes. I’ll speak to my husband about it,” and the hundred other subterfuges were growing gaunt with repetition. She had a regular repertory of excuses to apply as conditions demanded. For a first presentation a fixed and nonchalant smile and a “come ’round next month,” caused quick riddance of the unwelcome. “Next month,” it was, “I declare, I guess Mr. Matchett overlooked that little bill. Perhaps, you’d better leave it so he’ll keep it in mind.”

From then on, rang the changes of high prices, hard times and honest intentions until at last came the sharp, bullying threat of the collection lawyer and the crawling process of paying by small installments.

Sometimes she tore up the bills, sometimes they went into the fire, never, until her last bridge had collapsed, did she worry Enos.

He worked, hopefully, from morning to night at odd jobs and occasional bits of carpentry. A fortunate month might fatten their attenuated exchequer to a bulge of sixty dollars, but the months were not all fortunate and there was seldom a penny came in that remained over a fortnight. To meet the rent was imperative. That had to be met. For the rest—wits, hopes, and a somewhat shattered faith in the Lord’s providence.

However, when the Lord endowed average femininity with a high scorn of bills and an abnormal intelligence in the evasion of payment much was done for man.

Enos, undoubtedly, would have become as flighty and irresponsible as was Lucianna, upstairs, had he been obliged to face the shafts which his worried better half so successfully foiled to the last ditch.

Now, Martha gazed across the table at him, with the smile of one temporarily relieved from anxiety.

“That’s good,” she answered. “It’s queer how we’ve kep’ along.”

“Ain’t it?” responded Mr. Matchett. “I was consid’rable pestered ten days ago as to how we’d come out this month, but Miss Joslyn paid me, an’ I had a week steady on Doctor Bullen’s fence. No one in particular a-hurryin’ us jest now, I s’pose?”

“Don’t think of any special tormentor,” returned Martha, biting her thin lips. Indeed, no obvious projection in the wall of torment occurred to her at the moment. Their creditors were “lined up,” in equal aggression. One was as bad as another.

Enos tugged at his gray mustache—a sparse adornment, getting white at the ends.

“Guess we’ll blow a dollar on something for Lucianna then,” he ventured generously.

“Guess not!” exclaimed Martha, with decision. “The child’s got toys enough. Feedin’ her is more to the point. I never see such an appetite. She’s happy. Let her alone and put your money where ’twill be appreciated.”

Lucianna, now a child supposed to have attained twenty-five years, and a very queer one at that, had employed most of her day in making faces at such of the passers who did not meet her approval, and smiling at those who did. These courtesies were accentuated by taps on the window panes.

The poor harmless creature could be allowed little liberty as she ran away and sat on doorsteps, proclaiming herself a burglar of kittens. Given a kitten, or stealing one, Lucianna would go home delighted.

The influx of kittens became too trying. Enos, a soft-hearted man, would do no murder. Martha, steeled to crime through desperation, had disposed of several, really unfit to exist, and found homes for more. Lucianna forgot them over night. Therefore, it had lately become necessary to confine her to her room, where she was allowed one kitten during the day.

This satisfied Lucianna completely. Besides, she possessed six dolls, toys galore, and when these joys palled there was the window.

Whatever possessed the Matchetts to make a home for the unfortunate girl was a mystery to their acquaintances, as she was no kin. Years before, when life was younger and brighter, with Enos at a paying job, and Martha ambitious for a servant yet unable to afford a regular domestic, Lucianna, then a pretty child of about thirteen, had appeared and asked for something to eat.

She was well grown and seemed strong, although exhausted by walking and hunger.

Martha took her in, and an idea seized the good woman, after certain questions had been put and answered.

It was their plain duty to keep this little stranger until somebody claimed her, and in the event of no one turning up for the waif, why not train her for service?

Lucianna was reticent about her past career. Enos thought she lied. Martha said she was too young to remember. It seemed a case of no mother, a father who had gone away leaving her with unkind people who did not love her.

In corroboration of this last statement Lucianna exposed a plump arm decorated with small bruises of various ages and colors.

“Pinches,” she explained, snuffling. This settled Enos, who went down cellar and split more kindlings than he had ever done at one bout.

When he came up, perspiring and still glaring, Lucianna had been fed and put to bed. Martha was washing the soiled socks, and singing thoughtfully.

“Seems nice to have a child in the house,” she remarked.

“We’ll keep her along,” returned Mr. Matchett. “Good little thing.”

“As gold,” affirmed his wife.

This was the advent of Lucianna. Beyond the fact of her surname being Crowson, her clothes plain, her eyes blue, her light hair cut short, and that she bore marks of abuse, the worthy couple knew nothing.

Neither did they go out of their way for information. Lucianna proved affectionate, willing and useful, with a passion for cats.

In a year she had become almost as their own. Enos worshiped her. Martha did, too, but made Lucianna work, as befitted her position as helper.

Another year and the girl developed peculiarities that worried them. She eyed them shyly. She grimaced at Enos most impertinently when he trod on her cat’s tail. Martha spanked her. Lucianna laughed.

A few months more and she became erratic, irresponsible and useless, but always good natured. As Enos expressed it, “Lucianna had gone back to bein’ a kid.”

Some money went for medical advice. There was but one opinion. “Weak-minded. The patient might grow worse, but hardly probable if kindly treated. With great care under expert treatment she might improve. Such cases were outside the regular practice. Would recommend a sanitarium, or an asylum. Of course, if they wished to have her remain at home, no objection could be raised; but a burden—a burden.”

“We’ll keep her along,” announced Enos. “We’ve got hands and hearts yet, hain’t we?”

“God forgive me for spankin’ her,” wept Martha. “The poor thing couldn’t help her actions, an’ she never held it against me. Jest laughed, she did, takin’ it all in good part.”

“She sha’n’t go to no asylum,” cried Mr. Matchett, rising to the occasion. “Sanitariums an’ expert doctors ain’t for our pockets. She come to us for carin’, growed to be our little girl, an’ by Josh! Lucianna will be kep’ along.”

She was; and always reported to be “about the same.”

Ten years of it—ten long, trying, down-hill years, but neither Enos Matchett nor his wife had ever wavered in loyalty or love to their charge. Indeed, the worse things got, the more they thought of Lucianna.

Her daily airing (on the wiry arm of Martha), her whims, her playthings, were all attended to, religiously.

If, as frequently happened, she made a bright remark, her devoted keepers nodded sagely, saying, “She’s gettin’ better.”

As for the expense, whatever their thoughts in secret, both kept a guarded silence. Only this evening had Martha for the first time deprecated the failing of Enos to “blow a dollar for Lucianna.”

He stared at her, curiously, and grunted.

“Pooh!” said he, recklessly. “Got fifteen ahead.”

Martha’s tongue uncurbed at this unseemly boast. Her long nose twitched.

“Ahead!” she snorted. “You stay in my place tomorrow, Enos Matchett. You mind the door for one mornin’ and see how much you’re _ahead_.”

“All right,” returned Enos, his placid features animating resentfully. “I can spare the time till noon. No need of snappin’ at me as I see. No sense in deprivin’ Lucianna of a little pleasure, neither. There’s nobody pressin’ us hard—said so yourself. What’s a dollar, anyway?”

Alas! to the contempt of Mr. Matchett for the single dollar was due much of their financial tribulation.

“I’m going up to visit with the girl,” he added. “_She_ won’t be snappy.”

This parting thrust rankled in Martha’s bosom, and the supper table was cleared with rather unnecessary clatter. The improvident, easy-going Enos always let her have her own way. He turned over his earnings to her more careful hands, spending very little on himself, and trusted implicitly to wifely wisdom in all household matters. A real quarrel between them had never occurred.

Responsibility, shifted from his fat shoulders to her narrow ones, was both agreeable and natural to Enos. His make-up was that of the man who never “troubled trouble,” until cornered. Then he became actually belligerent and invited war. Up to this rare point Mr. Matchett bluffed good-humoredly.

When assailed by creditors on the street he was invariably in a hurry to perform some important and paying job—a fictitious pleasantry.

“Can’t bother about that now,” he would grin. “Drop ’round to the house an’ see Mis’ Matchett. She ’tends to the finances, an’ if she hasn’t spent all I give her lately, you’ll get something.”

This ingenious disposition of duns was not meant to be unkind.

“Martha’ll fix him,” Enos would chuckle, trotting along. “She don’t mind.”

So the brunt fell on Martha, and it was patiently borne.

But nerves grow irritable under constant pricking until they are ready to snap. Martha did mind. Of late she had felt like hiding whenever the door-bell rang. It took a long breath, a determined effort, a clutch at her quick beating heart for an appearance of unconcern, and her poor brain quivered with apprehension at its dearth of successful excuses.

“Let him have a turn,” she muttered, wiping the dishes. “The rent collector won’t be ’round ’till afternoon, but there’s a-plenty of others likely to show up. His fifteen dollars will get melted fast enough. _I_ could sprinkle it right, but he don’t know how. The first feller will get it all, an’ then——”

Martha paused to laugh, dismally. There was another side. How about future calls from those turned down by Enos? He might lose his temper. All the worse for her.

“I’m most hopin’ nobody’ll come,” she faltered. “I ain’t so sure of gettin’ the best of this.”

However, the following morning saw her marching off smilingly, with Lucianna in high feather at the prospect of a long stroll.

Enos regarded their departure with complacence, expecting an undisturbed session. At the most, some small bill might be presented. He knew just how he would pay it; carelessly, with a jaunty, indifferent air, as if the amount was a trifle. This was his unvarying attitude of settlement—when he settled.

With newspapers and a pipe, it would be quite a holiday. He established himself comfortably, soon forgetting indebtedness in perusing the details of late murders.

Shortly after nine o’clock came a ring of the bell—a feeble peal—Enos went to the door.

The caller was a stranger to him,—a dapper, gentlemanly man whose pleasant face bore an embarrassed expression.

“I—I wish to see Mrs. Matchett,” he began.

“Out for a walk,” said Enos, a bit pompously. “Any message? I’m Mr. Matchett.”

“Well,” the man pursed his lips and hesitated. “I—I wanted to speak with your wife about an account. Something of her own, you know—er—wearing apparel. If I could get the money today it would be a great convenience.”

Enos laughed indulgently.

“Clothes, eh? You needn’t be modest about that. I don’t rec’lect her havin’ any new ones for years, but it’s all right, I guess. I’m payin’ the bills. Trot it out an’ I’ll settle right now an’ glad to.”

The man looked relieved. “If it’s perfectly convenient?” he said.

“Perfectly,” puffed Enos. “I’ve got the stuff ready for any little thing that may come up.”

He unfolded the paper and glanced at the total under a short list of items. It was just thirty-five dollars.

Matchett gazed at the figures, too appalled to change countenance beyond a drop of the jaw.

Slowly, he pulled out his precious roll, and counted the money into the other’s hands.

“Receipt that bill!” he grunted.

“I’m ever so much obliged,” said the man glibly, his eyes on the paper as he signed the long name of a well known dry goods house, “and I wish you would explain to Mrs. Matchett.”

“I will,” returned Enos shortly.

“You see, we’ve sold out recently,” pursued his caller. “We are collecting all old accounts. This, as you perceive, is very old. We have never bothered Mrs. Matchett. I hated to come, really I did, but the present conditions made it imperative. Before your wife purchased the goods, she went to Mr. Morley—head of the old firm, you know, and told him so honestly that she couldn’t tell when she would be able to pay, and her reasons for buying, that it quite tickled the old gentleman. He came to me—I have charge of the dress goods department—Parker is my name.

“Says he, ‘Parker, wait on this lady and I’ll speak to the bookkeeper as to the bill.’ He gave orders to keep it back, so it’s never been presented. Very unusual and unbusinesslike, of course, but Mr. Morley had peculiarities. Pity he died. Our new head is a very different sort. Very strict. So I felt it was my place to see Mrs. Matchett, as I sold her the goods and she would remember. Ladies are apt to forget their little bills if not reminded. I think your wife will remember.”

“I think so,” said Enos. “Well, the thing’s paid and that’s all.” His voice was steady, but deeper than usual.

“That’s all. Yes, sir. Sorry to trouble you, and very many thanks. I’m much relieved to find it was no inconvenience. So many people complain of hard times. Good day.”

Mr. Parker skipped down the steps. Mr. Matchett locked the door.

He went to the most remote room in the house and sat for two hours in a state of apathetic despair, broken only by short bursts of wrath. Oh, Martha should long recollect this day! Several times the bell rang insistently, but Enos paid no heed.

At last he settled on a plan of action and went wearily down to unlock the door.

The two women came in, shortly before noon. In the sunshine and freedom, Martha had cast care to the winds. Her eyes were bright. In her thin cheeks played a faint color. Lucianna had behaved beautifully. Now, she giggled at sight of Enos, and clamored for dinner.

“We’ll have some soon,” said Martha, stirring about. “Had a quiet morning, husband?” mischievously.

“I ain’t seen a bill against me,” replied Mr. Matchett, calmly. “I’ve set still till I’ll be glad to get into the air. Let’s eat, an’ I’ll be startin’.”

The eye-brows of his wife lifted in wonder. After all, she was glad of the news. It would have been too bad to have Enos upset.

He ate in silence while she chatted volubly of her outing, not remarking his lack of attention.

“Through?” he asked, as Martha rolled her napkin and sat back.

“All through,” she smiled.

“Well, _I_ ain’t,” said the man, leaning forward, his eyes stern and reproachful. “Nor you, neither. We’ve a bit of dessert to chew on, Martha Matchett. I told you I hadn’t seen a bill against _me_. I’ve seen one against you, an’ I’ve paid it! Yes, marm. Paid it! Here!” he thrust the paper at her.

“Dear God!” moaned the woman, after a lightning glimpse. “It’s come on to me at last. Oh! Enos, husband, don’t look so at me. It was for Cousin Minna’s weddin’—four years ago;—I wanted to go. I didn’t have no dress, nor fixin’s. You was away. I went to Mr. Morley’s store an’ had ’em charged. He said I could pay when I had the money. I’ve never had it. The dress I’ve never worn since. I—I hid it away till I could pay for it, Enos—oh, dear, oh, dear.”

She sobbed, piteously, staring wildly at him through her tears.

“An’—you—paid—it,” came her horrified gasps. “Every—cent—we had.”

“You can attend to the rent, Martha,” the voice of Enos was unmoved as he arose. “I’m goin’ to rake lawns.”

He went out without another word or look, leaving her weeping and rocking to and fro.

From the outside he gazed at the house. It was a pretty cottage of a cheap kind. They had lived there for three years, and Martha’s vines had grown. Her flower bed, so carefully tended, how pretty it was! On the opposite side of the road lay a great vacant lot—a pasture on the city outskirts. Trees were there—and cows. In summer, children played among the grasses. In winter, they coasted. It was just the place for Lucianna—for Martha—for Enos, too.

“Got to leave it,” groaned the man. “No use talkin’. It’s pay or get out. Plenty wants it—and old Craddock won’t wait again. Third time we’ll have moved. Confound Minna’s weddin’ an’ a deceivin’ woman. If I’d known it—oh! if I only had—but I said I’d pay an’ I did. Now, _let_ her do some payin’.”

Lucianna tapped on the window and beamed at him. His answering smile was a ghastly farce. Tears were on the round cheeks of Enos as he hurried away. Last night he had been so confident and happy. He stumbled, walking on.

No suspicious moisture showed on Martha’s cheeks, as she marched over her doorsill twenty minutes later. Her tears had dried. A hard determination glittered in the black eyes. Under her hastily arranged bonnet, Mrs. Matchett’s face, strained and set, was tense with resolve.

Lucianna did not witness her departure, else there would have been wailing and much pounding on the window. Fortunately the girl had fallen asleep. Only on occasions of great moment was she left alone. This was one of them.

Martha hastened along.

The old sign of “Morley, Cowperthwait, Rensellaer and Company” still remained over the entrance of the great department store—but the kindly old founder was gone.

Martha knew that—she had read of his death, and the passage of the business into new hands. But that old bill wouldn’t be a worry. She had a whole string of excuses and explanations for the lingering liquidation of her debt in the case of the resurrection of this buried but haunting ghost. Now, Enos had “gone and paid it,” to the ruin of them all.

Through the throng she pushed and elbowed. How changed everything was. How busy and big. Martha had not entered that growing emporium since the date of her reckless purchase.

For a second her heart failed at the enormity of her mission. Then she clenched her teeth and grabbed a passing bundle boy by the shoulder.