Chapter I: W. Bishop

Mrs. Clancy glanced around the kitchen of the four-room flat on the top floor of a Broome-street tenement, and wondered why Clancy didn’t come. It was almost 7 o’clock, and he “struck work” at 6. Besides, to-morrow was Christmas, and their turkey depended on Clancy’s ability to get home with his week’s pay in his pocket. She had not much confidence in this, for he had come home with an empty purse and a full bottle too many times. So Norah Clancy slipped a shawl over her head, and started down stairs. Just as she reached the door, whom should she meet but Officer Dorgan, of the 3d precinct.

“Good avenin’, Mr. Dorgan,” said Norah, her mind full of Mike’s whereabouts.

“Good avenin’, Mrs. Clancy, and could I be doin’ anything for yez?”

“Have yez seen onything of my man?” asked Norah.

Now Dorgan did know where Clancy was, but he was kind-hearted and hated to tell Mrs. Clancy that her husband was endeavoring to fill himself with bad whiskey at Casey’s gin-palace on the corner. So Dorgan told Mrs. Clancy, in a comforting way, that her man was probably on his way home, and not to worry.

With that, Mrs. Clancy started up stairs, and only stopped to slap one of “them Linkowski brats,” as she called the children of Linkowski, the Polish Jew on the third floor.

Dorgan started for Clancy when Mrs. Clancy left him, and, true to his instinct, found him trying to hold up one end of Casey’s long mahogany bar. Dorgan approached him, and began,—

“Clancy, your wife’s a-lookin’ for yez.”

Clancy turned around still clinging to the polished hand-rail, and recognized Dorgan.

“What’ll yez drink?”

“Nothing, Clancy,” said the officer; “but yez better go home.”

Clancy turned around with an assumption of gravity and started for the door, for he was a little afraid of Norah.

She heard him coming, as he stumbled up the stairs, and waited for him. But as he grasped the knob of the door it opened of its own accord, and Clancy was precipitated against the kitchen table, which was set for supper. Concluding that it would be unwise to move under the existing circumstances, he remained leaning on the table and waited. He had n’t long to wait, however, for Norah began,—

“Mike, give me your money!”

He started to remonstrate, but quailed before the terrible look in her eye, and emptied his pocket on the table.

Norah counted it over.

“Three dollars an’ a half is missin’, Clancy, and yez eat cold corned-bafe to-morrer, av ye plaze.”

With this, Mrs. Clancy left the room and slammed the door.

Clancy, left to himself, sat down.

It wasn’t long before Mrs. Clancy returned, and again referred to the turkey which they would not eat on the morrow.

This was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Clancy’s manhood asserted itself, and he arose in a dignified manner and started for the door.

As he reached it he turned around and, with the air of a king bestowing a favor, said, “Mrs. Clancy, yez’ll hov that turkey.”

Clancy walked down stairs and out into the street, where he stood for a moment, irresolute.

His ideas on where to procure the turkey he had so rashly promised were very hazy, and, furthermore, he thought Mrs. Clancy had his money. As he reached his hand down into his pocket he felt something. He took it out, gazed at it contemplatively, and bit it. This seemed to satisfy his doubts. He had a quarter!

Then he considered what should be done with it. A quarter would hardly buy a turkey, and a quarter would buy considerable in the line of drink. Still thinking, he strolled down the street.

As he passed his old haunt a large white placard, with the following notice in green letters, attracted his attention:

RAFFLE

THERE WILL BE A
RAFFLE
FOR A CHRISTMAS TURKEY
AT THIS SALOON TO-NIGHT
25 CTS. A CHANCE.

CASEY]

Clancy did not hesitate, but entered the saloon. With determination in his eye, and all the straight-forwardness that he could put into his gait, he marched up to the bar-tender and inquired about the raffle.

“Ober dere,” said the man, pointing to the other end of the room. “Dere’s anoder chance left.”

Clancy, with an eagerness born of despair, deposited his quarter and drew his ticket, No. 13. “Thot may be bad luck,” thought Clancy, “but I’m bound to win.”

Clancy waited with stoical indifference as the numbers were drawn. At last he heard some one in the front of the crowd call out, “Thirteen wins.”

Ten minutes later, Clancy marched proudly into the presence of his wife, and laid his turkey before her.

“Mike,” she said, “where did you get that turkey?” “Mike,” she said in a louder tone, “did you steal that turkey or beg it?”

Mike did not reply to the calumnies of his wife. He was asleep.

MUSIC HATH CHARMS.

MUSIC HATH CHARMS.

DANA D. WALLACE.

They sat upon the wide piazza of the St. Sauveur hotel, gazing through the August twilight upon the extended purple of Frenchman’s Bay, the low-lying islands and erratic cliffs that have made Mt. Desert the Mecca of so many pleasure-seekers.

“It is strange that we should have come here together!” exclaimed Grace Egerton, folding her wraps about her gracefully.

“It is, indeed,” responded Ralph Leighton. “Of course, Grace, we rather hoped to meet you here; but you, George, who would have thought it!”

“It was certainly a pleasant surprise to meet you,” answered George Wardsworth. “I must truly consider myself fortunate,” with an emphasis on the last word, as he glanced at the beautiful face of Grace Egerton.

The glance was intercepted by Ralph, who was becoming annoyed at his friend’s earnest endeavors to be agreeable to his betrothed. It was with great pleasure that Ralph heard his sister’s voice asking George Wardsworth if the evening air wasn’t becoming a little chilly. Compelled to respond, George gallantly escorted her into the parlors.

Drawing his chair closer, Ralph dwelt with loving words upon his favorite topic, their engagement. “And when that happy day shall come,” he said, “when our engagement is over and real love begins, do you think, Grace, that we will be happier?

“No, Ralph; for it is already over.”

“What! My God—not that, Grace: why, but yesterday you vowed you loved me!”

“Yes,” she interrupted, her eyes seeking the ground. “You are right: one day ago I was yours, to-day I am another’s. Then I thought I knew what love was, but I find that I was ignorant of that passion. It is cruel,” she said, “but with my soul in sympathy with another’s, I could not be faithful to you, Ralph. Forget me, as unworthy of your love. I regret the pain I have caused you. But I”——

“Stop,” he cried. “It is true you never loved me. Oh! that I should be deceived by a woman’s love. Go, and may the curse”——but with an angry movement she was gone. With a muttered curse for George Wardsworth, whom he knew too well was to be Grace’s successful suitor, and almost maddened with grief, he strode down the gravel walk and was lost in the gathering night.

An hour later he returned, haggard and broken-hearted; and with little wonder, for in a few short minutes all that earth held dear had been ruthlessly snatched from him. Yet not all: there was his sister, whom he loved so sincerely, she would be his one comfort in life; but ever before him lingered the vision of Grace Egerton’s lovely face.

As he neared the hotel, he paused and listened. Sweetly floated from the parlors on the still evening air, the grand words and melodious strains of “Lead, Kindly Light.” It was his sister’s voice, singing as she never had before, so it seemed to him. Almost divine became the music. Such strains as cause us for the moment to forget the outside world with its laughter and tears, and fill our minds with nobler and better thoughts.

And though the singer knew it not, there was one who heard and never forgot that hymn, which for the time soothed his wearied heart as he listened in the silence of the night.

* * * * *

The bustling, good-natured throng, crowding New York’s busy thoroughfares, and the brilliantly lighted show-windows, told to all that Christmas eve, with all that it suggests, had fallen upon the city.

On Fifth avenue a man hurried past the wealthy and cheerful homes of the most fortunate citizens. The electric light glared upon him and revealed the face of an old friend, Ralph Leighton. But how changed from the handsome Ralph of former days! His unfortunate love affair, followed by the death of that sister whom he so dearly loved, had added many a year to the once youthful face.

“I might do it,” he muttered as he strode along, “I might dash George Wardsworth from his proud position to the level of a beggar; I wonder if the haughty Grace would come to him then. To-night George Wardsworth stands on the verge of financial ruin; if he can stave off his creditors for another week, the tide will change, and he will remain as he is, wealthy, happy, and loved. To-morrow I will tell the secret to his creditors, they will foreclose, and George Wardsworth will be a penniless man, and I shall have had my revenge.”

Wrapping his ulster more closely about him to keep warm his revengeful spirit, he passed on, but in a short time paused, attracted by the unusually cheerful appearance of one of the mansions. He gazed into the window. The sight for a moment unnerved him. There seated at the piano amid all the luxury of the Egerton mansion was the one who had made him the hardhearted, revengeful man that he had become,—with her face turned to a sofa on which easily reclined George Wardsworth. How contented and happy they looked!

He had not known where Grace was living, and this sudden discovery maddened him, and he muttered, “I will do it. George Wardsworth, beware!” He started on to carry out his threat, when the sound of music recalled him. As though guided by the hand of fate, Grace had turned to the piano and run her fingers over the ivory keys. Now instrument and voice chorded together, and softly there came to the revengeful listener, the sweet harmony of Cardinal Newman’s hymn. He waited through it all, and as

“And with the morn those angels’ faces smile,
Which I have loved, long since and lost, a while.”

lingered and died away, Ralph recalled the same hymn, that other night, when his hopes had forever vanished. He heard again the voice of his beloved sister. Even now she might be watching him from the star-lit heavens above. How false was he to her trust, meditating such vengeance. He hurried away, humming to himself the words of the sacred hymn, and the business house of Wardsworth & Co. weathered the financial storm.

Next day as the glad Christmas bells heralded the story of Christ throughout the land, they mingled with the merry bells of Grace Egerton’s wedding; but they told not to the world the message which had come into one man’s heart on Christmas eve.

THE SPRIG’S BALL.

WILLIAM GIBBON.

Several years ago, at the junction of two little streams in a fertile section of the cotton district, stood a rickety old blacksmith-shop. The master of its forge, Remington Ingleheart, familiarly known as “Rem,” was a stout, thick-set man, of slave parentage. He was a thrifty young fellow, sure of success at his trade. For some time he had been “goin’ with a gal,” as he said, about half a mile up one of the little streams, but had never come to any definite understanding, because there had been but one room to the shop. By the time of which we write, however, things were different. An extra apartment was practically completed. The neighbors wondered what “Rem” was up to. When asked about it, he simply answered that he was tired “workin’ an’ sleepin’ in de same place.”

Among all the young negroes of the vicinity, “Rem” had but one particular friend. This was Hicks Gale. Hicks was a sort of blacksmith, too. In rushes of work he would come over and help “Rem.” One cold December night, “Rem” had a job on hand that must be finished before he turned in. How he wished for Hicks! As if the wish had anything to do with it, Hicks actually appeared about nine o’clock.

“Hullo, Hicks!” exclaimed “Rem.” “Jus’ de man I wants to see. Take de sledge an’ strack a little fur me.”

“Dat ain’t presactly what I come fur,” said Hicks; “but I kin hit you a few licks, anyhow.”

“What’s on hand?” asked “Rem,” thrusting the iron back for a new heat.

“A ball at St. Michael’s, Christmus eve,” responded Hicks, in much glee. “Sim Sprigs is givin’ it, an’ he tole me fur to tell you to be shore an’ come, an’ fetch Judy. You’ll be dar, won’t you?”

“Coase,” answered “Rem.” “Ever know me to miss a ball?”

St. Michael’s was a church: a shabby looking structure on the east bank of the large stream formed by the two smaller ones. On the night of the ball, it was pompously illuminated by a number of tallow dips that peeped uneasily forth from every nook and corner. The dilapidated wooden shutters had been drawn to and fastened with pieces of heavy twine, to keep out the gusty blasts. In the centre was a small stove, which was filled with pine knots till it gave out the necessary degree of heat. The crude benches, on either side of the common aisle, were gathered into a large heap beside the door, to make room for the pedal antics. The most striking feature was the old pulpit. It consisted of a low platform, shut in across the front and half way back on either side by a rough framework of boards. Each projecting corner looked toward a vendor’s stand, laden with the influences which make “A fool and his money” soon part.

The form of entertainment which the negroes call a ball is rather a comprehensive institution. It may be given on the slightest provocation, and under any auspices whatever, public or private. Ostensibly, the enjoyment consists in dancing to the music of a scratchy fiddle. Really, the interested parties bring together as many of their friends as possible for the purpose of disposing to them of cheap nicknacks and third-class refreshments at a profit of three or four hundred per cent.

By eight o’clock on the Christmas eve in question, St. Michael’s was full to overflowing. The din of loud talking and yelling was deafening. The voice of Sim Sprigs, the manager, could be heard above that of any one else, exhorting the young bloods to “furmember” their sweethearts, and “treat ’um often.” The idea of treating was of primary importance to the success of the entertainment. It meant that the boys were to lavish their last cent on the girls. In fact, the prompting in the dance was equipped with a special figure for such occasions,—“Promenade to de bar.” The cry of “treat me” could everywhere be heard in powerful soprano tones. If a girl met a boy she knew she invariably asked him to treat her. When a boy asked a girl to dance, she usually answered, “Yup, uf you’ll treat me fust,” frequently stipulating the amount of the investment.

“Rem” and Judy arrived a little late. The first dance was already in progress. Every one naturally glanced up to see who had entered. The newcomers shook off their slight embarrassment by at once joining in the waltz. Very soon they were as much a part of the crowd as any other couple in the house.

As soon as the opening set closed, there was a general thronging to “de bar.” “Rem” made his purchases and retired. With a large bag in one hand, and Judy on the other arm, he sought the seclusion of the old pulpit. The inclosure was furnished with only the preacher’s bench, but that had plenty of length for two. “Rem” and Judy sat down, with the bag between them. The former seized a huge piece of cake, and intimated to the latter that she might “dip in.” The second dance was “sot out.” When the third was announced, neither “Rem” nor Judy had engaged a partner. It was natural and pleasant enough for them to dance together again. Further along, they did not hesitate to pass over several sets at a time. All spare moments were spent in the pulpit. “Rem” kept an abundance of nicknacks on hand, so that they might “dip in,” and relieve the embarrassment of occasional silence. Until quite late the conversation was, on the whole, comparatively general. “Rem” now came a little more to the point, by remarking that he had “bin ’templatin’ takin’ a wife.”

“Is you?” said Judy, simply. “Dat’s good.”

“Jobs is bin putty brisk dis fall,” added “Rem,” “an’ I’s got my yother room all fixed.”

“Is you done picked her out?” asked Judy, with apparent unconcern.

“Picked her out!” exclaimed “Rem,” “long’s I bin gwine wid you, Judy Marshall, now you ax me who I wants to marry!”

Rosy dawn dispersed the moneychangers from the temple and shamed the lovers from the pulpit. On the following Sunday, St. Michael’s church was packed with an unusually large audience, and the morning service was concluded with a wedding.

“Judy Marshall,” said the preacher, “does you solemnly promise to live up to dis man, lack you ought ter?”

“I does.”

“Remington Ingleheart, is you gwine to cherry dis ’oman, whether she’s sick or no?”

“Sho’s God, I be!”

CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE CLUB.

CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE CLUB.

HARRY A. TERREL.

“What if she i-s waiting? Ha, ha, ha,—hic! it’ll do her good to wait.”

The speaker was a well dressed, wealthy young aristocrat of New York. It was Christmas eve at the club, and he had sat with his comrades-in-revelry at cards and wine till the early hours of the morning, not thinking of his young wife at home, alone; and when one of the soberer of the company asked if his wife would be waiting for him, he answered, with a mocking laugh, “Ha, ha, ha—hic! it’ll do her good to wait.”

Finally the wine-cup was emptied for the last time, and the party at the club dispersed. The aristocrat wandered unsteadily homeward. A few blocks from his residence a fire-engine thundered past him, and he gave a drunken shout to the drivers, as if to encourage them, and continued on his way.

As he turned the corner of the street on which his house stood, almost horror-stricken, he saw it wrapped in flames. The sight sobered him instantly, and, remembering his wife, whom he had left alone seven hours before, he rushed to the spot, and pushing through the crowd which had gathered he cried, “My wife! my God! My wife! where is she! Is she still in there?”

Not heeding the intense heat, he rushed to the building and attempted to climb a ladder resting against the house, but the firemen held him back, and led him to a group of his servants and some officers.

They parted as he came up, and he beheld there, lying on a rough blanket taken from one of the engine horses, the beautiful, white, but cold form of the one he left a few short hours before in the beauty of womanhood. Oh, the agony of murdered love! He reeled and sank to the ground, his head fairly bursting as he remembered her parting words:

“Don’t leave me to-night, George, this night of all others, Christmas eve, the anniversary of our wedding. You have left me alone every night for months past. Don’t leave me to-night.”

Then flashed across his mind his own words at the club, “What if she is waiting? Ha, ha, ha—hic! it’ll do her good to wait.”

It was too much for his wearied brain, and his mind gave way. With the fiendish crackling voice of a maniac he cried, “Ha, ha, ha—hic! it’ll do her good to wait.”

A COMPLETE LIST

OF DARTMOUTH COLLEGE UNDERGRADUATE PUBLICATIONS.

The Ægis.

Founded in 1865, and published annually by editors chosen from the Junior class.

=95’s Ægis is Just Out=,

and contains the following special features: Portraits and biographical sketches of President Tucker and the late Professor Patterson; the words and music of the Dartmouth Song, by W. B. Segur; fine half-tone pictures of the new Alumni Athletic field; the champion Foot-ball and Athletic teams; base-ball nine, Dramatic club, and Glee club. It is bound in green cloth, with white lettering, and is a model of typographical and press work. Price, $2.00. On sale at Storrs’s bookstore, or by the business manager.

ROBERT A. CAMPBELL,
Managing Editor.

ROBERT M. THORNBURG,
Business Manager.

THE

Dartmouth Literary Monthly.

The “LIT.” was started in 1886 and aims to represent the literary life of the college. It is published monthly by editors chosen at the end of the sophomore year according to competition during the first two years.

=The “Lit.” for ’93-’94=

has many new features. Its green and white cover is representative of the college. Each month it contains short stories, essays, a department of college verse, and bright sketches. This volume of “X-mas Sketches” is from the December number of the “LIT.” and shows the work the “LIT.” is doing in developing the literary spirit in college.

For the Alumni.

It contains the most complete alumni department ever published. Each issue has an interesting article by some prominent alumnus upon _the war record of the College_. The portrait of some Dartmouth hero accompanies each article. These articles are attracting a great deal of attention. The frontispiece of The “LIT.” is the portrait of some prominent alumnus. In its holiday number it presents the steel engraving of Mr. Mark Wentworth Fletcher, Dartmouth’s oldest living graduate.

Every alumnus and undergraduate should support the “LIT.” Price, $2.00 a year.

EDWIN O. GROVER, Managing Editor.
ASHLEY K. HARDY, Business Manager.

The Dartmouth.

THE COLLEGE NEWSPAPER.

This is one of the oldest of the college publications, and has the largest circulation of any college paper printed. It is published bi-weekly.

=The Dartmouth for ’93-’94=

is furnishing all the college news, with complete reports of all foot-ball games and athletic meets. Portraits of prominent alumni appear from time to time. The Alumni department receives especial attention.

The only way to keep in touch with the college is to take THE DARTMOUTH. Price, $2.00 a year, single copies 12 cents. On sale at Storrs’s bookstore.

FRED C. ALLEN, Managing Editor.
FRANK D. FIELD, Business Manager.

Dartmouth Lyrics.

A collection of Poems from the undergraduate Publications of Dartmouth college.

The first of the undergraduate volumes to appear was the first edition of DARTMOUTH LYRICS, which was published in 1888, by

OZORA STEARNS DAVIS ’89, and
WILLIAM DRUMMOND BAKER ’89.

It was among the first undergraduate publications of any college, and was a great success. It was bound in green cloth, with gilt top and untrimmed edges. A year ago the edition was exhausted, and it is no longer on sale.

Dartmouth Lyrics.

NEW EDITION NOW ON SALE.

Containing upwards of 125 selections from the best verse Dartmouth undergraduates have written. Among the contributors are J. A. Bellows ’70, H. H. Piper ’76, H. R. Foster ’82, Richard Hovey ’85, W. D. Quint ’87, F. J. Urquhart ’87, W. B. Forbush ’88, W. F. Gregory ’88, N. M. Hall ’88, F. L. Pattee ’88, N. D. Baker ’89, O. S. Davis ’89, C. F. Robinson ’90, M. P. Thompson ’92, H. B. Metcalf ’93, G. C. Selden ’93, P. E. Stanley ’93, E. O. Grover ’94, Kent Knowlton ’94, R. A. Campbell ’95. Finely illustrated by half-tone pictures of prominent Dartmouth literary men, and familiar Hanover views. Beautifully bound in grey and green, with gilt edges.

Those who have seen the book speak highly of its appearance and make-up. The selections were made with the approval of Prof. C. F. Richardson. Mr. Bertrand A. Smalley ’94, is editor. Price, $1.00. For sale at Storrs’s and Lake & Sanborn’s. Orders by mail will be promptly filled.