MERRY 
 
 and OTHER TALES 
 
 BY 
 
 LEO ROBBINS 
 
 THE STRATFORD COMPANY 
 
 BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS 
 MCMXVII I
 
 Copyright 1918 
 
 The STRATFORD CO., Publishers 
 Boston, Mass. 
 
 The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A.
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 Mary the Merry . . 1 
 
 And Yet - .... 7 
 
 Pedigree ... . . 17 
 
 Sisters .... .21 
 
 Ades' "Ad" for Aid 25 
 
 The Price ... .29 
 
 The Christmas Gift 33 
 
 The Life of the Dead 39 
 
 Something to Eat 51 
 
 The Pest .... .55 
 
 Self-Justified 71 
 
 Quips of Destiny ..... 77 
 
 2137928
 
 Mary the Merry 
 
 WERE this a play, for which I wished to assure 
 a long run on the stage, I might have called it 
 the ''Shocking Stocking," or "The Naked 
 Woman, " or " Two Bedrooms in One Bed, ' ' perhaps. 
 Were it a magazine serial I could have named it "The 
 Matchless Match," or "The Sinning Sex," or with 
 greater success, "The Seventh Commandment." 
 Again, were it a detective story, I most probably 
 would christen it, "Ten Murders for Ten Cents," 
 "The Invisible Visible," or "The Stain on the Tail of 
 the World. ' ' But, as it is only a plain story of a plain 
 girl, in a plain world, and for plain people therefore, 
 be it known simply as ' ' Mary the Merry. ' ' 
 
 For the story of Mary the Merry it is. And Mary 
 the Merry was neither the Vampire-woman nor the 
 ethereal creature that one sees on the stage, nor the 
 Champagne girl of the Novel or the Veiled woman in 
 the Detective story. Mary was the daughter of a cer- 
 tain Steve Egbers, who worked six days at the Na- 
 tional Woolen Mills, and on the seventh day, which Is 
 Sabbath, he rested from his labor, at "Noah's 
 Ark, ' ' an institution managed by a man whose Chris- 
 tian name was Noah, but who was better known as 
 "Red Kelly." And Noah's Ark was ever floating 
 upon the waters prevailing upon the earth by the 
 wrath of God, and known as Alcohol. 
 
 [1]
 
 MAEY THE MERRY 
 
 Wherefore, Mary's mother spoke the one lan- 
 guage known all over the face of the earth, and termed 
 curses by God and Man, and submerged Mary's home 
 in a deluge of tears. And yet more blessings knew 
 Mary in her home. For on the Sabbath evenings when 
 the Man, Steve Egbers, returned to his cave, and the 
 disposition of Lot was his then did the blessings of 
 Sodom and Gomorrah pour forth upon him from the 
 lips of the "bone of his bones," and then it was that 
 the temple of the home was often scattered even like 
 the tower of Babel. 
 
 And hath not God bidden mankind to increase 
 and multiply ? Behold in Steve Egbers the God-fear- 
 ing and abiding! For eight little pairs of shoes had 
 he to create in the six days of Creation, and eight lit- 
 tle mouths squeaked on Sabbath Eve, in chorus with 
 their mother's bitter welcome to their provider. Nay, 
 we cannot know the number which the tribe of Egbers 
 might reach to in time. 
 
 Yet was Mary, the oldest-born, Mary the Merry. 
 And this designation she fully deserved by virtue 
 of her nature. Just how she could laugh, and hop and 
 dance when her parents squabbled and fought, God 
 knows, but this much we, puny mortals, may know; 
 that not for no reason was Mary called Mary the 
 Merry 
 
 Now, you most certainly have read that fascinat- 
 ing book about a lame little boy, who was always happy 
 and made others happy. Well, then, do you remember 
 that there were also a poor rich lady and a miserable 
 
 [2]
 
 MARY THE MEERY 
 
 rich man who, that book said, came to know sunshine 
 through the happy little boy, for which they made him 
 really happy? If you remember that, I say, you al- 
 ready have the drift of my story. 
 
 For the poor rich may be debarred from the 
 realms of happiness, but when they see its hue they 
 know to appreciate it. As has been said once too 
 often, many a rose would have died untouched if 
 not for the bee 
 
 Which, however, must not take us away from our 
 story. It is for mere atmosphere, probably, that I 
 happen to bring in these sweet elements. But now, for 
 the sake of a little symbolism let us take the conclusion 
 of the story of Mary the Merry, and see if you could 
 discover all these elements there. 
 
 Mary the Merry, like her father, worked at the 
 great National institution, I mean the Woolen Mills. 
 And when Mary was seventeen she had been there 
 for four years. 
 
 Four years' time should afford many a chance to 
 laugh and shout and dance! Ay, four years' time 
 should afford a great deal of dreaming for a girl like 
 Mary. But it happened that Mary would sometimes 
 forget herself for a minute, and stand staring before 
 her blankly. And then it happened that Mary could 
 not laugh so often and so whimsically. . . . 
 
 What could Mary see in such instances? The 
 vision was not always the same. But invariably there 
 was a big automobile, a rich, carpeted room, and 
 laughter, laughter, laughter. . . . 
 
 [3]
 
 MAEY THE MERRY 
 
 At such times there was a droop noticeable in 
 Mary the Merry. The Merry Mary was longing. And 
 it took long before at last there appeared to her an 
 angel of mercy to realize her dreams. And he was a 
 young angel, and pleasant to look upon. 
 
 In some of those hasty novels he would "be por- 
 trayed as a devil in disguise. 
 
 He had something to do in the management of the 
 Mills, and he liked Mary the first time he saw her. 
 He was very kind, and the first thing he said to her 
 was that she was the merriest little girl he had ever 
 seen. And he had seen a lot. People had heard of 
 him before, and seen his picture in the papers along- 
 side the beautiful faces of a half-dozen chorus girls. 
 Then it was, that once, Mary spoke to him of her 
 dreams, and he saw tears in her pretty eyes, and there 
 was a little flash of fire in his own, and he said that 
 he would see her dreams realized. And one evening 
 it was a fine evening she waited at a certain cor- 
 ner for his automobile, and he came along, and she 
 hopped in, and the car sped off, she leaning back in 
 the soft seat, throbbing with pleasure. 
 
 He had the good-time all arranged for her. A 
 distance from the city, at the Richwood Inn, a good 
 supper with wine was awaiting them. They were 
 speeding. 
 
 But they never reached the inn. There was a 
 crash, a scream, and a flare of fire. And little Mary 
 the Merry never saw her dreams realized. . . . 
 
 Still, essentially, Mary's dream came true. The 
 [4]
 
 MARY THE MEERY 
 
 newspapers in the morning could not have it other- 
 wise but that the treasurer of the National Woolen 
 Mills was killed in an automobile accident, while mo- 
 toring with a friend of the family, Miss Mary Egbers, 
 well known in Society circles. The girl's body was 
 pinned under the ruins of the car, and badly muti- 
 lated. 
 
 This is the story of Mary the Merry It might 
 have been worse had she reached the inn with the 
 man. . 
 
 [5]
 
 And Yet- 
 
 AT last the judge leaned forward, over his desk, 
 and asked the question, so unavoidable in the 
 case before him, and yet so hard, so unpleasant 
 for the lawyers to put before the shy, humiliated 
 woman on the witness stand. 
 
 "But how," he said in his kindliest tones, "did 
 you happen to find yourself in the same taxi with the 
 defendant?" 
 
 The young woman blushed. A deep, timorous red 
 mantled her beautiful face. It was the climax of her 
 mortification, what she was expecting, and yet so hard 
 to bear. But she was ready in her penitence to stand 
 on the pillory and have her shame unveiled that she 
 might be purged. She twitched the little handker- 
 chief between her fingers. A sob was bubbling up In 
 her throat, escaping her ; she pressed her lips tighter. 
 
 The silence in the court room was so intense that 
 it seemed ready to crack. The judge remained in his 
 position, his lips still parted. 
 
 Slowly she turned her eyes upon her husband, the 
 man who loved her, the man against whom she had 
 sinned. His awkward little body was suspended for- 
 ward, his lumpy, knotted face rigid with expectation ; 
 his eyes, seemingly frozen in their sockets, were on 
 her. They were full of love, clemency, forgiveness. 
 
 [7]
 
 AND YET 
 
 Without moving her head she saw the other man, 
 her assailant. He was leaning back in his seat com- 
 placently. His splendid body, with the creased trous- 
 ers, patent shoes, lightly stretched forward, seemed 
 to be lounging on the bench, rather than sitting. His 
 hair, combed back, flashed a streak of lustre. His 
 chin, slightly pointed, threw a ribbon of shade on his 
 immaculate modish collar and silk cravat. He was 
 grinning cynically. 
 
 She dropped her eyes to her lap, closed them for 
 an instant, then began : 
 
 "I hope you will understand," she said. Every 
 one in the room breathed. Her voice was sweet and 
 firm. ' ' I shall tell my story here before my husband, 
 before all the strangers before all the world. I 
 know that my heart will feel lighter then. ' ' 
 
 She flushed anew, her voice grew deep with emo- 
 tion. She continued: 
 
 "I never meant to be untrue to my husband 
 may God punish me if I did ! I swear here before 
 you all that I never was untrue to him. He loves me, 
 I know that. He has given me everything I desired. 
 I respect him. I I love him ! ' ' 
 
 The lawyer for the defence coughed. She drew 
 the end of her handkerchief across one eye, then 
 the other, and resumed. 
 
 ' ' But I didn 't have enough friends, I think. My 
 husband is hardly ever home. I know very few peo- 
 ple in this city. Occasionally, I used to dress up in 
 the morning and go shopping for the day. I'd walk 
 
 [8]
 
 AND YET 
 
 through the department-stores until my feet ached, 
 then return home. But I hate the store counters. I 
 hate the asking of prices and salesgirls' faces. Most of 
 the time I 'd plant myself at the window, sit there all 
 day long, and watch the street. 
 
 "I used to think an awful lot. I was afraid I'd 
 lose my mind thinking. Lately (she lowered her 
 voice) I came to thinking of suicide." 
 
 The grotesque, anxious face of her husband 
 twitched with pain. The judge bit his lip. The de- 
 fendant alone was unmoved. 
 
 "Then I began noticing this this man. Each 
 noon-time he would appear out of one end of the 
 street and walk slowly by. Just when I first noticed 
 him I don't know myself. But once I noticed him es- 
 pecially in the crowd I don 't know why. When he 
 appeared the next day, I at once distinguished him 
 from the rest of the people. I watched for him every 
 day after that, and each time he walked by I felt 
 as if meeting a friend. I I missed him one day when 
 he did not appear. I'm afraid I was waiting for him 
 anxiously every day." 
 
 She was conscious of the young man's cynical 
 grin. His wilful eyes, focussed on her face, burned 
 her like through a magnifying glass. 
 
 "One day when he passed by I was holding a 
 flower. I dropped it by accident. It fell upon his 
 hat, and he stopped. I saw him take it in his hand 
 and looking up at my window. He tucked the flower
 
 AND YET 
 
 into his lapel, lifted his hat to me, and smiled. I fled 
 from the window ; I was ashamed of myself. 
 
 "I could not forgive myself for many days. 
 
 "But somehow I was drawn to the window. I 
 used to hide behind the curtains every time he passed. 
 I saw him look up each time. 
 
 "Then I got so lonesome I didn't know what to 
 do with myself. I could no longer even sit at the win- 
 dow. The greater a multitude I saw on the street the 
 lonesomer I grew. I couldn't sit in one place for a 
 minute. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. I felt like 
 strangling myself. . . . 
 
 "On the street was streaming by such a mass, a 
 great sea of people, and no one cared for me, no one 
 had a thought for me. No one knew I was so lonesome, 
 so near. He alone would look up at my window and 
 expect me. . . . 
 
 " 'My friend!' I exclaimed many times behind 
 the curtains when I saw him raise his eyes to my win- 
 dow." 
 
 She was crying now, but mastered herself imme- 
 diately. 
 
 "One day I was so desperate that I was ready 
 to call him up. I didn't dare. 
 
 ' ' I decided I must get out of the house, get some 
 recreation, excitement. My husband had always 
 begged me to enjoy myself the best I could ; but I had 
 never cared to go out alone. 
 
 "That evening I insisted that he go out with me 
 to some cabaret or other. He was surprised at first, I 
 
 [10]
 
 AND YET 
 
 think. But he was very tired, he said. He would only 
 go to oblige me, and this I could not bear. I cried and 
 refused to answer him or talk to him. 
 
 * ' He went to bed early. I was already in my bed, 
 sobbing. He tried to soothe me, and only succeeded 
 in getting me furious. I brought all the jewels he had 
 bought me and threw them in his face. I didn 't want 
 his jewels when I couldn't wear them. 
 
 "I know that I caused him pain. I am sorry 
 now. ' ' 
 
 Her husband gasped. The defendant laughed 
 aloud. 
 
 "He fell asleep soon. I stopped crying. I was 
 enraged by his sleep. How could he sleep, I thought, 
 when I was so miserable ! 
 
 "Suddenly a notion came to me. I ran to the 
 mirror, arranged my hair, my face, put on my best 
 gown, gathered all my scattered jewels on my body. 
 I had three hundred dollars in a drawer. I took that, 
 and stole out of the house. 
 
 ' ' On the street I called a taxi, and told the chauf- 
 feur to take me to the best cafe in the city." 
 
 Even on the refined face of the judge the ex- 
 pression was that of piquant curiosity. 
 
 "The place was a turmoil of mirth and light. I 
 felt so reckless that I was surprised at myself. Sit- 
 ting alone at my table, I caught a glimpse of myself 
 in one of the mirrors. I was the richest-looking there. 
 
 "A man was trying to get my attention from a 
 nearby table. It was he, the young man for whom 
 
 [11]
 
 AND YET 
 
 I had been watching daily at my window the only 
 man in the multitude who knew that I existed. 
 
 "I was confused at first, then I nodded and 
 smiled. He came over to my table and pressed my 
 hand." 
 
 She was silent for a minute. She seemed to gather 
 new strength. Presently, her eyes still on her lap, she 
 went on: 
 
 ' ' I didn 't even ask his name. But I had the love- 
 liest time of my life. I love dancing, and I never en- 
 joyed my dancing so much. I simply didn't know 
 what I was doing." 
 
 "Nothing rough?" interrupted one of the attor- 
 neys. 
 
 "No, no," she replied. "He was the most gen- 
 tlemanly man I ever met. I haven't met many men, 
 but- 
 
 "You may proceed with your story, please," said 
 the judge, scowling at the lawyer for the interrup- 
 tion. 
 
 "Well," she resumed, "later in the evening I 
 suddenly remembered what I had done, and what my 
 husband might think of me if he found out my ab- 
 sence. I was anxious to be home again. He insisted 
 that I must let him escort me. At first I didn't give 
 in; I always had a fear of sitting with a man other 
 than my husband in a car, but he was so persistent, 
 and he had meant so much to me that evening, that I 
 simply couldn 't be rude to him. ' ' 
 
 She ceased talking and pulled her handkerchief 
 [12]
 
 AND YET 
 
 more nervously. She had reached the strategic point 
 in her story, where it was hardest for her to talk. 
 Finally, with an effort she resumed, her voice vibrant 
 in accordance with her tale. 
 
 "We got into a taxi and drove for my home. I 
 felt guilty, apprehensive, and dejected. He tried to 
 cheer me up. My ill humor was already melting, when 
 suddenly I felt his hand unbuckling my bracelet. I 
 grasped him by the sleeve, but he threw himself upon 
 me and was choking me. I struggled. I bit his hand, 
 I kicked, I clenched my fingers, so that he couldn't 
 take the rings off. He hit me in the face with his fist. 
 I felt blood running from my mouth and nose. Still 
 I struggled on. . . . 
 
 "I felt I was going to faint. He was strangling 
 me. I kicked at the door. There was a crash of glass. 
 The car stopped. 
 
 "He cursed and began tearing my earrings. It 
 pained I screamed I ' ! 
 
 She had got up from her seat entranced with the 
 vividness of her terrible experience, re-enacting it de- 
 liriously. But before she came to a close she collapsed, 
 her arms falling limp across the railing. 
 
 The trial was resumed in the afternoon session. 
 The chance visitors to court clung to their seats, un- 
 like the usual court recesses. The woman was again 
 composed, sitting beside her uncouth husband. He 
 was called upon to testify, and he eagerly assured the 
 
 [13]
 
 AND YET 
 
 judge that his wife was not the kind that is apt to 
 go astray. In his meek way, he said something about 
 himself being a criminal, and an example to other 
 negligent husbands. 
 
 The chauffeur recognized the defendant as the 
 man he had in his ear with the lady on the night in 
 question. He said that he stopped his car when he 
 heard the crash of glass behind him. 
 
 A police officer testified how he was attracted by 
 the screams of a woman in a taxi, and how he ran 
 four blocks in pursuit of the assailant before he caught 
 him. 
 
 This was followed by the report from the ambu- 
 lance doctor of the Emergency Hospital. 
 
 "Upon examination," he said, "I have found two 
 front teeth knocked out, and one molar. Arms badly 
 scratched; throat bruised in six places. 
 
 "The lobe of the left ear brutally torn away." 
 
 Unconsciously all eyes rested on the ear of the 
 mortified woman. The bandage had been recently re- 
 moved and the wound was still raw. Compared with 
 her beautiful features, even the sight of it was brutal. 
 
 From police records it was established that the 
 defendant, Jerome Bowden, known in the white light 
 districts as "Jerry Bow", was one of the champion 
 male parasites who forever haunt the pleasure dens 
 of the city. There are many like him at large in the 
 city, the judge said, preying upon the rich women 
 who once or often visit the gay districts. They are all 
 of magnetic charm, elegant manners, and winning 
 
 [14]
 
 AND YET 
 
 ways. If only all this man 's victims were to enter their 
 complaints, God knows how many family tragedies we 
 might have. 
 
 "Nine months at hard labor!" he pronounced 
 sentence. 
 
 The prisoner was being led out by the court offi- 
 cer. He stepped nimbly, carelessly. Passing by the 
 woman's chair, he deliberately brushed his arm 
 against her. Her husband instinctively drew her 
 closer to him. But she did not shrink from the crimi- 
 nal's touch. She sat at her husband's side, following 
 with yearning, wistful eyes the lithe figure of the 
 young man moving away from her. . . . 
 
 [15]
 
 Pedigree 
 
 WHEN Hogerman, the rich silk manufacturer, 
 married his wife, he knew her tragic life story. 
 She had told him even while he was wooing her 
 that she was a foundling, cast upon the streets of Lon- 
 don when two weeks old. Indeed, she had related to 
 him how she had been raised in an institution until 
 her tenth year, and then given into the service of a 
 land-owner's kitchen, where she worked for the next 
 seven years, and saved up enough to carry her to 
 America. Fortunately, upon arriving in the free 
 country, she got a job in the Hogerman shops. There 
 the proprietor laid eyes on her, and soon married her. 
 
 He was not so rich then, widowed twice, and 
 forty-three. In the shop he wore a brown derby, ram- 
 bled about in an old woolen vest, and did all the floor- 
 work himself. The girl was used to masters, and he 
 sensed it the first day she came in to work for him. 
 This, in addition to her good looks, a taste for which 
 he had cultivated probably in his selection of pat- 
 terns, were exactly the qualities he required of his 
 wife. 
 
 She accepted him, and was envied by the 
 shop girls. To be sure, she was not exactly happy. 
 But she had little time to consider it before the 
 wedding, and much less after. She became mistress 
 
 [17]
 
 PEDIGREE 
 
 of a fairly large house, and nurse to a round half- 
 dozen children from his deceased wives. She gave 
 Mr. Hogerman satisfaction and strengthened his self- 
 assurance that he invariably knew what he was doing. 
 
 In the few years following their marriage, his 
 wealth doubled, and his mercantile dominions in- 
 creased. He grew less stingy in his household, and his 
 wife went buying to the market in a limousine. This 
 epoch was marked by the birth of a child a boy. 
 
 Now, sometimes as people grow rich they grow 
 romantic. Hogerman soon came to suffer these effects. 
 He no longer did any manual work in the shop, and 
 sometimes read a newspaper in the dull office hours. 
 Occasionally, he told his wife to dress, and they rode 
 in their automobile to a show. Movies he liked best, 
 and he fell into the habit of seeing a picture show once 
 a week. His wife did not care so much for the photo- 
 drama, could not sit through a show after her day's 
 hustling about the house without falling asleep, but 
 she always had to go along. 
 
 And on the screen a lost, deserted child is as 
 common as insurance agents in this world, or as movie 
 shows themselves, for that matter. When watching 
 such plays, Mrs. Hogerman invariably cried, and Ho- 
 german inwardly sympathized with her. 
 
 However, on the screen, all the lost, deserted 
 children were sooner or later reclaimed by their par- 
 ents. Why was not his wife? Furthermore, these 
 parents were always lords, princes and kings. Was it 
 not possible that his wife, too, was of noble blood ? 
 
 [18]
 
 PEDIGREE 
 
 His son might be heir to a lordship if his wife's 
 parentage were known. 
 
 He reflected on his wife 's qualities. ' ' Sometimes 
 I do think you have noble blood in you," he com- 
 mented once casually. She cried from happiness, took 
 his hairy hand, brushed her cheek against it and kissed 
 it. He experienced a thrill he had been craving for 
 during all these years of his mastery over the shops. 
 
 Then he decided to make an attempt at unveiling 
 her identity. He saw his lawyer on the matter, and 
 the lawyer mailed a formal inquiry to the institution 
 at which the girl had been raised. 
 
 He meant to save the developments as a surprise 
 for her, but could not resist telling her of his efforts 
 the same evening. She sobbed all night. Hogerman 
 was sorry for that his sleep was disturbed. But he 
 did not scold her. On the contrary, he appreciated 
 her emotions. In fact, she kept on muttering how 
 good a husband he was. 
 
 It took a month for the reply to come from Eng- 
 land. Cautiously his wife asked him each day if 
 there was any news. He was not in the habit of talk- 
 ing business to his wife, but he answered good-hum- 
 oredly. At last the answer from England was re- 
 ceived. He told his wife one night that to-morrow 
 she might know who her parents were. Her nerves 
 were all on edge. 
 
 The institution had knowledge of his wife's par- 
 ents. It seemed that only recently a woman had come 
 to their office inquiring about the child, and bringing 
 
 [19]
 
 PEDIGREE 
 
 evidence that she was the mother. They had had no 
 inkling at that time of the whereabouts of the girl, but 
 they knew that she was in America, and thither went 
 her mother in search of her. They enclosed the moth- 
 er's address. 
 
 And our little world is one big pot of coincidents, 
 it would seem. Hogerman knew the woman. He knew 
 her well. She was one of his present employees, a 
 green hand in his own shop ! 
 
 He at once dismissed his lawyer. 
 
 When he came home in the evening his wife was 
 all anxiety. She had thinned through the few weeks, 
 awaiting her fate. He looked cross, and she dared not 
 greet him directly with her questions. She danced 
 about him for some time, attending him feverishly, 
 and still he didn't say anything. She could not bear 
 it any longer. 
 
 "Oh, how I wish I could see my mother!" she 
 sighed. 
 
 "Don't bother me," he snapped. "You have no 
 mother!" 
 
 [20]
 
 Sisters 
 
 WHILE Mary was still in the seventh grade 
 grammar school, a child twelve years old, her 
 sister Ehoda complained that she was support- 
 ing the kid. Rhoda was considerably older than her 
 "kid" sister, but ridiculously smaller than Mary, for 
 her age. Not that Mary was overgrown for her years, 
 but that Rhoda was simply a skirt and waist, and the 
 waist was too small on her twelve-year-old sister. Her 
 face alone bore witness to her twenty-two years, and 
 at that she had to use the puff and rouge to keep it 
 from proclaiming even more years in the factory. 
 
 To these complaints Mary would reply with some 
 heat: 
 
 "What a jealous thing! I never seen anything 
 like her. She's jealous because I'm gonna graduate 
 next year, and she was never in the seventh grade 
 even." 
 
 "I don't care," Rhoda would retort with bitter- 
 ness, tears springing to her eyes. "A lot you know if 
 you do go to school. Take off my waist. " She would 
 suddenly fall to tearing the waist off her sister. 
 "Never dare put on nothin' of mine; d'you hear? 
 Never!" 
 
 "Pest!" Mary would explode, resisting her sis- 
 ter. "You think a lot I care for your rags. ... It's 
 
 [21]
 
 SISTERS 
 
 too small on me anyways. You think I got a hunch 
 like you?" and she would viciously draw in her young 
 body in imitation of her sister. 
 
 Then Ehoda would go off in hysterics and vow re- 
 peatedly that she 'd never again go to work in the fac- 
 tory if the kid wouldn't. 
 
 Nevertheless, they slept in one bed (the same bed 
 where Rhoda wept over her mortifications) and Mary 
 kept on squeezing herself into her jealous hunch-back 
 sister's clothing. 
 
 But have not wise men spoken of evolution, or 
 some other institution in operation under Father 
 Time? The case of Mary and Rhoda, two sisters in 
 blood, in love, and in quarrels two sisters of one 
 father and one mother, in one dress and one bed this 
 case, I repeat, shall illustrate the sagas of our Magi, 
 as set forth: 
 
 For be it known that Mary was never to be 
 blessed by the Fates with the fortune of tasting the 
 sweet, savory ceremony of graduation. Times were 
 bad, and Mary's father, in combination with Rhoda, 
 scantily supplied the needs of the little family. 
 Sternly the father debated the matter with the 
 mother, and the mother groaned once or twice of 
 which she was sometimes guilty when going to the 
 grocery, then there was a visit to the School Com- 
 mittee, and a little explanation of hard luck, and a 
 working certificate for Mary was procured. 
 
 Which set Mary in preparation for the factory 
 on the next Monday morning ; which made her father 
 
 [22]
 
 SISTERS 
 
 watch her sternly from the corner of his eye, when 
 she didn 't see it ; which caused her mother to be em- 
 barrassingly fonder of her and pester her, as Ehoda 
 would call it, which caused Mary's boasting that 
 now she would buy better dresses than her sister ever 
 had. 
 
 But Rhoda, where was she ? She swelled up like 
 a five-cent balloon, and vowed immediately that she'd 
 give the fore-flusher trouble in the factory. Mary in 
 turn referred to her sister's hunch-back, and the row 
 was started. 
 
 It was on Sunday morning previous to that Mon- 
 day morning the morning so epoch-making for the 
 family. As a result Mary could not get a certain 
 waist of Rhoda 's which she liked, and Rhoda lay weep- 
 ing in their common bed all that Sunday. 
 
 Still not on speaking terms, the two sisters re- 
 tired for the night. Mary could not resist a spontane- 
 ous temptation and stuck out a tongue to her sister 
 before crawling under the one cover and cuddling her 
 young body close to the hunch-back's. 
 
 In the morning Mary woke earlier than usual, in 
 a state of fervid expectation. Rhoda was already up 
 and out of bed. As always, her father was gone, and 
 her mother was prowling around the house like a 
 ghost, slicing bread, and making sandwiches. 
 
 For some time Mary was the only one who said 
 anything. She noticed that her lunch was being put 
 up in one bundle with Rhoda 's and their state of siege 
 
 [23]
 
 SISTERS 
 
 recurred to her. "I don't want to eat with her; she 
 said she'd make me trouble." 
 
 Their mother sighed, and wrapped up the lunch 
 in two separate scraps of newspaper. 
 
 But Mary was chagrined because Rhoda made no 
 retort. The hunch-back sat at her coffee mute, as if 
 no verbal missile had been thrown at her. "She'll 
 croak when I make more money than her," Mary 
 thought. 
 
 It was time to start out ; still Rhoda did not move. 
 Mary grew nervous. "It's late," she said to her 
 mother, indirectly reminding Rhoda to start out. 
 
 Rhoda rose from her seat, took her lunch, and 
 made a step. But suddenly she grasped her sister in 
 her arms, and was kissing her madly. "Poor little 
 sister," she sobbed. "Poor little sister!" 
 
 [24]
 
 Ades' "Ad" for Aid 
 
 TO the headquarters ! ' ' Mrs. Ades ordered, leaning 
 back in her seat. 
 
 The chauffeur at once started the limousine 
 for the Belgian relief headquarters. He knew where 
 his mistress meant him to take her ; he was an experi- 
 enced man. 
 
 Before they had left the fashionable street behind 
 them, however, Mrs. Ades changed her mind. She 
 carried the little tube to her lips, and ordered : 
 
 "Ades' Department Store, Stephen." 
 
 The automobile at once turned its course thither. 
 
 William Ades, proprietor of the great business 
 house, was at the office. He dismissed his superintend- 
 ent when his wife was shown in. 
 
 He met her in his noted cordial manner, for 
 which he was so admired in his business world. ' ' How 
 are you, darling?" he asked, and taking her gently 
 in his arms, placed her in his own seat. ' ' I congratu- 
 late you." 
 
 "So you've heard, dear?" she registered sur- 
 prise. ' ' I suppose you read about it in the papers this 
 morning, dear?" 
 
 "Oh, ye-es," drawled Mr. Ades, as if he were 
 pleasing an extra-good customer. ' ' Quite a big display 
 on the front page. I was immediately attracted by it." 
 He took a newspaper from his desk. " 'Mrs. Ades 
 
 [25]
 
 ABES' "AD" FOR AID 
 
 Elected President of Belgian Relief.' That's the sec- 
 ond surprise you've given me, darling. President of 
 the Associated Charities, too, I understand. Is it not 
 too hard for you, dear?" 
 
 "Not if I like it," replied his wife sweetly. "The 
 poor dears! How they must be suffering there, in 
 Belgium ! . . . But I 've dropped in to ask you a lit- 
 tle advice, dear." 
 
 "Yes, ?" he said. 
 
 "You see, dear, we would like to fix up our win- 
 dow at the headquarters something attractive, you 
 know. Can't you suggest something?" 
 
 "Anything from the war zone, I should think, 
 would be K," said Mr. Ades. "You have some 
 stuff there, have you not ? ' ' 
 
 "Ye-es, rifles, pieces of shell even a cannon 
 ball." 
 
 "Good enough," assured Mr. Ades. "Though 
 some clothing from the war, you know, would be 
 better." 
 
 ' ' For instance ? ' ' 
 
 "Oh, a pair of shoes the poor children there are 
 wearing. Effect, don't you know." 
 
 "Ah!" she gasped in comprehension. Then she 
 kissed him, wrapped herself up in her furs, and left 
 him to his business. 
 
 The automobile wormed its way through the shop- 
 ping district. The horn blew incessantly until they 
 had turned into a wider street bordered on one side 
 
 [26]
 
 ADES' "AD" FOE AID 
 
 by a metropolitan park. On the other side ran a line 
 of milliners' and dressmakers' window displays of the 
 highest kind. Now and then the car flashed by a flo- 
 rist's shop. On this street the Ades' limousine fell in 
 with a line of other automobiles. 
 
 The car veered to the left, and tore full speed 
 down a little street of the fashionable district. Mrs. 
 Ades could almost see the Headquarters from the cor- 
 ner. 
 
 Suddenly she started forward in her seat, uttered 
 a little shriek of horror, and shut her eyes. Even with 
 her eyes shut, she saw the automobile flying upon the 
 child. . . . She shuddered. 
 
 But Stephen was a good man on the job. He ap- 
 plied the brakes, and the car stopped. Mrs. Ades was 
 jerked heavenward, and then she landed back on her 
 seat. 
 
 She opened her eyes and breathed. The little boy 
 was lying at the forewheel, frightened, crying, but 
 unhurt. 
 
 She was breathing hard. Her heart was press- 
 ing, yet she was determined to avoid hysterics on the 
 street, with no maid around. She made a move to get 
 out of the car. Stephen rushed to open the door. 
 
 The boy was now on his feet, still crying and pale 
 with fright. He was a cute child, about eight years 
 old, and did not belong to that neighborhood. He was 
 in rags. 
 
 Mrs. Ades breathed with relief. She bent down, 
 and touched the wan child gently on his pale cheeks. 
 
 [27]
 
 ABES' "AD" FOE AID 
 
 "Now, now, don't cry, little one. I'll give you a 
 dollar and you run home, darling." 
 
 His little heart was throbbing with fright. He 
 could not stop crying. 
 
 Mrs. Ades felt embarrassed. She wanted to be 
 kind, and she must be kind. Yet, it was not pleasant 
 to be soothing the little brat in tatters. 
 
 When she was about to climb back into her auto- 
 mobile, she was reminded of the poor, suffering chil- 
 dren in Belgium. Then suddenly her face lit up with 
 an inspiration. She surveyed quickly the little figure 
 in rags again, caught it in her arms, and bundled it 
 into her car. A minute later the car stopped before 
 the Belgian Belief Headquarters. 
 
 The next day idle crowds were haunting the win- 
 dow of the Belgian Relief Headquarters. The news- 
 papers had photographs of its display in the noon 
 editions, and in advertising circles the window show 
 was spoken of as "interesting". 
 
 Especially attractive in the window was a pair 
 of child 's shoes worn out to strips, the leather colorless 
 from age and wear. This interesting remains of shoes 
 stood out alone on an immaculate glass plate, and un- 
 der it was a neat little card bearing the following 
 words : 
 
 "What the children in Belgium are wearing 
 Help!" 
 
 [28]
 
 The Price 
 
 I SHOULD need a carload of French phrases to 
 tell this story; for it is a Society story. But, as 
 
 I don't know enough French to mutilate the lan- 
 guage, I must needs tell this story in plain, intelligent 
 English. 
 
 There was a little girl by the name of Lillian, 
 who worked in a sweater factory. And when Lillian 
 was seventeen she must have been rather pleasant to 
 look upon. For be it understood, that not without 
 reason does a foreman shower his attentions upon a 
 slow "hand." But Lillian's aspirations flew beyond 
 the walls of the sweater factory. Alas, her young 
 heart was craving for Society. 
 
 Not enough that she knew the name of every 
 movie actor upon looking at the picture. She even 
 knew the name, habits and pedigree of every society 
 girl who eloped with her chauffeur. Ay, she even pre- 
 tended to know which of these chauffeurs happened 
 to be married in which case the elopement was con- 
 sidered a greater Society stunt. 
 
 So Lillian yearned away for Society. The So- 
 ciety columns in the newspapers may they increase 
 and multiply (on some other planet) nourished her 
 glutton fancy for Society, until she could actually 
 find incorrectnesses in the setting of the society novels 
 that she read in the Naughty Stories Magazine. 
 
 [29]
 
 THE PRICE 
 
 Which should entitle her to a place in Society as 
 some pillar or other. But, somehow, qualifications 
 alone do not warrant admittance within the magnifi- 
 cence of Society precincts. If we consider Lillian's 
 weekly allowance at the T. B. Knitting Mills, we may 
 guess at the absence of her picture in the Sunday 
 newspapers. 
 
 Nevertheless, perseverance a virtue supreme 
 will at last plant the lowliest at the pinnacle of one's 
 ambition. This is in reference to Lillian, who after 
 long days of abortive dreaming finally became a solid 
 fact to Society. 
 
 It was all a matter of chance. 
 
 For, you see, Lillian had an acquaintance who 
 worked in the kitchen of one of the bulwarks of So- 
 ciety. And this acquaintance, by virtue of her social 
 position, was the door of opportunity which finally 
 gave Lillian access to Society. 
 
 Of a sudden, Lillian sought the friendship of that 
 girl, and as often as possible paid her visits in the 
 kitchen. It is true, sometimes Lillian could snatch a 
 glance into a farther room; but mostly all she could 
 manage was to listen to her friend talking to her 
 of the boss, the son of the house, who was "such a 
 nice fellow." Until (by chance) Lillian met the 
 young scion of the house, and her position in Society 
 took root. 
 
 For it is a rule in the Book of Etiquette to take 
 a girl out in a taxi and to a Cabaret, and the young 
 
 [30]
 
 THE PRICE 
 
 lord of the house, it would seem, had the Blue Blood 
 in him, and he knew this by instinct. 
 
 And here is where I need some French phrase 
 the most. I need it because it must be such as few 
 could understand. I need it to act as a moral shock- 
 absorber. 
 
 For Lillian, the sweater-girl, paid her toll to So- 
 ciety. She died at the Free Maternity Hospital in 
 child-birth. 
 
 [31]
 
 The Christmas Gift 
 
 OVERLOOKING the two dwellings was the great 
 Richards plant, the chain of factory build- 
 ings and the adjoining town of tenements, all 
 the company's. For miles around nobody owned an 
 inch of land but the Richards plant, the only excep- 
 tion being the Davis lot. The little house of the Da- 
 vises stood like a rural wreck and literally in the shade 
 of the magnificent, up-to-date mansion of the Rich- 
 ards'. Why old Richards had spared the Davis lot 
 when he had monopolized the vicinity of his factories 
 was part of the local mystery surrounding the pecu- 
 liar friendship between the multi-millionaire and his 
 laborer. It has been often remarked that the only 
 reason to account for Davis' dying a poor workman, 
 in spite of his unmistakable relation to his employer, 
 was his stubborn nature Only once was he assisted 
 materially by his rich friend, and that was on his 
 dying bed. The people of the tenements saw the Rich- 
 ards' limousine bring a great specialist from the city, 
 then a nurse and medicines. And only once again had 
 the doctor visited the place, the second time being 
 when old Richards was stricken one summer day, soon 
 after his friend's death. 
 
 In the children and wives, the friendship was 
 superficially continued. Mazie Davis worked in the 
 
 [33]
 
 THE CHRISTMAS GIFT 
 
 office of young Richards, and he nodded to her morn- 
 ings as he entered. Tom Davis, too, had it steady in 
 the shops. On the other hand, the old Mrs. Richards 
 did her duty to their neighbors. She greeted most 
 kindly Mrs. Davis in church, and at her semi-annual 
 distributions of candy in the settlement school, she 
 especially favored little Eliza Davis. 
 
 When the young Richards married, and his wife 
 came to the house of Richards, and she thought it her 
 duty to indulge in all the family traditions, she nat- 
 urally was affected by the one regarding friendship 
 with their immediate neighbors. To her, however, 
 this traditional bond was more a duty than a natural 
 impulse. It smacked of patronizing rather than 
 friendship. This she betrayed by her flaunting eager- 
 ness to show her kindness towards her poor neighbors. 
 She even visited old Mrs. Davis occasionally, and 
 spoke to her most kindly of her children. 
 
 And the course of nature being alike in poor and 
 rich, Tom Davis, too, was married. Mrs. Richards, 
 Jr., visited the bride and spoke to her very sweetly. 
 But the family of Davis lost their principal pay en- 
 velope in the marriage of Tom. Now, their only in- 
 come was Mazie's pay, which was not enough for the 
 support of the old mother and little Eliza, who was 
 yet at school. Tom offered to let part of his wages 
 go to its old purpose, but his mother refused this, 
 well knowing his own needs as a husband. Instead, 
 they decided that Eliza should go to work. They 
 knew that the "office" would not employ girls of 
 
 [34]
 
 THE CHRISTMAS GIFT 
 
 Eliza's age because of the child labor law; but they 
 hoped that in their case Richards would make an ex- 
 ception. 
 
 Accordingly, the next morning Eliza stayed out 
 of school, and was led by her mother to the office of 
 the Richards plant. Richards, Jr., received the old 
 woman most cordially, and offered her a chair ; but he 
 could not be persuaded to employ her little girl. 
 1 1 Her place is in school, ' ' he said firmly. ' ' Why, she 's 
 yet a child" smiling kindly at Eliza. "Mrs. Davis, 
 I would advise you to continue her education. You 
 mustn 't rob the opportunities of the child. I 'm sorry, 
 but I cannot employ her. It's against the law." 
 
 So Eliza went back to school. But still Mrs. 
 Davis found it difficult to manage the household, and 
 at the first occasion she spoke to Mrs. Richards about 
 it. Mrs. Richards replied in her usual friendly way, 
 but upon hearing what was desired of her, she even 
 reprimanded Mrs. Davis for such designs upon her 
 own child a mere schoolgirl. She absolutely re- 
 fused to influence her son to employ Eliza. Mrs. Da- 
 vis felt very guilty after this interview, and the plan 
 was given up. 
 
 That November was a deluge of rain, but Decem- 
 ber showed winter in all its ferocity. There was a 
 scarcity in coal, and everything else was soaring high. 
 The little family often remembered what help Eliza's 
 pay might have brought them, but they let no word 
 fall on the subject. Since her talk with Mrs. Richards 
 Mrs. Davis was pained to think of it, and the others 
 
 [35]
 
 THE CHRISTMAS GIFT 
 
 avoided reference to it. She grew fonder of Eliza, 
 and sadder, and more thoughtful. Mazie grew un- 
 easy over her mother's health, and for nights she lay 
 with open eyes, listening to sudden groans from her 
 mother. Once, when Mrs. Davis was bending over 
 the sleeping Eliza, Mazie heard her mutter through 
 her tears: "Forgive me, child. I'll never, never again 
 send you to work never!" 
 
 But active Mrs. Richards, Jr., could not know the 
 torments of a mother. When her husband once men- 
 tioned to her by accident how he had refused em- 
 ployment to little Eliza Davis, it manifestly hurt her 
 sweet disposition. "Why, my dear," she said in her 
 comely reproach, "how could you? Perhaps they 
 need her pay, dear. And your fathers were such 
 friends ..." 
 
 Then, most wisely, she did not press the matter 
 for a while. 
 
 Christmas eve a party of friends were enter- 
 tained at the mansion. But in the morning the en- 
 tire party including the Richards were to go to 
 a neighboring residence of one of the guests for the 
 Christmas dinner. There was laughter and shouting 
 as the guests settled in their automobiles in front of 
 the mansion, and Mrs. Richards, Jr., was the merri- 
 est. Her husband was wrapping her little feet in a 
 bear's skin, and was about to order the chauffeur to 
 start, when she suddenly remembered something. "0, 
 
 [36]
 
 THE CHRISTMAS GIFT 
 
 dear," she exclaimed, "I must go into the Davises. 
 I must you know!" 
 
 On that account the entire row of limousines 
 halted. Richards noticed with satisfaction how some 
 of his guests commented on his wife's democracy; 
 and she herself was conscious of their eyes following 
 her down the untrodden snow to the Davis home. 
 1 'Good morning and merry Christmas to you all!" 
 she cried as soon as she opened the door. She stood 
 inside, a bundle of fur, and a cute little face all fresh 
 with the glow of the frost. 
 
 The old Mrs. Davis was confused with the visit. 
 So were her children. "Merry Chris 'mas to you, Mrs. 
 Richards, ' ' she said. ' ' Sit down, please sit down. ' ' 
 
 ' ' No, thank you. Very kind of you, Mrs. Davis, ' ' 
 replied Mrs. Richards, "but I have no time. They're 
 all waiting for me. I just dropped in to make little 
 Eliza a Christmas present." 
 
 Little Eliza's heart jumped with expectancy as 
 she heard this, and unconsciously she moved nearer 
 the guest. Her older sister, too, was expecting that 
 their neighbor would draw out some beautiful toy 
 from underneath her furs. But their mother was 
 
 short of breath for the instant. "A present 1" 
 
 she gasped. 
 
 "Yes, a present," replied the radiant Mrs. Rich- 
 ards sweetly. "It's from my husband. He said that 
 little Eliza may come to work to-morrow." 
 
 [37]
 
 The Life of the Dead 
 
 FOUR children had Stasha borne her husband 
 Franuk; but only their youngest, Petrush, sur- 
 vived two harvests. He was a beautiful child, 
 and the treasure of their life. Stasha watched anx- 
 iously over him, and Franuk was even more fond of 
 him than of his cows, horse and land. 
 
 When his son was born, Franuk was not in the 
 house. The same morning he heard the lowing of his 
 red cow, which he knew "was coming." He ran, wak- 
 ened a neighbor, and sent her to his wife ; and he him- 
 self returned to his cow. Till sunrise he remained in 
 her litter of hay, giving succor to the calving cow 
 in the pangs of her labor. By that time fire had ap- 
 peared in the little windows of the village huts. The 
 peasants are light sleepers ; all were awakened by the 
 birth throes of Stasha and the bleating of the cow. 
 The women crowded into the little straw-thatched 
 house, while the men came to the barn, offering what 
 help they could to Franuk. 
 
 With sunrise Franuk, his hands stained elbow- 
 high with blood, entered his house. The old village 
 midwife met him in the door. "Babba," he said, 
 "my red cow is safe, but a beautiful heifer was born 
 dead." 
 
 "May this be an offering for your own kin," 
 [39]
 
 THE LIFE OF THE DEAD 
 
 replied the old peasant. "For a child, a beau- 
 tiful boy, was born to you just now." 
 
 "And my wife?" queried Franuk. He looked 
 over the heads of the women to his wife's bed. 
 
 "She is well," replied the woman. "Ay, even 
 as healthy as your cow." 
 
 Franuk was satisfied. He did not go near his 
 wife; it was broad day, and the sowing season. He 
 yoked his horse to the plow and marched to field, car- 
 rying the plow above the ground. All the men and 
 women had gone to field. But the old midwife did not 
 go that day. She watched over the confined woman, 
 and did the housework in her stead. 
 
 At noon Franuk came for dinner. He first en- 
 tered the barn and paid his respects to the sick cow. 
 Then he looked around the yard. Everything had 
 been attended to by the old midwife. The village 
 shepherd had come for the cattle as usual ; the swine 
 and chickens were fed ; the yard swept clean. In the 
 house the aged nurse had set the table for Franuk 
 with a bowl of steaming potatoes and a loaf of corn- 
 bread. 
 
 He entered. At a glance he took in the perfect 
 order of the room and bowl of potatoes. His wife's 
 face brightened. He knelt beside her bed. She smiled 
 happily, raised the heavy, cotton-stuffed cover and 
 showed him his child at her breast. He lifted a cal- 
 lous, slime-covered hand, made with it the sign of the 
 cross on his breast, and brought his moustache to the 
 infant's face. 
 
 [40]
 
 THE LIFE OF THE DEAD 
 
 His wife smiled, folded her bare arm over his 
 sun-coppered neck, and weighed his head down, close 
 to the bed. 
 
 Henceforth Stasha lived only for her Petrushek. 
 She had christened him early, and told the priest of 
 the heifer which was born dead, it seemed, that her 
 boy might live. But to further guard her child from 
 evil, she yielded to all the superstitions of the peas- 
 antry. She clad Petrushek in nothing but pure white 
 linen until his seventh birthday, and until that age 
 cut not a hair from his head. Indeed, he was a re- 
 markable sight to a chance passer-by through the 
 village, a beautiful peasant-child clad in pure white 
 linen, and with flaxen curls flying in the breeze. 
 
 Franuk evinced no such concern over his son; 
 yet, he was no less fond of him. When he plowed he 
 would look beyond the horizon, and see the vision of 
 his Petrushek walking in the fresh furrows after the 
 plow. When he sowed, he prayed that the field yield 
 abundance to afford purchase of another piece 
 of land for his son's sake. And when harvesting, Fra- 
 nuk looked into the future and beheld his son, a stal- 
 wart youth, joyously reaping in the fields beside him. 
 Such should be the visions of every true man of the 
 earth. 
 
 And Petrush grew in the companionship of care 
 and nature to fulfil his parents' dreams. At the vil- 
 lage school he learned enough literature for a peasant, 
 
 [41]
 
 THE LIFE OF THE DEAD 
 
 and took himself early to the soil. He was hardly 
 eighteen when he had earned himself esteem in the 
 village. Every day some neighbor would say to Fra- 
 nuk: "Let your son marry my daughter. I will give 
 her so much land in dowry." But Franuk would re- 
 ply: "My son will choose his own wife. He is man 
 enough for that." And Franuk said that, in truth, 
 because he thought no girl in the village worthy of 
 his son. 
 
 And the girls sought Stasha's favor for her son's 
 sake. But she, too, never encouraged any one. Pe- 
 trush himself seemed not concerned with girls at all. 
 When he was in his twentieth year, it was breathed to 
 his parents that he had been seen paying attention to 
 Stephan the Blacksmith's daughter; but they made 
 nothing of it. An artisan among the Russian-Polish 
 peasants is usually the poorest in the community. Ste- 
 phan owned no land; that was why he forged horse- 
 shoes for the village. Franuk and his wife believed 
 that their son was wise enough not to marry a girl 
 who could not bring land with her. 
 
 Petrush was nearing the age of military service. 
 His mother said to him: "My son, marry before you 
 go into service, and you will have a wife and child 
 to greet you when you return." But he answered 
 no, he would marry after he had served the Czar. 
 Franuk grunted approvingly to this, and Stasha said 
 no more. 
 
 It was the same day that their country entered 
 into war. The news, however, did not reach them un- 
 
 [42]
 
 THE LIFE OF THE DEAD 
 
 til the next day. A pedlar-Jew brought it. The peas- 
 ants left their fields to hear it from the Jew with 
 their own ears. Little was done on the fields that 
 day. At night the Starshina, or village head, was 
 called to the nearest government office. He returned 
 at noon the following day, and the entire population 
 awaited him on the road. He brought warrants for 
 all the serviceable men in the village. Among these 
 Petrush, son of the husbandman Franuk, was called 
 upon to serve his country and the Czar of all the 
 Eussias. 
 
 Stasha's heart was heavy. When her son was 
 handed the papers she burst into tears. "No! No!" 
 she cried, "I won't let him go! I won't let my Pe- 
 trushek go ! " She clung to him, and was sobbing on 
 his young breast. But Franuk stood pale and stern. 
 "Woman, let him go," he growled. "Let him do his 
 duty. ' ' Stasha stepped back. Her husband 's word is 
 a final commandment to a peasant woman. 
 
 That day nobody went afield, and that night no- 
 body in the village slept. The reservists were boister- 
 ous and carelessly hilarious. The mothers and wives 
 wept at the lime-hearths. The older men sat in groups 
 puffing at their pipes, and speaking gravely. Youth 
 suddenly felt free and reckless. The girls dressed in 
 their best, and unblushingly rambled about hanging 
 on the arms of the conscripts. Fond words were 
 spoken between boys and girls which otherwise might 
 never have been said. Girlish giggles resounded from 
 the neighboring woods, the barns and hay-stacks. 
 
 [43]
 
 THE LIFE OP THE DEAD 
 
 The young peasants suddenly decided which girls they 
 loved, and swore their love to them. The girls for 
 once knew for whom on the battlefield their hearts 
 would languish. 
 
 In the morning the entire population escorted 
 the recruits a distance from the village. The parting 
 on the road was a scene indescribable. Mothers weep- 
 ing, young and old kissing, and the recruits them- 
 selves steadfastly silent and smiling. Suddenly a 
 girl would reel into a soldier's arms, and nestle to his 
 breast. "What, is this your choice, my son?" the 
 mother asked. "Yes, mother," the soldier replied. 
 "And please, mother, take good care of her for me." 
 
 To town most of the conscripts were accompanied 
 by their parents and wives. There was a procession 
 of them in farmer carts on the highway winding in 
 from all the villages. In the district town were gath- 
 ered men from all the surrounding country to be 
 marched to the government town. All day long the 
 parents and lovers shadowed the departing about 
 town, fondling them. But the men were mostly ner- 
 vous and drunk. Early the next morning they were 
 mustered in a column, and could be followed no 
 longer. 
 
 Franuk and Stasha had both accompanied their son 
 to the county town. Franuk had not uttered a word 
 since they had started out from home. Stasha sat in 
 the cart weeping on Petrush's shoulder, while her 
 husband trotted alongside the horse in silence. When 
 it came to final parting, Stasha clung to her son and 
 
 [44]
 
 THE LIFE OF THE DEAD 
 
 would not let go of him. But Franuk tore her away. 
 Now they were standing, with other parents, watching 
 for a last glance at their beloved. "Ah, Petrushek 
 mine! Son of mine!" Stasha kept howling like a 
 wounded she-wolf. 
 
 "Woman, will you stop that!" Franuk suddenly 
 snarled. For just then he saw Petrush approaching. 
 The boy was flushed with the excitement, and looked 
 the manliest in line. 
 
 "Petrush!" Stasha exclaimed, and darted for- 
 ward. But Franuk 's paw closed over her mouth, cov- 
 ered her face, and thrust her backwards. When she 
 regained her balance Petrush was gone. A crowd like 
 her stood in the cloud of dust that the army left be- 
 hind ; but Stasha could see nothing except the vanish- 
 ing heels of the soldiers. "Ah Petrushek mine! 
 Darling mine ! Ah-ah-ah ! ' ' 
 
 Franuk, rigid, as if hewn from stone, stared after 
 the column until it had disappeared. The mouthpiece 
 of his cold pipe snapped between his teeth, and still 
 he held it there. At last he moved. "Woman, get 
 thee into the vozsh," he commanded his wife. She 
 stepped on the wheel, and rolled upon the hay in the 
 cart. He hopped on the side, his feet, strapped tight 
 in shoes of birch-bark, dangling over the forewheel. 
 They fell in line with a procession of carts pulling 
 now out of town, the horses trotting like mourners. 
 Some of these vehicles were driven by women, the hus- 
 bands having gone to war. All the way Stasha kept 
 
 [45]
 
 THE LIFE OF THE DEAD 
 
 rocking in her seat, and lamenting: "Ah milei moi ! 
 Ah darling mine ! ' ' 
 
 Stasha became a tearful old peasant woman. 
 Franuk retained his vacant stare and iron silence. 
 But one day there came to them Hanna, the black- 
 smith's daughter, and sat down on their stoop, cry- 
 ing. 
 
 "What news have you from Petrush?" she asked. 
 
 "Why, what affairs have you with my son?" 
 Stasha demanded. 
 
 "He is my husband," Hanna blurted out, in 
 tears. 
 
 "Your husband!" screamed Stasha, and all the 
 bitterness of her heart rose to her lips. "Your hus- 
 band, you say? When did my son ever marry you, 
 you wench? What priest has performed the cere- 
 mony, eh? Away with you, you impudent liar!" 
 
 "But I swear to you, he is my husband !" the girl 
 cried, and fell to her knees before Stasha. "I swear, 
 for I bear his child under my breast!" 
 
 "What!" shrieked Stasha. "Away from here, 
 you harlot ! Do you think you will make me believe 
 what you say? Enough men have you been sport- 
 ing with over the fields. Go to him whose child it is." 
 
 "Holy Maria!" wept the girl, and covered her 
 face in shame. 
 
 "Pashol! Off with you!" pcreeched Stasha, 
 [46]
 
 THE LIFE OF THE DEAD 
 
 grasping a spade. "Run, you daughter of a jade, 
 or 1 11 break your head ! Off, you slut ! ' ' 
 
 Franuk had been standing motionless. Now he 
 wrenched the spade from his wife's hand, and thrust 
 her into the house like a child. "Pah!" he spat at 
 the girl, and entered. 
 
 Stasha and Franuk received letters from their 
 son, and the old village school-teacher read to them 
 what Petrush wrote. But in each letter the boy 
 begged his parents to treat Hanna, the blacksmith's, 
 as their own daughter. He would marry her, he wrote, 
 as soon as the war would be over. At this Stasha 
 gnashed her teeth, and Franuk spat. Still, they 
 craved to listen even to that. For it came from their 
 son. 
 
 To their chagrin, the village seemed to sympa- 
 thize with the girl. There appeared to be many such 
 unmarried wives in the villages, and untrue to all 
 traditions, they were not regarded with contempt. 
 But their case, the two peasants convinced themselves, 
 was exceptional. Even though their son had written 
 them corroborating the girl's story; still they could 
 not consent to the girl and her station. They could 
 not see it in any other light but that the girl had se- 
 duced their son. 
 
 And, in time, joyous tidings reached them about 
 their Petrush. The school-master read in the news- 
 papers that their son had been awarded a cross for 
 bravery. Soon after, Petrush himself related his he- 
 roic adventure to them in a letter. 
 
 [47]
 
 THE LIFE OF THE DEAD 
 
 Then long weeks passed and no word from their 
 son. But one morning they received a packet from a 
 government official. This they took unopened to the 
 school-master. It contained a cross and a government 
 notice. Petrush was dead. . . . 
 
 They lost all sense of time. Stasha was almost 
 blind from weeping, and in Franuk's rigid brow 
 there appeared a droop. Their field was not hoed ; the 
 yard looked like a pigsty. 
 
 But nature goes her way. What has been sown 
 will bloom in season. The cry went through the 
 village, "Hanna the Blacksmith's is dying in birth!" 
 The priest from the nearby parish was hurriedly 
 brought to her for confession. The girl 's shrieks rang 
 through the air, stirred the entire village. In their 
 little house Stasha and her husband heard it. Stasha 
 stopped weeping, and listened. Franuk sat mute. 
 
 Presently the wooden bolt rattled, and the door 
 was thrown open. An old woman stood on the thresh- 
 old. "Stasha," she cried, ''go and forgive the girl, 
 or she'll die. The father priest has sent me for you. 
 Come, in the name of God!" 
 
 Stasha started up in her seat, and sank back. Fra- 
 nuk did not move a muscle. ' ' Pah ! ' ' spat the woman ; 
 and she fled from them. 
 
 The door remained ajar. A crowd had gathered 
 around their yard, shouting and threatening. 
 
 Old Ivan, sage of the village, came hobbling along 
 on his stick. "Why don't you forgive the maiden?" 
 he said, raising and lowering his shaggy brows as he 
 
 [48]
 
 THE LIFE OF THE DEAD 
 
 spoke. "Because of your wayward son she is dying. 
 That you may have a namesake, she suffers ! ' ' 
 
 Stasha moved. She was watching her husband. 
 
 "No!" snarled Franuk. 
 
 The sage shook his stick in fury. "You bull!" 
 he threatened, "her blood shall be upon your head. 
 Even your own son will curse you from his grave ! ' ' 
 
 He trod away leaning heavily on his cane, and 
 slammed the door after him. 
 
 Stasha groaned aloud. She listened. 
 
 "Franuk!" she said at last. 
 
 Franuk did not move. 
 
 "Fran !" she implored. 
 
 He kept mute. 
 
 ' ' Let us go to her, ' ' she begged. 
 
 She crawled over to him, and laid her bony hands 
 on his shoulder. Her tears trickled down upon his 
 gray head. 
 
 "Hush! "he muttered. 
 
 "For Petrushe's sake, Fran! It is his child. 
 . . . It shall be our own child. . . . Please!" 
 
 "Woman!" 
 
 He scowled at her angrily, and pushed her off. 
 He had stirred. But he did not resume his obdurate 
 position. Suddenly he fell on one knee and made 
 the sign of the cross. 
 
 "Fra-a-nuk!" Stasha coaxed him. 
 
 He glared at his wife: 
 
 ' ' You fool ! I 'm praying for her ! ' ' 
 
 [49]
 
 THE LIFE OF THE DEAD 
 
 On the street the villagers cheered Stasha and 
 Franuk, as if their own lives were being saved. As 
 soon as they appeared on the threshold, the women 
 said afterwards, it went better with the girl. Franuk 
 at once told the priest that he would take Hanna and 
 her child to his estate, that the child should be to 
 him what his son had been. Stasha the women bore 
 witness was the first one to handle the beautiful 
 baby boy. She kissed him with as much joy as she 
 had kissed for the first time her own Petrushek, when 
 he was born. 
 
 [50J
 
 Something to Eat 
 
 HE young man slowly swung the massive door of 
 1 the employment office, and came down the stone 
 
 stairs. On reaching the sidewalk, he passed his 
 hand over his haggard eyes, and leaned against the 
 wall. 
 
 A grunting little man shuffled close by, spat 
 across the sidewalk with evident pleasure, and came 
 to a standstill, observing the hungry youth. They 
 were standing directly under the big, gold-lettered 
 sign, "Employment Bureau." 
 
 "Want a job?" the little man asked. 
 
 "Yes," faltered the youth, and stared at the 
 stranger. 
 
 But he could not see. His sight was blurred ; his 
 eyes were glazed from hunger. He could only distin- 
 guish the little figure, not the tattered clothes, out- 
 worn shoes and wan, unshaved face. A little flame of 
 hope flickered up in the hungry one. 
 
 ' ' Will you give me something to do for a 
 meal?" he stammered. 
 
 The other looked wise. "You're dead hungry," 
 he observed, not at all astonished. 
 
 The youth groaned. Something in his stomach 
 seemed to sink and there was a bigger, more painful 
 chasm there. He pressed his cold palm against his 
 snapping forehead. 
 
 [51]
 
 SOMETHING TO EAT 
 
 "And you ain't got a thing left that you might 
 sell, either," continued the little devil deliberately, 
 as he scrutinized the youth. "All you've left on you 
 is a pair of rotten pants, a shirt and a coat that no- 
 body would buy. Even your socks are torn. I see 
 your bare feet through the holes in your shoes. ' ' 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed the boy. 
 
 The little man was silent. He looked at the big 
 sign over their heads, and his little eyes traveled to 
 a wide show window of a restaurant a few yards away. 
 Behind the glass was an epicurean display that could 
 make a dyspeptic's mouth water. 
 
 Suddenly the hungry youth became delirious. 
 "Please!" he muttered. "Please give me something 
 to eat. I 'm so hungry ! ' ' 
 
 He grasped the lapel of the little tramp's dilapi- 
 dated coat, and could not steady himself. 
 
 The tramp's funny little face twitched. "I'm 
 hungry meself !" he whined. He tried to spit, but 
 his mouth was dry. 
 
 The young man shivered. "Oh!" he cried. "I 
 must get something to eat I must ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' Yes. We must get something to eat ; we must ! ' ' 
 repeated the little fellow. 
 
 Both stood leaning against the wall. Then the 
 tramp instinctively shuddered; a policeman was 
 slowly coming in their direction. The young man 
 saw nothing. He was wiping his dry lips with a trem- 
 bling hand. 
 
 Suddenly he felt a pain at his ear, and something 
 [52]
 
 SOMETHING TO EAT 
 
 struck against his eye. Dimly he conceived the little 
 man jumping at him and punching him. He swayed 
 and fell. . . . 
 
 He was conscious of chaos of noise, intermingled 
 with the clanging of a gong. He was being dragged 
 by the collar over the cold asphalt, then he was swept 
 up and dropped on a wooden surface. He felt as if on 
 the deck of a moving ship. A gong was clanging in- 
 cessantly. 
 
 An indefinite time passed. His teeth were being 
 pressed, forced apart. Something tingling trickled 
 down his throat. He gulped at it, and opened his 
 eyes. 
 
 Over him were bending two policemen, one with 
 a flask in his hand. A tattered little man beside him, 
 his funny little face all mutilated and smeared with 
 blood, yelped out with joy, upon seeing him open his 
 eyes. " I told you !" he cried. " I told you we 'd get 
 somethin' to eat!" 
 
 [53]
 
 The Pest 
 
 THE lobby was practically deserted. The house 
 was a typical traveling-salesmen's hostelry. But 
 
 on Sunday evenings it was free of the bustle 
 caused by the constant revolving of the door, hurrying 
 by of salesmen with sample cases, bell-hops' cries. 
 Traveling men, as a rule, need either life in its full 
 swing or sleep, of which they run short in their pro- 
 fession. Most of the guests were either snatching a 
 bit of rest in their rooms, or away at some gayer place 
 in town. 
 
 In the farthest corner, hard by the telephone 
 desk, sat a lonely group of guests. They were smok- 
 ing their cigars, legs crossed, and chatting leisurely, 
 as if they were a family circle and not a hodgepodge 
 of selling-dogs, thrown together for the first time. To- 
 night their conversation lacked life. A woman, a pet- 
 ticoat seller, was amongst them. Under the circum- 
 stances the salesman's ever-ready stock of vivacious 
 episodes was not quite the proper thing, so that these 
 people who could entertain a buyer at any time of the 
 day, suddenly felt a gloomy helplessness threatening 
 them. Involuntarily they remembered homes, wives, 
 and others. . . . 
 
 Suddenly one of the group, a clean-cut young 
 man, laughed softly to himself, emitting a curl of 
 smoke from his cigar. The woman looked at him cu- 
 
 [55]
 
 THE PEST 
 
 riously. A fat little garter-salesman recrossed his 
 stubby little legs. 
 
 "I have a story," the young man suggested, "that 
 I have never told before. If you will allow me ' 
 
 "Why, yes; please," the woman said. 
 
 The young salesman took a deep puff at his ci- 
 gar, threw his head back, and watching the smoke 
 curl upwards, began: 
 
 I should call it Pest, I think. Whenever I hear 
 the word Pest I can't help laughing. 
 
 I was in my twenty-first year then. I had never 
 thought much of girls, but I knew that some girls 
 were pests. (I had probably never got over my im- 
 pression of my school teachers.) The only woman I 
 had ever really spoken to was my mother. And my 
 mother is the sweetest woman on earth. I held that 
 mothers were angels. 
 
 Then I met a little girl, and I knew at once that 
 girls may be angels, too. But it would seem that girls 
 also may be pests. That little angel was it a Pest ! 
 
 I didn't know it immediately, as I have already 
 told you. Friends, however, always will be there to 
 spoil your pleasures. I had a school chum : we shall 
 call him Jerry Stevens, for the present and he was 
 the friend in my case. "You are in love with the 
 girl," he said to me, looking straight into my eyes. 
 "I'm ashamed of you, Charles Braddock!" 
 
 ' ' I like her, ' ' I confessed. 
 
 ' ' The first time you met her ? " 
 [56]
 
 THE PEST 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He laughed. "So did I the first time. But 
 I 've changed my mind since. Wait till you know her, 
 Charlie dear ! ' ' 
 
 He said it with such sarcasm that I felt slighted. 
 I protested : 
 
 "She is good-looking." 
 
 "Ye-e-s," mimicked Jerry, "and she's friendly, 
 too, I suppose. Stuck on you the first time she pipes 
 you. Love at first sight, eh? ... Well, I don't blame 
 you, though. I fell for it myself the first time I met 
 her. ' Why, glad to know you, I 'm sure, ' she warbles. 
 And I press her little hand like a shy schoolboy." 
 
 "But- -"I interrupted. 
 
 "Wait!" he mocked. "Then she looks at me 
 with her baby-doll eyes, and I go red like like you 
 went to-day. '0, Mr. Miller,' she coos to the boob 
 who 'd introduced me, 'please give Mr. Stevens your 
 seat. I wish to get better acquainted with him.' The 
 guy looks at me like a murderer, and I flop into his 
 seat, and think I'm in heaven." 
 
 He observed me whimsically, expecting me to ap- 
 plaud his burlesque. But, Lord, how could I? 
 "And, my young friend Charles," he continued, 
 shaking his finger at me, "you had the exact experi- 
 ence to-night. I watched you. ' ' 
 
 That was true. But her spell lay too heavily 
 over me. I persisted. "What is her name?" I asked. 
 
 " So ! You haven 't even her name down. Fine ! 
 That's exactly how she struck me the first time. 
 
 [57]
 
 THE PEST 
 
 Couldn't think of the name for the life o' me. Only 
 the sunshine eyes, and the kiss-me-kid talk I couldn't 
 forget. She 's a great pest, she is ! " 
 
 I was shocked. But my friend continued. 
 
 " It 's a decent name, all right. But don 't you look 
 it up in the telephone directory ; there are too many 
 Kellys there." 
 
 "First name?" I faltered. 
 
 "Oh, blushing old maids!" he jeered. "It's a 
 sweet name, my dear, a sweet name ! ' ' 
 
 "No kiddin'!" I grumbled. 
 
 "Lillian!" he suddenly uttered in a deep bass. 
 
 I was angry. "It doesn't matter for my purpose 
 whether you like her or not," I uttered firmly. "I 
 like her." 
 
 The cynic grinned in my face. "Wait until you 
 
 know her." 
 
 
 
 Presently I had occasion to know her. After 
 I had been dreaming about her four and one half 
 nights in succession the half night being in contin- 
 uation of a night I could not sleep from thinking of 
 her I met Miss Lillian Kelly again. It happened 
 while I was rushing in the subway for a train home, 
 after office hours. That evening I was late for supper. 
 
 "Mr. Braddock!" she gasped in delightful sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "How d' y' do," I responded, confused, and paid 
 two fares. 
 
 "Isn't it lovely," she chirped to me, after I had 
 [58]
 
 THE PEST 
 
 desperately fought in the crowd to provide a seat 
 for her, and more desperately still, a strap-hold above 
 it for myself. "We shall meet now every evening on 
 the car. I work in the Sumner Building, you know. 
 Really, I had no idea your office was so near." 
 
 I found no words. It wasn't exactly honest of 
 me to have her believe me the proprietor of an office, 
 when in fact I was only a second-class clerk, but all 
 is fair in war and love. The only fear I had was that 
 she might be earning more than I. In which case I 
 could not hope. 
 
 "We may have met before," I suggested. And 
 I really thought that I remembered having once re- 
 signed my seat to a girl who looked as sweet as she. 
 
 "It's possible," she admitted. "But now we 
 must meet every day, Mr. Braddock." And she pro- 
 nounced my name with a softness that gave me a 
 thrill. 
 
 So I escorted her to her house which was out 
 of my way. Then I walked home, when I should 
 have ridden on a car. And all because I selfishly kept 
 on thinking: "That girl is in love with me." 
 
 The next day I should have been fired at the 
 office for at least one big mistake I was guilty of. 
 But I wasn't, lucky for me. I needed my fourteen 
 dollars per week now badly. Alimony, from what 
 I hear, should be the greatest modern curse upon the 
 shoulders of the suffering sons of Adam, but the woo- 
 ing of Eve, we must not forget, had cost him a rib. 
 I couldn't exactly afford a rib, because then my Eng- 
 
 [59]
 
 THE PEST 
 
 lish-cut, tight-fitting suit might not have fitted me so 
 well; but, nevertheless, I at once staked everything 
 on the ace of hearts. 
 
 You see, I use this rather conventional metaphor, 
 because I soon came to discover that I was in a game. 
 For bad or worse, I found myself facing a most an- 
 noying rival. Annoying because he seemed to be an 
 old friend of hers, annoying because he was finan- 
 cially better fortified than I, and annoying because 
 you shall know presently. 
 
 Of course I wore my English-cut suit the fol- 
 lowing evening, when I ventured home via subway. 
 Actually, I waited a few miutes at the entrance of the 
 kiosk before the rush brought to me Miss Kelly. She 
 was more than glad to see me. My heart leaped high 
 and rested ninety-nine in the shade. It was an aw- 
 fully nice day, wasn't it? I thought so, too. The 
 paper said it would rain ; what did I think of the pa- 
 per? I thought that a paper should never for a mo- 
 ment inspire in a sensible person belief in it. But 
 wasn't it crowded on the platform? 
 
 Indeed it was. And a crowd is always a blind 
 beast. A young fellow, also in an English suit, sud- 
 denly loomed before me from the crowd and rushed 
 upon my lady fair. An awful lump rose in my throat. 
 She was very happy to see him. But haven 't we gen- 
 tlemen ever met before? I, Mr. Braddock, must meet 
 her best friend, Mr. Spiess ; she was sure we would be 
 great friends. 
 
 So we two shook hands, when we should have pre- 
 [60]
 
 THE PEST 
 
 ferred to kick each other. He smiled an ingratiating 
 smile, and I murmured something equally hypocriti- 
 cal. Then we glared at each other, and vehemently 
 fell to begging our mutual friend, Miss Kelly, to allow 
 us to escort her to the "Passing Show of the Cen- 
 tury," which she had just mentioned she was dying 
 to see. 
 
 That fellow Spiess, I concluded at once, was a 
 big pest. He insisted that Miss Kelly allow him to 
 buy the tickets, because she had promised him last 
 time he had taken her out that she would go with 
 him to a show sometime again. She didn't remember 
 that, but thought it possible, yet not binding. At any 
 rate, he had taken her out before, so she would let Mr. 
 Braddock arrange the little theatre party this time. 
 
 I almost laughed right into the face of my new 
 acquaintance. He glared at me over the top of her 
 little gray hat, which for all the world looked like a 
 battleship. I appreciated his feelings and stared back 
 at him. But Miss Kelly stood between us like a 
 charming diplomatic doctrine. For the present, how- 
 ever, I was on better land than my opponent. 
 
 Suddenly she turned her sweet torpedo eyes on 
 me more lovingly. "But we must take Mr. Spiess 
 along with us," she said, and I thought that I heard 
 the respective gentleman chuckle aloud. 
 
 "Gladly," I whined. She favored me with a 
 rapid stare of appreciation. But my enemy must 
 have heard my whine. He cackled. 
 
 And let me remind you here, my friends, that 
 [61]
 
 THE PEST 
 
 there is no sunshine but that it casts a shadow in 
 its train. I was to buy the tickets, do the honors, and 
 my rival seemed to do all the suggesting and plan- 
 ning. Well, he thought that we should get orchestra 
 seats, not first balcony. Then I had better buy the 
 tickets early, and try to get the seats not too near the 
 stage, but near enough. For, don't you know, it spoils 
 the show if one sees the rouge on the actors ' faces. 
 
 The theatre night was Saturday. I had my full 
 pay in my pocket when I rang the bell at the house 
 of Miss Kelly. She didn't invite me in, instead, she 
 asked me to wait on the porch. She was all ready 
 except hat and coat. In a minute she appeared, 
 pleased and sprightly. She was dressed in a red cape, 
 a pinkish gown, and a shapely hat to match. I could 
 have snatched her in my arms and run off with her, 
 she was so charming. 
 
 But again my perfect day ran short. That pest 
 of a Spiess had been in the house for half an hour, and 
 came out after her, greeting me chummily. Cha- 
 grin and jealousy gnawed at my heart. Why, oh, why, 
 hadn't she invited me into the house? And he had 
 been there before me ! 
 
 Naturally, I wore my English suit, quite recently 
 cleaned and pressed ; but my rival was also attired in 
 English garb, as well fitting as mine. Ay, and the ex- 
 pensive scarf-pin that sparkled under his chin I could 
 never afford ! 
 
 He bought the box of candy. I protested, and 
 [62]
 
 THE PEST 
 
 ate as little of it as I could do without, to show my 
 real taste for it. After the show I promptly led the 
 way for a lunch. Miss Kelly had exquisite manners, 
 and ordered admirably. She ate with gusto, chatting 
 all the while and laughing gaily. Spiess ate rather too 
 heartily, I thought. I, for my part, had no appetite, 
 except for throwing myself at the fellow and choking 
 him to death. 
 
 He whispered to me that he would pay for the 
 supper, and I discouraged him harshly. He grinned. 
 
 The matter of escorting her home was settled by 
 Miss Kelly herself. We both parted from her at her 
 door, then bade each other a friendly "Good-night." 
 
 On my way home my spirits were low. Upon re- 
 consideration, however, I found myself the favorite. 
 Somehow, I couldn't help believing that she cared 
 more for me than for my rival. 
 
 We met again, Miss Kelly and myself. But al- 
 ways, God alone knows how, the pest of a Spiess 
 dropped upon us to mar my life. To be sure, I found 
 new beauties and charms in her every time I saw her. 
 I lived now on nothing else but dreams about her. 
 
 At our first meeting following the theatre party 
 she gave me a little surprise. "Please call me Lil- 
 lian, ' ' she said to me. ' ' I want you to call me Lillian, 
 not Miss Kelly." 
 
 I called her Lillian, and repeated the delicious 
 name on every possible pretext. But here again the 
 brute of a rival was running neck in neck with me. 
 
 [63]
 
 THE PEST 
 
 He, too, was calling her Lillian, and even more famil- 
 iarly than I. I had gained no distinction. 
 
 I soon grew tired of being haunted by a rival, 
 and began treating him rudely. He, I must confess, 
 paid me in my own coin, with interest. Miss Kelly 
 had to be forever applying her wiles to keep us in 
 peace. 
 
 I grew bolder, and asked her why that fellow was 
 haunting our meetings. She regretted it mildly, and 
 begged me not to scorn him. The poor boy, she said, 
 loved her madly. He followed her about wherever 
 she went. 
 
 Four weeks of wooing rendered me a changed per- 
 son. I lost in weight, dressed fastidiously, and com- 
 mitted innumerable mistakes at the office. I was ner- 
 vous and petulant. My meetings with Miss Kelly 
 grew regular and by appointment. Still, nine times 
 out of ten, Spiess crossed our path. 
 
 The matter struck me as abnormal. How could 
 he know where we met, or when we met ? I was puz- 
 zled. 
 
 Yet, this one solace I had. The girl unmistakably 
 was paying more attention to me. I was enraptured 
 to see how my rival was tortured by my advance- 
 ment. 
 
 But one day I made a discovery that stunned me. 
 At each of my appointments with her she had ar- 
 ranged, at the same time and place, a meeting with 
 my rival. 
 
 And I made another discovery. My friend Jerry 
 [64]
 
 THE PEST 
 
 Stevens knew Spiess intimately. It seemed that 
 Spiess was of a good family, a law student, and an 
 old admirer of Miss Kelly. On this occasion Jerry 
 took another malicious fling at the girl. 
 
 "I do believe she likes him, too," he said, uncon- 
 scious of the pain it gave me. ' ; But all this pest of a 
 girl does is keep him jealous, red-hot, all the time." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "She simply gets any poor sucker that don't 
 know her, and pretends to be in love with him, and 
 Spiess and the other slob wrangle over her like two 
 hens. That's how! She's good and beautiful, isn't 
 she? But she certainly likes to see boys break their 
 heads over her." 
 
 Then suddenly, the enigma of the persistent pres- 
 ence of my rival at our meetings was solved in my 
 mind. She had been arranging so ! Something dear 
 to me was shattered, broken. I shuddered. Still, I 
 clung to a slim hope. 
 
 ' ' How do you know ? " I questioned. 
 
 "I've been her dupe myself once." 
 
 I realized everything. I saw her duplicity the 
 blind part I played in her whimsical love affair. I 
 was enraged. 
 
 "She's a pest!" I exclaimed. 
 
 I thought that I saw a glint in my friend's eye. 
 
 The following appointment with her I didn't 
 keep. I avoided any place where I might have en- 
 countered her. Once I saw her in the subway, but 
 evaded her, unnoticed. 
 
 [65]
 
 THE PEST 
 
 Still, something in me was restless, pining. I 
 was sure it was not that I cared for the girl. I hated 
 her. I hated all girls ! And she was a vampire. . . . 
 She had tried to play with me, was playing with the 
 feelings of another man. I tried all kinds of diver- 
 sions, but could not sleep at night. People told me I 
 looked haggard. 
 
 The first Saturday night after this terrible dis- 
 covery I walked around the city with Jerry. It waa 
 closing time; people were streaming out of the cafes 
 and restaurants. 
 
 Suddenly my friend grasped me by the arm. 
 "Good God!" he exclaimed. "I didn't think Spiess 
 was as weak as all that." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Look!" 
 
 A young fellow, dead drunk and reeling, was 
 waving his arm to us. It was Spiess. His English 
 suit was all soiled, his face besmirched with mud. I 
 felt a thrill of joy at this pitiable sight of my former 
 rival. 
 
 We took him over in time to save him from the 
 hands of a policeman. He greeted Jerry jovially, and 
 tried to kiss him. Stevens strongly resisted this. 
 
 The sight of me drove Spiess into a drunken rage. 
 "You son of a dog!" he cried at me, "take off your 
 coat and fight like a man. Fight, I say!" 
 
 He poised his fists in a position to fight. Stevens 
 held him off forcibly from jumping at me. I couldn't 
 be enraged under the circumstances. In fact, I cau- 
 
 [66]
 
 THE PEST 
 
 tiously helped to tug the boy towards the depot, to 
 take him home. 
 
 Spiess resisted, and cried that he had no use for 
 life any longer. He mentioned Lillian Kelly, and 
 promptly stopped and saluted the imaginary vision 
 of her. Then he suddenly flew at me and dealt me a 
 blow in the face. 
 
 I was now wild with rage, but only tried to keep 
 him away from me. I didn't care to hit back. Stev- 
 ens did his best to check him. But he tore himself at 
 me, calling me names, and demanding that I fight him. 
 In the wrangle our hats fell on the sidewalk and were 
 stepped upon. But I always wear a soft hat, which 
 was easily cleaned after the mud was dried, while 
 Spiess wore a derby, as behooves a student of the 
 law. His hat was entirely ruined. 
 
 Finally, we calmed him somehow and brought 
 him to his shocked parents in a horrible state. Before 
 we got rid of him, he repented his hostilities towards 
 me, and tried to kiss me, just because I was a friend 
 of Miss Kelly's. 
 
 I was in a fever that night. I cursed the venom- 
 ous witch who had tried to play with me, and who 
 had ruined that fellow Spiess. "Pest!" I hissed to 
 myself. 
 
 I couldn't stop thinking of her. . . . 
 
 Early in the morning, Sunday, Stevens came to 
 me, looking resolute and, unlike his nature, serious. 
 He told me that he understood now that I had been 
 the latest dupe in the affair between that pest of a girl 
 
 [67]
 
 THE PEST 
 
 and her victim Spiess. He related to me at length how 
 he had served the same purpose once, and how he 
 awoke one morning to the truth. I earnestly told him 
 that I was wide awake myself now. When he con- 
 fided in me that he hated Miss Kelly,'! told him that 
 these were exactly my feelings towards her. 
 
 "Then let us go at once and put the boy wise 
 to her," he said. 
 
 I considered this awkward at first and did not 
 want to go. But after some thought I was eager to. 
 
 We found the Spiess household in an awful up- 
 roar on account of the incident of the previous night. 
 The afflicted parents greeted us friendly and thanked 
 us for our services. The mother begged us to tell her 
 if her boy hadn't fallen in with bad company. Stev- 
 ens jocosely remarked that we were his company, and 
 she promptly expressed her gladness that this was 
 the case. She hoped that we would exert our good 
 influence upon her son. 
 
 Spiess, Jr., himself was in bed, dejected, half 
 alive. He had been lectured all morning by his 
 father. He was ashamed to raise his eyes to us. 
 
 Stevens immediately settled himself on the edge 
 of the bed, and proceeded to the purpose of our mis- 
 sion. He did it with tact and caution. The boy lis- 
 tened with a pained expression on his face. In fact 
 Jerry did his part so artfully that a stone should have 
 been made to understand Miss Kelly's duplicity and 
 abominable nature. But Spiess only sighed and 
 groaned. 
 
 [68]
 
 THE PEST 
 
 < 
 
 "She's a vampire !" Stevens wound up. 
 
 "A snake !" I chimed in. 
 
 "A pest!" Spiess muttered, at last. 
 
 I murmured something to Stevens, and he in- 
 sisted that Spiess at once write a letter to Miss Kelly, 
 denouncing her treachery and exposing his knowl- 
 edge of it. Spiess writhed, argued, but obeyed. 
 
 I was very careful that the letter reached its 
 destination safely. 
 
 Monday morning I received a note from Miss 
 Lillian Kelly that I might see her after work in the 
 subway. I pocketed the letter and took a straight 
 course home on surface cars. Tuesday she called me 
 on the telephone and begged me to call at her house 
 in the evening. I went to a movie after supper. 
 Wednesday I had a regular day, except for the even- 
 ing, when I suffered a great surprise. I was half 
 through with my supper, when my mother announced 
 that a young lady was at the door wishing to see me. 
 My good mother was watching my face searchingly. 
 I blushed. 
 
 The visitor was none other than Miss Kelly. She 
 was charming even as she was standing there before 
 me, pale and anxious. I asked her into the reception 
 room as politely as I could. 
 
 She found no ready, sweet talk as usual. She 
 was evidently excited. I was very cordial. 
 
 Finally, she assumed the aggressive. "You are 
 no longer any friend of mine?" she asked almost in 
 tears. 
 
 [69]
 
 THE PEST 
 
 * 
 
 " Why- -er- -that is impossible," I mumbled. 
 
 "You've tried to poison my -my friends against 
 me," she continued. 
 
 I was mute. I could not endure her gaze. 
 
 "You incited my best friend, Mr. Spiess, against 
 me." 
 
 "IV" 
 
 I didn't say that because I wanted her to doubt 
 my guilt. 
 
 Tears sprang to her eyes. ' ' Oh, I do hope it is not 
 true!" she cried. 
 
 I was sore with aversion. "What a pest!" I 
 thought. 
 
 She was sobbing the next moment. 
 
 I faced her boldly, and exclaimed: 
 
 "Yes, I want you to know it. I did it pur- 
 posely!" 
 
 She stiffened, and pursed her little lips. Her face 
 was against mine. I could feel her breath. 
 
 "Oh!" she suddenly shrieked, and fainted. I 
 caught her in my arms. 
 
 For a second I held her, dazed. Then I pressed 
 her to my breast, and there I was kissing her kiss- 
 ing her. . . . 
 
 My mother was standing in the doorway. 
 
 What a pest! 
 
 Since that scene I have kissed her many, many 
 times. She is my wife now. Stevens, I found out 
 later, had visited her that Sunday evening and pro- 
 posed to her. But she hadn't fainted in his arms. 
 
 [70]
 
 Self-Justified 
 
 HIS Excellency the Governor appeared at the 
 State House later than usual. He held a morn- 
 ing newspaper in his hand and nodded a genial 
 "Good morning" to his secretary, who hastened to 
 rise at his entrance. 
 
 A committee of five from the Manly Defense 
 League also rose before the Chief Executive of tl:e 
 State. They had come to make their final appeal. 
 Their worried, impatient faces lighted up, and they 
 sighed with relief. 
 
 The committee was composed of five well-known 
 radicals, three men and two women. The chair 01 an 
 of the committee, James Meyer, a middle-aged man, 
 with a lame foot, immediately advanced to the Gov- 
 ernor. 
 
 But the Governor seemed to be in no hurry. ' ' Sit 
 down, please. I shall be right with you," he said cor- 
 dially, and resigned himself to his secretary, who 
 was helping him take off his coat. 
 
 The lame committee-man with an effort sup- 
 pressed remonstrance, but did not follow the Gov- 
 ernor to his spacious desk. "Good God!" he mur- 
 mured to himself. His fist clinched. 
 
 The anxiety on the faces of the committee mem- 
 bers deepened. They were all on their feet, practi- 
 cally in the middle of the room, too nervous to sit 
 
 [71]
 
 SELF-JUSTIFIED 
 
 down, too worried and anxious to be conscious of their 
 unconventional position. 
 
 The Supreme State Executive deposited the bulk 
 of his body in his armchair, and coolly took to routine 
 business. He listened cordially to a few whispered 
 reports from his secretary, and commenced to look 
 over his mail. 
 
 Unconscious to themselves, the faces of the com- 
 mittee members hardened. How could he sit so calmly 
 when every minute meant so much to them so 
 much! 
 
 Helen Bridges, the youngest of the committee, a 
 beautiful girl with wonderful blue eyes, who came of 
 a wealthy family, noticed the newspaper that the 
 executive had left on a chair as he entered. "He is 
 a murderer!" she breathed. "He read in the paper 
 that a committee was to see him this morning, and he 
 deliberately came in late. He will never commute 
 Darwin Manly 's sentence. He will kill an innocent 
 man!" 
 
 "Fifteen minutes to twelve," muttered the lame 
 James Meyer. "Twelve o'clock he goes to the chair. 
 We must act at once." 
 
 But the Governor seemed absorbed in his mail. 
 James Meyer shuffled a step forward, and stopped 
 again. He was pale and quivering with anger. 
 
 "Mr. Governor, we must speak to you at once!" 
 Helen Bridges suddenly exploded. And just as sud- 
 denly, as if by united determination, they all came 
 forward to the Governor's desk. 
 
 [72]
 
 SELF-JUSTIFIED 
 
 The Governor looked up, rather amused. "In 
 one minute," he said. ''Kindly sit down; I shall be 
 right with you." 
 
 "Governor, we must!" the girl leaned over his 
 desk, her lips tight, her eyes flashing with scorn. 
 
 ' ' Young lady, please do not forget yourself. You 
 are in the presence of : ' ' 
 
 "It is the life of an innocent man, Governor. It 
 is the life of a good man ! ' ' 
 
 The Governor wavered for an instant. "I am 
 sorry, my good people. I cannot do anything for 
 you. The man has been convicted by a jury." 
 
 "Oh-o-h!" the girl gasped with disappointment. 
 
 "Mr. Governor, the man is innocent!" exclaimed 
 the lame James Meyer. "He is an idealist ; he could 
 never throw a bomb to murder human lives. It is a 
 conspiracy against him because of his activity in the 
 strike. We have affidavits from the witnesses that 
 they were bought to swear falsely. ' ' 
 
 ' ' The supreme court has confirmed his penalty, ' ' 
 the Governor pronounced slowly. 
 
 "But why 'penalty'? He is innocent. The pre- 
 siding judge himself says now that he didn't receive 
 a fair trial." 
 
 "We cannot allow such characters at liberty." 
 
 "But this is not liberty! Only commute his 
 death sentence. The criminal will be found." 
 
 ' ' The criminal has been found. A jury was con- 
 vinced of his guilt, and I sha'n't go against it. There 
 
 [73]
 
 SELF-JUSTIFIED 
 
 were witnesses who saw him throw the bomb to avenge 
 himself on the Woolen Mills." 
 
 "It's a lie!" escaped from the girl. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The witnesses were false! They were bought! 
 Darwin Manly is innocent you know it!" 
 
 "I'm through with you." And the Governor 
 raised his bulk from the seat. "I have no time for 
 discussion." 
 
 "There is time yet, Governor. Five minutes to 
 twelve!" 
 
 "I will not listen!" 
 
 "Mr. Go-overnor, this is a crime. Even gov- 
 ernors are punished." James Meyer looked him 
 straight in the eyes. The radical's jaw was set, and 
 he got so close to the Governor that the executive felt 
 his breath. 
 
 The Governor wanted to retain his dignity, tried 
 to look straight into the lame Meyer's eyes, but wav- 
 ered. His gaze fell on Meyer's crippled leg, and he 
 was reminded of the story of this man 's life as he had 
 read it in the newspapers : how he had been a com- 
 mon railroad worker, until he met with an accident 
 in which he was crippled, and when the railroad com- 
 pany finally won out in court in the suit of damages 
 he brought against them he became embittered, and 
 swore to fight Capital with his life and became one 
 of the ablest strike leaders. And the Governor 
 thought that a man like that was really dangerous, 
 
 [74]
 
 SELF-JUSTIFIED 
 
 and that he, the Governor, had best not deal with 
 him just now. 
 
 ' ' Well ' ' said the Governor, and settled in 
 
 his seat. 
 
 ' ' It may not be too late yet ! ' ' the older woman 
 of the committee implored. 
 
 The Governor responded only with a wave of 
 his arm. 
 
 " Twelve o'clock!" came like a death-knell from 
 the girl. "You are a murderer! A murderer!" 
 
 She was sobbing. 
 
 Three o'clock in the afternoon of the same day. 
 
 The Governor's secretary shoved the telephone 
 over closer to him, and took up the receiver. 
 
 "Hello. Yes this is the Governor's office. 
 Who 's this? Captain Mercier? Yes. Is that so? 
 The man who threw the bomb confessed? Who? A 
 strike-breaker, you say? Well well! No, I 
 wouldn't believe he was hired. Yes the Governor 
 is here. Certainly, I'll tell him. Good-bye." 
 
 The Governor leaned a little forward in his seat 
 and listened. He grew somewhat pale, and puffed 
 once or twice. 
 
 ' ' I 've heard ! " he said to the secretary, who was 
 about to relate the news to him. "You may tell the 
 reporters I will make my statement now. ' ' 
 
 The clerk pressed a button, spoke a few words 
 into the mouthpiece of the telephone, and a minute 
 
 [75]
 
 SELF-JUSTIFIED 
 
 later a flock of reporters tore into the Governor's 
 room. 
 
 "The reason I refused commutation," ran part 
 of the Governor's statement, "was because the com- 
 mittee demanded anarchy of me. They insulted me. 
 I shall have a guard with me now all the time. Their 
 leader, Meyer, made a threat upon my life." 
 
 [76]
 
 Quips of Destiny 
 
 LITTLE Michail Dobrowsky, son of the natural- 
 ized American citizen and resident Fiodor Do- 
 brow alias Dobrowsky was left motherless 
 and stranded in the great city of Warsaw the first 
 week of the Great war. It was a plain case of an 
 awkward turn of destiny. He had been with his 
 mother on their way to America to rejoin his father 
 and build a new home there, for which Fiodor Dobrow 
 had already laid the foundation ; but, as Fate would 
 have it, war was declared right after they had sold 
 out their little homestead in the village, even while 
 they were on their way to their beloved father and 
 husband, in strange places and among strange people. 
 
 "Holy Maria!" exclaimed the stranded wife 
 when she was told by the transporting agent that pas- 
 sage to America was impossible for a while. "What 
 shall I do now ? Where shall I live with my little Mi- 
 chail? And I have no ready cash, either. I must at 
 least return to the village. My good sir, I pray, will 
 you return the money for my tickets ? ' ' 
 
 "No," snapped the agent sharply, knowing the 
 ignorance of the peasant woman. ' ' I cannot take the 
 tickets back, and you shall not have the money." 
 
 She begged him to advance her enough to carry 
 her child and herself back to their home village, but 
 
 [77]
 
 QUIPS OF DESTINY 
 
 the agent, whose business in general consisted of bleed- 
 ing the ignorant emigrants, sturdily refused her any 
 aid whatsoever. "I am ruined by this war!" he kept 
 on complaining. She might have reported him to the 
 police, but of this he had no fear ; peasants don't know 
 their way in a big city. 
 
 Then the woman took her boy by the hand and 
 left the agent's office. She was carrying her bundles 
 on her back, and trudging along the street, weeping. 
 Little Michail instinctively pulled her back, and ut- 
 tered a shriek of horror. But it was too late there 
 she lay under the wheels of an electric car. 
 
 The little orphan-emigrant cried, blindly wading 
 in the blood of his mother, and could not be calmed in 
 the ambulance. A kind nurse managed to lay him 
 to sleep, and when he awoke his mother had already 
 been buried. 
 
 He cried long, calling for his mother, and break- 
 ing the heart of the good nurse. But finally, from ex- 
 haustion, he quieted down and fell asleep again. . . . 
 
 That was the first awkward turn in the little em- 
 igrant 's destiny. He became the protege of the kind 
 nurse. But, again, that was not his good fortune. 
 The nurse was called to war duty the same week, and 
 she kissed him farewell like a mother, it is true. He 
 was cast now upon the mercy of the hospital janitor, 
 who allowed him a nook in his dwelling. 
 
 In ordinary times he might have got along splen- 
 didly as a mascot in the city hospital, receiving favors 
 from the childless nurses, and having his meals at the 
 
 [78]
 
 QUIPS OF DESTINY 
 
 hospital kitchen. But times were turbulent. The 
 hospitals were overcrowded, nurses were scarce, and 
 all overworked. Every hour riots occurred in the 
 streets, and new bleeding, groaning bodies were 
 rushed in. In the kitchen food was short, foodstuffs 
 were being confiscated and carried off for the fight- 
 ing armies. The nurses grudged every crumb of bread 
 or spoonful of milk, that it might be for the sick. In 
 such privation little Michail could not subsist on 
 favors. 
 
 Already he had been drawn along in the immedi- 
 ate reaction to the Great war, and he was swept fur- 
 ther into it. His destiny led him to become a factor 
 in the Great war one of the millions of tiny ones 
 that make up the great fact. He fought no bloody 
 battle, nor did he make his way by soliciting recruits ; 
 yet, we must admit, he was a little screw in that great 
 machine of war. He sold patriotic post-cards on the 
 street. "Two kopecks for the picture of His High- 
 ness, the Emperor Nicholas!" he called in the streets 
 all day long, proffering to the restless crowds multi- 
 colored photographs of the Eussian monarch. 
 
 Many a beating he received on the streets, and 
 many a lesson in life he learned in the course of his 
 self-dependence. He made friends with some revolu- 
 tionists, and they utilized him on a few occasions. The 
 policemen on the streets he called by their first names, 
 and always knew when one of them was slated by 
 some revolutionist or other to be brought to the hos- 
 pital with a cracked skull or broken rib. On one oc- 
 
 [79]
 
 QUIPS OF DESTINY 
 
 casion he could have warned the policeman of the 
 danger in store for him; but he cared not to do so, 
 although he was truly sorry for the man. 
 
 He also learned to hate the Czar. He cursed him 
 under his breath, spitting voluptuously. But he bore 
 no malice against the pictures he was selling. On the 
 contrary, he grew to like the daubs of bright color on 
 the post-cards. He could not part from the paper rec- 
 tangles. They became part of him. 
 
 So passed some time, indefinite to the boy. He 
 grew hardened to his life, and day after day mechan- 
 ically called out his wares. ' ' Two kopecks for the pic- 
 ture of His Highness, the Emperor Nicholas! Two 
 kopecks ! " He had temporarily given up hope of ever 
 seeing his father, until once it was suggested to him 
 by one of his revolutionary friends that the Ameri- 
 can consul might do something for him. With his 
 aggressive disposition the boy soon found himself at 
 the American consulate, a bundle of pictures in one 
 hand and the address of his father carefully sewed 
 inside the lining of his coat-tail. 
 
 The American consul listened kindly to the boy's 
 story and then, taking up a pad and pencil, asked 
 him for his name. 
 
 "Michail Dobrowsky," replied Michail. "My 
 father wrote that his name is now Dobrow Fiodor 
 is his first name." 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed the consul suddenly, and 
 opened a drawer in his desk. "Your father has al- 
 ready been searching for you and your mother. Here 
 
 [80]
 
 QUIPS OF DESTINY 
 
 are orders I received from the Foreign Office to in- 
 vestigate your case." He looked down at the boy 
 with evident satisfaction, and added: "Once again 
 the United States has helped one of her adopted sons 
 
 Fiodor Dobrow this time. Well, well ! At the first 
 opportunity, my boy, you shall start for your father 
 
 and America." 
 
 A great trans-atlantic liner landed at the New 
 York harbor. There were many stories of the ship's 
 dodging of submarines. But what made the safe ar- 
 rival of the boat more interesting, was that on board 
 arrived a few notables, including a variety actress 
 with her dog, whose pictures (the dog's in full post- 
 card plate) appeared on the front page in the noon 
 editions of the newspapers. It was great news, and 
 would have held "leader" place on the front pages, 
 but for another tremendous event which occurred 
 that same day, obscuring the liner's sea peril stories, 
 in which the actress with the dog seemed to have 
 played such a brave part The overtopping event of 
 news value was the explosion in an ammunition plant 
 at the cost of over a hundred lives. So, eventually, 
 in the Extra evening editions the full plate picture 
 of the actress' dog was removed to the Entertainment 
 page, to give space to the picture of a man with a bull- 
 dog jaw, who was the president of the corporation, 
 
 [81]
 
 QUIPS OF DESTINY 
 
 and who might have been hurt were not his offices 
 quite a distance from the factory buildings. 
 
 However, the list of the prominent names on the 
 safely-arrived steamer continued to hold space in the 
 columns of the newspapers. But where was the list 
 of the hundred ammunition workers who had been 
 blown to eternity in the "great" explosion? Was 
 there not someone worth while amongst these ? Alas, 
 none, it would seem; no list of the dead appeared in 
 print. 
 
 Yet, had there appeared such a list, one might 
 have read that one of these victims was a certain Fio- 
 doo* Dobrow, a naturalized American citizen. Of 
 course, not many could know that exactly the very 
 same day Fiodor was expecting his little son from Eu- 
 rope they couldn't know that, because the name of 
 little Michail Dobrowsky did not appear in the list of 
 prominent arrivals, although, and coincidentally, he 
 happened to be on board the steamer that had eluded 
 the submarines. 
 
 This was more than an awkward turn in little 
 Michail's destiny. It was the big tragedy of the little 
 boy's life. Undoubtedly, it was the handiwork of 
 Destiny, for in which comedy or tragedy is not Des- 
 tiny the protagonist; yes, there lay the hand of Des- 
 tiny, merciless. 
 
 Now, Fiodor Dobrow had never had even a look 
 at his son, having left his wife before their child was 
 born and he had not lived to taste that joy. His 
 
 [82]
 
 QUIPS OF DESTINY 
 
 little son was received at Ellis Island by a weeping, 
 middle-aged woman, who was the dead man's sister. 
 Her appearance was such that at once little Michail 
 took pity on her. 
 
 His premonition proved true. His aunt was poor, 
 a widow, and supported by two boys who were selling 
 newspapers. She lived in a filthy cellar, and she kept 
 bewailing the boy's ill luck and the loss of her dear 
 brother. Little Michail, after his experience in War- 
 saw, was bored the first day, and demanded what 
 could he do for a living quite an American idea. 
 
 And now, once again, came a quirk of destiny 
 in the life of the youthful immigrant. This time Fate 
 would have it that once more his work should be in 
 the agency of the Great war. Again he became, un- 
 consciously, a tiny screw in the vast machine of war. 
 
 It was all very simple. 
 
 The United States had at last declared war. 
 There was a rush for patriotic demonstration, and the 
 most that people did at first towards that was to wear 
 a flag-button in the lapels. Bedraggled boys at once 
 appeared on the streets selling off all kinds of flags, 
 pins and buttons with the "colors" on. 
 
 By virtue of their newspaper business little Mi- 
 chairs American cousins knew where these buttons 
 were to be obtained for sale, and they secured a stock 
 of them for Michail. They taught him how to pro- 
 nounce his wares, and soon little Michail once again 
 was engaged, for a livelihood, in the sale of war 
 supplies. 
 
 [83]
 
 QUIPS OF DESTINY 
 
 He knew not the meaning of his words, but all 
 day long he kept shouting: "Get your flag here for 
 five cents! Show your colors ! Old Glory, five cents !" 
 
 [84]
 
 A 000128901 6