y^fjfi^\JF F - 
 
of books 
 
THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
THE HAND OF THE 
 MIGHTY 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 By 
 VAUGHAN KESTER 
 
 Author of 
 
 THE PRODIGAL JUDGE. THE JUST AND THE UNJUST 
 THE FORTUNES OF THE LANDBAYS, ETC. 
 
 WITH PORTRAIT, AND A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR 
 BY PAUL KESTER 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS 
 
 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
COPYRIGHT 1913 
 THE ROBES-MERRILL COMPANY 
 
 OF 
 
 BRAUNWORTH & CO. 
 
 BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS 
 
 BROOKLYN. N. Y. 
 

 Acknowledgments are due to .Mor/ Stories t Munsey"s 
 Magazine, The Century Magazine,, The Bellman and 
 Tfo American Magazine for permission to reprint cer 
 tain stones included in this volume. 
 
 jyI57 8468 
 
VAUGHAN KESTER 
 
 Vaughan Kester was born in New Brunswick, New 
 Jersey, but the greater part of his boyhood was spent in 
 Mount Vernon, Ohio. 
 
 Among our earliest and most vivid recollections were 
 the long railway journeys which we took with our father 
 and mother back and forth between our home in the East 
 and my grandmother s house in Mount Vernon. It was 
 in Mount Vernon that my brother contracted the severe 
 cold that resulted in a hoarseness of speech from which 
 he never entirely recovered, and that finally developed 
 into the condition which occasioned his most untimely 
 death. 
 
 Despite this difficulty of speech, his boyhood was a 
 very happy one. My grandmother s house was near the 
 edge of the town and we knew all the short cuts to the 
 woods and the river. We played games, took long 
 tramps, and lived healthy and delightful lives. We went 
 barefoot, we swam and played with all the boys in the 
 town. Indeed, my brother was an absolute democrat all 
 his life. 
 
 We went to a little private school kept by Miss Plum- 
 mer, a friend of the family. Miss Plummer had an 
 original method of teaching, and expanded our minds and 
 won our affection, but I doubt if we were good students. 
 I know I had great difficulty in learning to read, and 
 Vaughan also had his struggles. 
 
 At home our mother made a practise of reading aloud 
 to us books of all sorts ancient history, science, biog 
 raphy, the Bible anything in which she was interested. 
 For a long time I think it was the sound of her voice 
 which held our attention, but soon we followed with more 
 or less comprehension the words we heard. This formed 
 a most valuable part of our education. 
 
 We were very fortunate, too, in our friendships as 
 little boys. We had charming friends who exercised a 
 lasting influence upon us. 
 
VAUGHAN KESTER 
 
 When a little older we went to a private school kept 
 by Mrs. Charles Curtis. Here again we had the personal 
 care of a woman of culture. Her instruction was indi 
 vidual and helpful to us both. Later we attended the 
 public school for one term. 
 
 By this time Vaughan had become a great reader. He 
 read everything and forgot nothing. All his life he was 
 astonishing us by the things he knew. At last it came to 
 be a commonplace when any one in the family was in 
 doubt upon any point in history or general knowledge, to 
 hear some one say, "Ask Vaughan" and almost always 
 Vaughan knew. 
 
 When Vaughan was about twelve years old our mother, 
 with her friend, Mrs. Kimball, and others, established the 
 School of Design for Women now the School of Art 
 in Cleveland, Ohio and for the greater part of the next 
 seven years we lived in that city. The school was estab 
 lished on original and useful lines, and its rapid growth 
 was as interesting to Vaughan and me as it was to Mrs. 
 Kimball and our mother. 
 
 Much of this time was spent in Mrs. Kimball s house, 
 1265 Euclid Avenue. If we had been at school in Mount 
 Vernon, here in Cleveland was our university. Every 
 thing was discussed before us, and we constantly visited 
 our mother s school, which soon grew to such proportions 
 that it occupied half of the top floor of the vast dingy 
 old City Hall. At that time we attended a private school 
 kept by Mrs. Bierce, and later we had for tutor a young 
 man to whom we recited at Adelbert College. 
 
 I think our mother wished Vaughan to enter Adelbert 
 regularly, but he became at this time possessed of a great 
 desire to "go west." My uncle had recently purchased a 
 ranch on the River Platte, near Denver, and Vaughan 
 was not content until consent was given to his trying the 
 life there. 
 
VAUGHAN KESTER 
 
 I did not go west with my brother, and only know from 
 what he wrote, and from what he told us on his return, 
 that the plains and mountains and the Denver of those 
 days made a deep impression upon him. Looking back 
 now I wish that he might have spent a longer time in 
 Colorado. The West appealed to him strongly. He had 
 the large elements of the pioneer in his nature, and a 
 deep and peculiar sympathy with the native American in 
 any primitive condition. Certain chapters in The For 
 tunes of the Landrays are so vivid and so real that one 
 knows how well he used his opportunities for observation 
 and absorption in the months he spent on the ranch at 
 the foot of the splendid mountains. 
 
 It was while we were living in Cleveland that my 
 brother first developed a spasmodic and not very deep 
 interest in writing. With a friend he got out an edition 
 of a highly interesting paper called The Athlete and 
 Quirk, devoted almost wholly to prize fighting. My 
 mother financed the venture. I doubt if a copy remains 
 in existence. The enterprise was abandoned not because 
 our mother s faith declined, but because Vaughan and his 
 fellow editor were too lazy, or too busy with something 
 else, ever to get out a second copy. I don t think 
 Vaughan s contributions were of much value. I know 
 he was terribly bored whenever we reminded him of 
 them. 
 
 By this time I was trying to write plays, but it was not 
 for some years that Vaughan took seriously to writing. 
 When he was nineteen our mother resigned from her 
 school and we went to Florida, where we spent six 
 months camping and cruising on the gulf coast, a delect 
 able time for Vaughan, who especially loved salt water 
 and boats. 
 
 We camped for many weeks on Sea Horse Key six 
 miles out in the Gulf of Mexico from Cedar Keys. Here 
 
VAUGHAN KESTER 
 
 Parsons Lathrop, and had been breakfasted by our 
 mother s cousin, William Dean Howells, who then and 
 thenceforth showed us both the utmost kindness. I think 
 meeting Mr. Howells had much to do with firing Vaugh- 
 an s ambitions. From that time on Mr. Howells was our 
 guide, philosopher and friend, our sponsor and our sup 
 porter. We hoarded our funny stories in the hope gen 
 erally successful, for his good nature is unfailing of 
 making him laugh, and he lent an equally willing ear to 
 all our troubles. Two young men never had a kinder 
 friend, nor a wiser. From the first Mr. Howells had faith 
 in Vaughan, and Mrs. Howells, whose rare discrimination 
 we learned to value so highly, and whose generous inter 
 est was so unfailing and so helpful, at once saw qualities 
 in him. Her appreciation of hkn was immediate and in 
 tuitive. She sensed at once not only what he was, but 
 what he might become, and I think to her he was always 
 of the stature which he was just consciously attaining 
 when he died. 
 
 During one of Vaughan s long visits to his grand 
 mother in Mount Vernon, Ohio, he heard a vague report 
 that Dan Emmett, the composer of Dixie, was living 
 north of the town. He hunted up the famous minstrel, 
 and found him, nearly eighty years old, chopping wood 
 for a living. 
 
 Mr. Emmett had been a man of some means, and was 
 well connected, but he had drifted away from his people 
 and was living a hermit s life in a little house he had built, 
 unknown for the most part to his townspeople. 
 
 This meeting with Emmett was important to both my 
 brother and to the old composer. They became great 
 friends, and the result was that Vaughan wrote several 
 articles for the papers accounts of Emmett s career as 
 a composer and as one of the Christy Minstrels. Kate 
 Field s Washington printed the first of these articles. 
 These sketches marked the beginning of Vaughan s 
 
VAUGHAN KESTER 
 
 career as a writer. It was his first real appearance in 
 print. The money he received for this work he gave to 
 Mr. Emmett, who had furnished him with the facts the 
 articles embodied. 
 
 I remember very well how distressed Vaughan was at 
 the thought of leaving Emmett when he should return 
 to Virginia. 
 
 He induced me to write to A. M. Palmer, at that time 
 head of the Actors Fund, stating Mr. Emmett s case and 
 explaining that Emmett was unwilling to make any ap 
 peal for himself. The response was immediate. Fifty 
 dollars was telegraphed to my brother for Mr. Emmett, 
 and a letter followed promising a pension of five dollars 
 a week. This pension and one was never better de 
 served was paid to the old composer as long as he lived. 
 
 This little success with his pen inspired Vaughan to 
 more serious effort. It was also the direct means of his 
 meeting with Paul Wilstach, who was so long and so 
 intimately associated with us, and whom, indeed, we 
 came to regard as one of our family. Paul Wilstach was 
 collecting autographs at the time Vaughan s article on 
 Emmett appeared in Kate Field s Washington. He 
 wrote, asking Vaughan to secure an autograph copy of 
 Dixie for his collection. Vaughan replied that he would 
 obtain the autograph if Mr. Wilstach would send him a 
 check for five dollars for Mr. Emmett. The check was 
 sent, a correspondence ensued, and when Paul Wilstach 
 came east he visited us at Ben Venue, the house above 
 the Potomac in which he now lives. 
 
 Paul Wilstach and my brother wrote some farces to 
 gether, and aided each other to keep alive their literary 
 enthusiasms. When a little later we were living in the 
 big white house on Riverside Drive in New York, Paul 
 Wilstach frequently made the place his home. 
 
 Vaughan was about twenty-three when we went to 
 New York, settling ourselves on Riverside Drive in The 
 
VAUGHAN KESTER 
 
 Big White House, as the place came to be called by our 
 friends. Here my brother and I wrote a two-act play 
 together The Cousin of the King which was published 
 in The Looker-On, and afterward played by Walker 
 Whiteside. This was the only play in which Vaughan 
 had a hand that was ever acted. But he was keenly inter 
 ested in the theater and most sympathetically and help 
 fully interested in my various ventures as a playwright. 
 
 Not long after we settled in New York he wrote a 
 short story, The Mills of the Little Tin Gods, which Mr. 
 Walker accepted for publication in the Cosmopolitan 
 magazine. Mr. Walker was enthusiastic about the story, 
 and sent for Vaughan, who returned from Irvington with 
 an offer to go on the staff of the magazine and the news 
 syndicate which Mr. Walker was at that time conducting 
 in connection with the Cosmopolitan. Vaughan enjoyed 
 his work at Irvington. It was a novel experience and it 
 brought him into contact with men of ability. He saw 
 a magazine in the making and he helped to make it. He 
 also did a great deal of hard work for the syndicate, and 
 he obtained special articles from others. For a short 
 time I joined my brother on Mr. Walker s editorial staff, 
 and we would go up to Irvington together for the early 
 Monday morning conferences. 
 
 After this there was never any doubt as to the career 
 my brother meant to follow. It was while he was asso 
 ciated with the Cosmopolitan that he obtained a short 
 leave of absence from his duties and returning to Mount 
 Vernon, Ohio, was married to Miss Jennings. My 
 brother s wife was deeply interested in his literary career, 
 and devoted herself to him and to his work. His mar 
 riage was undoubtedly an added incentive to his ambition 
 and it was at this time, or soon after, that he began the 
 writing of his first novel. 
 
 It was after Vaughan left the Cosmopolitan that he 
 joined me in promoting a special performance of Ibsen s 
 
VAUGHAN KESTER 
 
 Ghosts, which our friend John Blair gave at the Carnegie 
 Lyceum. Charles Henry Meltzer was the other active 
 worker behind the scenes. The whole affair was so dis 
 tinguished and interesting that Mr. Blair conceived the 
 idea of devoting the following winter to a series of 
 modern plays. Vaughan and I, with Mr. Meltzer, volun 
 teered our services, and we were joined by Mr. George 
 Eustis, who by his generosity made a rather elaborate 
 program possible. Performances of each of the five plays 
 were given in New York, in Boston, and in Washington. 
 The series was brilliantly successful ; the genius of Miss 
 Florence Kahn, now Mrs. Max Beerbohm, quite dazzled 
 the critics, to Vaughan s great delight. He gave all his 
 time, and did more, perhaps, than any other single indi 
 vidual to make the season a success. This was his only 
 experience in actual theatricals. He knew, however, 
 many noted actors and actresses. Indeed, our house was 
 much frequented by artists of all sorts. 
 
 It was through Mr. Howells influence that my brother 
 obtained a position with Harper and Brothers. I have no 
 very definite knowledge of the work he did for them, ex 
 cept that I know he read many manuscripts during his 
 association with this publishing house, and that he met a 
 number of men famous in the literary world. I think his 
 whole association with the Harpers, though it did not 
 extend over many months, was a pleasant one for him. 
 It culminated in their acceptance of his first novel, The 
 Manager of the B. & A. 
 
 In the spring of 1900 we returned to Virginia, taking 
 up our residence at Woodlawn Mansion, about eight 
 miles distant by road from Gunston Hall, and three miles 
 from Mount Vernon. Woodlawn was built on what had 
 been a part of George Washington s plantation. Wash 
 ington himself drew the plans for the house, and they 
 
VAUGHAN KESTER 
 
 were afterward perfected by Doctor William Thornton, 
 the architect of the Capitol. 
 
 Soon after we had established ourselves again in Vir 
 ginia, The Manager of the B. & A. appeared as one of the 
 American novel series the Harpers were then issuing. It 
 was very generously received by the critics. 
 
 During the five years we lived at Woodlawn my 
 brother was seldom absent from home. He was deeply 
 interested in the restoration of the house, and even more 
 interested in bringing up the worn-out farm lands. 
 
 He had much of the spirit of the backwoodsman. He 
 was tall and powerful, standing six feet two without his 
 shoes. He was very fond of wearing old, easy-fitting 
 clothes as he was of smoking old pipes. His affection 
 for his old hats was remarkable. To see him about the 
 place tinkering at any odd job which proved too much for 
 the ingenuity of others, delighting in saws and hammers, 
 and pounding his fingers, fond of gardening, and all 
 the rough industries of a large country place, the last idea 
 a stranger would have associated with him was that of 
 authorship. 
 
 Vatighan found many types at hand which later offered 
 not a few suggestions for some of the figures in The 
 Prodigal Judge. Bob Yancey in particular had his proto 
 type in Kelly Dove. Mr. Dove and my brother were 
 great cronies, and I remember when years later he was 
 reading the first chapters of The Prodigal Judge to us at 
 Gunston Hall, we instantly recognized Mr. Dove in the 
 character of Bob Yancey. 
 
 Farming the land and restoring the house were fas 
 cinating and time-engrossing occupations, but Vaughan 
 still continued his writing, and it was at Woodlawn that 
 he wrote his second novel, The Fortunes of the Landrays, 
 which the McClures published. 
 
 Always a most deliberate and unhurried worker, he 
 grew even more deliberate and unhastening as time went 
 
VAUGHAN KESTER 
 
 on. He worked hard, but did not work rapidly. There 
 were times when a chapter would seem to write itself, but 
 I fancy he was a little suspicious of easy composition so 
 far as it concerned his own work. 
 
 He was always at his desk when not engaged in some 
 congenial outdoor occupation. He wrote a great deal on 
 scraps, throwing much away. He seldom or never 
 crossed a "t" nor dotted an "i". Often he left great blank 
 spaces and half pages without a line upon them, covering 
 others closely with his fine writing. In their externals his 
 methods of composition seemed rather slovenly, and his 
 manuscripts would have been the despair of any copyist 
 but his wife ; but he knew what he was about, and it 
 was utterly useless to attempt any reformation in his 
 habits. He had great patience. He did not satisfy him 
 self easily. He wrote and rewrote and polished and pol 
 ished again. 
 
 Not infrequently he would put aside his work on a 
 novel to write a short story. He wrote a dozen or more, 
 all of which found their way into print except one, Mollle 
 Darling, written not long before his death, which appears 
 in this volume for the first time. 
 
 Just before the publication of The Fortunes of the 
 Landrays, Woodlawn Mansion was sold and I bought a 
 place in the north of England. In England Vaughan met 
 with an understanding a little more complete than he 
 had known in America, except from Mrs. Howells. He 
 made friends immediately, and fitted into the easy agree 
 able country-house life as perfectly as he had fitted into 
 the different phases of American life he had known. The 
 Fortunes of the Landrays came out while we were at 
 Augill Castle. 
 
 Vaughan s throat causing him some concern, we went 
 to London, taking Lady Florence Boyle s little house in 
 Victoria Square, just back of Buckingham Palace. He 
 had begun a new novel at Augill Castle, but he did little 
 
VAUGHAN KESTER 
 
 or no writing in London. Later it was thought best for 
 him to return to America. Some months were spent at 
 Ben Venue and then we moved into Gunston Hall, which 
 remained my brother s home until his death. 
 
 While we were in Ben Venue, Vaughan wrote his one 
 romantic novel, John o Jamestozvn. Contrary to his 
 usual custom he wrote this book rapidly ; but he compen 
 sated himself by taking more time than was usual over 
 his work on a new novel, afterward published under the 
 title of The Just and the Unjust. 
 
 He had almost completed this book when he was seized 
 with the idea which resulted in the writing of his best 
 known and most popular story, The Prodigal Judge. He 
 had submitted the incomplete manuscript of The Just and 
 the Unjust to one or two friends, who suggested rewriting 
 certain parts. For this work at the time he had no in 
 clination, so put the book aside and plunged into his work 
 on The Prodigal Judge with a great deal of enthusiasm. 
 At last he had hit on a theme in which he could employ 
 his wonderful sense of humor. His wit was spontane 
 ous ; but while it was a constant delight to those who 
 knew him intimately, he had never regarded it as an 
 asset of any value. I think at the last he began to appre 
 ciate that it was his best medium, and that with him the 
 line of least resistance was the safest and wisest to 
 follow. 
 
 During the three or four years he lived at Gunston 
 Hall, his work was constantly interrupted by journeys to 
 Washington for slight operations upon his throat. He 
 had great singleness of purpose or he could not have suc 
 cessfully continued his work in the face of such disad 
 vantages. But there was nothing of the invalid about my 
 brother. He diffused an atmosphere of wholesome 
 strength, good nature and health, and until the very last 
 weeks of his life he maintained the attitude of a strong 
 well man. 
 
VAUGHAN KESTER 
 
 We were confident that The Prodigal Judge would 
 meet a ready acceptance and would find favor with the 
 public. My brother hoped so, too, but there was sufficient 
 doubt in his mind for him to be relieved intensely by the 
 very generous words in which the publishers accepted the 
 book. 
 
 The book was well under way and the proofs read, 
 when my brother s physicians decided that an operation 
 of a somewhat serious character was necessary. He met 
 the ordeal bravely and came through it well. We had a 
 pleasant Christmas together at Gunston Hall, and he was 
 recommencing work on The Just and the Unjust, when 
 another very serious operation was determined upon. 
 Two weeks after the second operation a third operation 
 was performed. My brother rallied, and in March was 
 able to return to Gunston Hall. He had the satisfaction 
 of knowing that his book had achieved all the success he 
 could possibly have hoped for it. He died at Gunston 
 Hall on the night of the fourth of July, 1911. 
 
 PAUL KESTER. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PACK 
 
 I THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY . . 1 
 
 II THE BAD MAN OF LAS VEGAS . . . . . 24 
 
 III MOLLIE DARLING . . . . . . . .35 
 
 IV THE BLOOD OF His ANCESTORS . . , . .75 
 V WHEN WE HAVE WAITED . . . . . .101 
 
 VI THE DESERTER , .115 
 
 VII WHAT REARTON SAW 123 
 
 VIII How MR. RATHBURN WAS BROUGHT IN ... 144 
 
 IX Miss CAXTON S FATHER . . . . * .151 
 
 X THE HALF-BREED . . 161 
 
 XI WILLIE 174 
 
 XII MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT . . . . .190 
 
 XIII ^.LL THAT A MAN HATH ... ^ ... 219 
 
THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 SIMPLE and genuine, that s the way Thomas 
 R. Pendagrast impressed the valley. You 
 really might have felt, after listenin to his 
 innocent chatter, that he d barely got under the 
 wire. He wasn t much to look at, either. Plain 
 in the face, but comfortable-lookin , as if he was 
 well fed, and with the winnin est smile that ever 
 come into the valley. You d never have picked 
 him out of any crowd for a millionaire, he was 
 such a simple soul. That was the key-note of his 
 character as we have read it. For takin him all 
 in all, I never seen but one simpler soul, and that 
 was Silas Quinby. 
 
 No, we never called Silas Si. That would have 
 been too much like intrudin on his privacy. You 
 see, you felt instinctive Quinby couldn t stand for 
 no reductions; that he hadn t anything to lose 
 without great personal sufferin . Silas lived at 
 the head of the valley. His was a white frame 
 house with green blinds and a dornick-bordered 
 walk leadin down to the front gate. When you 
 
 1 
 
2 THE HAND OF. THE MIGHTY 
 
 knew Silas and seen his house, you realized he 
 was like that; that if there d been a way to look 
 into his soul, you d have found it was painted 
 white, with green blinds, and had a straight and 
 narrow path leadin off to travel in. 
 
 We had a heap more respect for Silas than 
 confidence in him. He was a man who looked 
 like he d stand indefinite without hitchin . He 
 was a lawyer, but he hadn t no practise, because 
 no one in the valley had ever been able to make 
 up his mind to let Silas practise on him. There 
 was some reckless characters here, just like there 
 is in every neighborhood, but none of em had 
 ever been that reckless. So at the end of forty 
 years Silas was still waitin for his first case. 
 
 He done better as a notary public, which ain t 
 a perfession callin for much independent judg 
 ment. We figured it that havin been through 
 college and the law school, Silas s natural parts 
 were sufficiently improved so as he could witness 
 an oath. But beyond this no one had ever taken 
 chances. So he kept chickens by way of helpin 
 out his professional earnin s. He was successful 
 at that. Even folks who affected to sneer at him 
 for bein such a simple soul owned up that he had 
 hen sense. No, his parts couldn t have appeared 
 brilliant on the surface when you realize that after 
 livin all them years elbow to elbow with him, the 
 most we could find to say was that he had hen 
 sense. 
 
THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 3 
 
 Socially he was of them poor unfortunates that 
 never gets a chance to finish anything they start 
 to say. About the time folks was willin to listen 
 to him somebody changed the subject. He was 
 always bein broke off in the middle and serialized. 
 It was as if some one got nervous waitin , and 
 turned the page. 
 
 From what I am sayin you may gather that 
 Silas was at the tail-end of the procession. But 
 that was hardly it. He was more like a man 
 who d missed the procession entirely. But he 
 was a simple soul all right, and he never bore 
 malice with folks for bein short with him or 
 showin plain that they didn t care a cuss for what 
 he thought. 
 
 But to go back to Thomas R. Pendagrast. He 
 come into the valley in a great, big, yellow tourin - 
 car along late one afternoon in dog-days. It was 
 me seen him first. His car was standin in the 
 road, and he seemed to be examinin a daisy he 
 had in his hand. None of your ox-eyes, but just 
 one of those ornery white-and-yellow kind same 
 as are such a pest. 
 
 "Ain t it wonderful the white and the deep, 
 deep yellow, like gold?" he says, smilin at me 
 kind of shy. "Do you think any artist could paint 
 such a golden yellow?" he says. "I don t." 
 
 "I wish they didn t seed so powerful energetic," 
 I says. 
 
 "But who made em?" he asks, smilin quaint. 
 
4 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Blamed if I know. Burbank didn t; he s got 
 better sense." 
 
 "Yes, you know," he says, sinkin his voice and 
 smilin awful sweet. 
 
 "I know they run out a mowin meadow mighty 
 quick," I says. "If anybody made em, I wish to 
 blazes they d been about something useful in 
 stead." 
 
 "My friend," he says, lookin pained, "don t say 
 that. God made em; they are His flowers. Are 
 you a church-member?" 
 
 "I m a deacon at the Fork s Meetin -house," 
 I says. 
 
 "My brother!" he says gentle-like, and smilin 
 winnin* and friendly. 
 
 "Here s another simple soul," I thought as we 
 shook hands, "another soft pedal like Silas Quin- 
 by, dotty and rockin on his base, but well-meanin 
 and harmless." 
 
 But I misjudged him. You see, he lived his 
 religion; that was it it was a part of his every 
 day life. Most folks go about hidin their religion 
 as if it was a private matter; but that wasn t 
 Thomas R. Pendagrast s style. He was willin 
 you should know just how good he was. 
 
 Just then one of the men in the car spoke his 
 name. Say, you could have knocked me down 
 with the daisy in his hand, I was that outdone ! 
 But I knew it was him from havin seen his pic 
 ture so often in the papers. Well, he climbed 
 
THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 5 
 
 back into his car after we d shook hands again, 
 and I took off acrost the fields as hard as I could 
 run. I beat the car down to the valley and spread 
 the news that Pendagrast, the millionaire, was 
 comin , that I d seen him and shook hands with 
 him. 
 
 At first folks didn t believe me, but when his 
 big yellow car rolled in slow over the Fork s road, 
 the first one that had been seen in the valley, 
 people realized that we had uncommon visitors 
 with us. And later there was his name on the 
 hotel register, good for no tellin how many mil 
 lions. Folks came and looked at it, silent and 
 awed, and then walked away on tiptoe. 
 
 One of the gentlemen of Pendagrast s party 
 gave out a statement that the financier was seekin 
 rest and quiet. No wonder, after the way he must 
 a been workin to pile up all the money he had. 
 The gentleman said, too, in private conversation 
 with several of us that Mr. Pendagrast was a 
 much misunderstood man, that his aims and pur 
 poses were bein constantly misrepresented by his 
 enemies. He said he was merely one of them 
 Christian business men in whose hands an all- 
 seein Providence had seen fit to place the tem 
 poral welfare of our country. What you noticed 
 at once about Pendagrast and his friends was the 
 religious tone of all their remarks; yet they were 
 cheerful cheerful without bein vulgar. 
 
 Right from the first Pendagrast liked the val- 
 
6 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 ley; and when he seen we kep out of his way 
 and didn t try to intrude on him, he got awful 
 friendly, and to such an extent that he d stop and 
 speak to any man he met on the road. He d ask 
 him his name most likely, how many acres he 
 farmed, if he was married, and how many chil 
 dren, and was he a church-member. You could 
 see he was all balm and oil and gentleness and 
 thoughtfulness. He appeared to overflow with 
 the milk of human kindness. He was as sweet 
 as a cat with sirup on its paws, always soundin 
 the soft note in his talk, and always moral and 
 improvin . 
 
 Well, sir, his friends just seemed to love him. 
 It was beautiful to watch the way they sort of 
 hung on his words. And when he told a funny 
 joke, you could see them fix their faces, and then 
 they d laugh and laugh, and slap each other on 
 the back. 
 
 It wasn t no time at all until we knew he was 
 just such another simple soul as Silas Quinby. 
 He was simple in his pleasures, in what he et, 
 and in his thoughts, like Silas was. Folks com 
 mented on this. But while Pendagrast got a 
 chance to finish all his remarks, poor old Silas 
 had never been trusted with much beside the 
 weather, and even there he had to be mighty 
 careful not to overstay his time. 
 
 But the most astonishin thing was the way 
 Silas Quinby and Pendagrast became friends. It 
 
THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 was like two streams of molasses flowin together 
 and makin one sweetness. It was because they 
 was both such simple souls, you see. I doubt if 
 Pendagrast had ever met any one like Silas, 
 which was sayin just like himself. 
 
 He said Silas was the most genuine man he 
 had ever met with, and that some day he must 
 come and visit him at his city home. He spent 
 hours with Silas lookin over the chickens or 
 drinkin buttermilk and eatin doughnuts Mrs. 
 Quinby fed em at the back door like two happy 
 lads. 
 
 You bet it made us feel good. There was the 
 master of millions and our Silas like brothers. 
 Why, we began to talk of runnin Silas for justice 
 of the peace. He d wanted the office for years, 
 but no one had felt he d care to have a case tried 
 before Silas. Not that he was not well meanin . 
 No; it was his mind we feared, not his heart. 
 
 Then Pendagrast and his friends must see the 
 p ints of interest about the valley. Silas was their 
 guide. No one knew the country better than he 
 did, whose land they was on, and all about the 
 folks that owned it. It was beautiful to see those 
 two simple souls goin around gatherin flowers 
 or pickin up curious rocks and pebbles. You 
 see, they was both so genuine anything that was 
 innocent could charm em. They d come home 
 to the hotel, their arms bulgin with wild blooms 
 and half a hundred of broken rock mebby stowed 
 
8 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 away under their feet in the car. I never knew 
 a millionaire s pleasures Could be so harmless or 
 so inexpensive. 
 
 Nights Silas used to fetch him down to Miller 
 Brothers store so he could get acquainted with 
 folks. Sociable? The most sociable man I ever 
 met with. Mebby he d borrow five cents off one 
 of his friends and lay it all out in crackers and 
 cheese; then he d set on the counter and dangle 
 his legs and talk and munch and munch and talk. 
 He never seemed to carry no money. I suppose, 
 havin so many millions, he didn t want to appear 
 ostentatious; and when he d ask for the nickel 
 his friends would laugh and laugh; and it was 
 comical, him having to borrow five cents like that. 
 Once he brought some picture-cards down to the 
 store he d had taken the year before when he was 
 in the Holy Land. There was views of him at 
 the Tomb, him on the shores of Galilee, him at 
 the Mount of Olives, but no olives. 
 
 The first Sunday he spent in the valley he at 
 tended church right there in the old Fork s Meetin - 
 house, and after the service the minister asked 
 him if he wouldn t favor us with a few remarks. 
 Say, I ain t ever forgot that meetin . What do 
 you think that simple soul done? He got up, 
 his eyes shinin and tears in his voice like he was 
 gettin ready to leak, and told us about his early 
 struggles. 
 
 Joe Whittaker said afterward he hadn t known 
 
THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 9 
 
 whether he was attendin divine service or night 
 session of a business college. As we left the 
 church, I says to Joe: 
 
 "How you can bring yourself to criticize a 
 simple soul like that is more than I can under 
 stand." 
 
 "All the same," says Joe, "he s got God and 
 mammon confused in his mind. Savin s and salva 
 tion are pretty much one and the same to him. 
 I don t want to be told how to make twenty-five 
 dollars to start on, I know that much, but I d 
 be grateful if the old man had told me how to 
 make a million or two." 
 
 "Well, he deserves a lot of credit," I says. 
 
 "What for?" asks Joe. 
 
 "For bein successful and sacrificin himself to 
 make money," I says, heated. 
 
 "Do you respect a hog for taking on fat?" says 
 Joe. 
 
 "No, I don t," I says. "That s a hog s nature, 
 to take on fat." 
 
 "Well, it s his nature to make money," says 
 Joe. "He ain t never gone outside of his natural 
 instincts. But where you and me has got various 
 instincts, like bein careless in our spendin and 
 lazy, he s never been able to let go a dollar once 
 he s got his hands on it. I bet you the Indian 
 yells with pain when his fingers touch a penny." 
 
 Well, Pendagrast stayed ten days in the valley, 
 and then he went away, promisin to come back 
 
10 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 the first chance he got. When he left it was just 
 like the sun had gone down for good. We d been 
 thinkin in the hundred millions, dreamin of mo 
 tor-cars and steam-yachts, and we was suddenly 
 dumped back on the Miller brothers, our richest 
 family, who mebby made two thousand dollars 
 a year sellin groceries and calicoes, and specu- 
 latin in hoop-poles and shingles. 
 
 The night after the big yellow tourin -car had 
 gone hootin good-by down the valley road, Silas 
 Quinby come to see me. I seen he had something 
 on his mind. Finally he got me out to the wood 
 pile. When a man had something very private to 
 say to his neighbor, he always got him out to the 
 wood-pile. It was an old valley custom. 
 
 "You re missin him, Silas?" I says, meanin 
 Pendagrast. 
 
 "Yes," says Silas, sighin , "a wonderful man, 
 simple and genuine, and all his goodness on the 
 surface, where it counts," he says. "And yet I 
 don t know as it s so much on the surface as 
 underneath," he adds. 
 
 "It s all around," I says. 
 
 "And yet he s a terribly misjudged man. Have 
 you read them awful libelous attacks on his char 
 acter in the magazines and newspapers? It makes 
 my heart bleed for him," says Silas, moved. 
 
 Then Silas asked me about some wild land I 
 owned. He wanted to know if I d ever thought 
 of sellin it. I d been tryin to sell it for thirty 
 
THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 1 1 
 
 years, but couldn t. There was six hundred acres 
 all told, mostly broke rock and scrub-timber. I d 
 been offerin it for two-fifty an acre. 
 
 "Yes," I says. "I ll sell fast enough if I get 
 the chance." 
 
 "Well, I ve had inquiries," says Silas. 
 
 You see, he was a real-estate agent, though 
 he d never sold any land. But it s easy to be a 
 real-estate agent. You can start with a sign. 
 And Silas had started twenty years before. 
 
 "I wish you d put your land in my hands to 
 sell," he kept on. "All I want is a ten per cent, 
 commission if I make a sale. But you must give 
 me a year s time." 
 
 "Why," I says, "that s an awful long time to 
 take, Silas." 
 
 "Well," he says, "you ve taken thirty years, ain t 
 you, George? And your lowest price is two-fifty?" 
 
 "That s my askin price. I ll accept two," I 
 says. 
 
 "Or as much more as you can get?" he says, 
 laughin* in his simple way. 
 
 "Don t be foolish, Silas. If you got anybody 
 feeble-minded enough to think he can farm that 
 land, don t you try to dicker with him," I says 
 getting anxious. 
 
 The upshot of it was I signed a paper giving 
 Silas a sort of option, him to be exclusive agent 
 for one year. Then he handed me a dollar. 
 
 "What s this for, Silas?" I asked. 
 
12 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Why, to bind the bargain," he says, smilin 
 at me simple. 
 
 "Why, that s all right, Silas; I trust you," I 
 says, humorin his fancy. 
 
 He made me promise I d not tell a soul about 
 the option. But that was reasonable, because if 
 anybody in the valley could have got hold of his 
 buyer, first thing they would have done would 
 have been to tell him he d starve to death on that 
 land, that it was so thin a turkey-buzzard didn t 
 make a shadow flyin over it. Yes, it was some 
 poor as far as fertility went. 
 
 Of course I kept still, but one night as I was 
 walkin home from the store with the youngest of 
 the Miller brothers, we married sisters, it sort 
 of come out that Silas had been to him about 
 land, and they d give him an option on two thou 
 sand acres of cut-over mountainside. 
 
 "We ll watch Silas," I said. "He s losin his 
 mind." 
 
 "Well, it ain t much to lose," says Miller. "He s 
 got nothing he ll be less likely to miss." 
 
 "Yes, but he s such a simple soul," I says. "I 
 don t know but we d ought to make up a purse 
 and send him off to see a brain specialist. It s 
 a mania he s sufferin from, for no man in his 
 health would ever think he could sell twenty-six 
 hundred acres of this cut-over land," I says, ap 
 palled at the extent of Silas s hallucination. 
 
 "We must watch him," says Miller. "He may 
 
THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 13 
 
 turn violent any moment. These manias grow 
 on a man until he ain t any control over himself. 
 We must watch out for Silas," he says. 
 
 The next day Miller took me aside and told me 
 that Joe Whittaker had told him in confidence 
 that Silas had got an option out of him for his 
 farm. 
 
 "What did I tell you?" says Miller. "He s 
 mad, stark starin mad." 
 
 "That s it, Miller; his poor simple nature has 
 give way at last. Associating with multi-million 
 aire s was too much for him. I knew his brain 
 was thin in spots, and it s let him through at last. 
 That s over three thousand acres he s goin to 
 sell more land than s changed hands in the valley 
 in eighty years." 
 
 "Don t you think we d ought to get him com 
 mitted to an asylum right off, and not wait?" 
 says Miller, anxious. "I got a house full of chil 
 dren, and he s my nearest neighbor. I ve had 
 new strong locks put on my doors and windows, 
 and I ve told my wife if she ever hears Silas 
 give a whoop, not to wait for nothin , but to go 
 inside and lock all the doors." 
 
 Well, we kept on investigatin Silas, and we got 
 on the track of something like fifty thousand acres 
 of mountain land he was holdin on option! When 
 me and Miller footed it up, Miller turned white 
 as a sheet, and I felt sick all over. 
 
 "Poor, poor Silas!" I says. 
 
14 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Fifty thousand acres think of that!" gasps 
 Miller. "Why, you couldn t give it away in an 
 ordinary lifetime. There s never been any one 
 crazier than him, and here he is walkin the roads 
 without a keeper! It s awful!" The sweat was 
 pourin off Miller s face. "George," he says, "with 
 a madman like him, even a strong fellow like 
 you wouldn t be safe. They have awful unnatural 
 strength, these maniacs. Why, you d be a child in 
 his hands. I bet there ain t no twenty men in 
 the valley could handle him, thin and peaked as 
 he looks. George, it s awful; we re living over a 
 slumberin volcano." 
 
 "Poor Silas!" I says. "His mind s diseased, 
 all right." 
 
 But we could see plain that Silas had all that 
 terrible cunnin the mad has. He talked just as 
 rational and simple like he d always done. He 
 seemed still to have plenty of hen sense, which 
 was the only kind of sense we d ever credited him 
 with havin . Yet me and Miller was like men 
 setting over the crater of a volcano, if that s 
 where you set, which we was expectin any mo 
 ment to bust wide open. 
 
 Then one day a stranger drove into the valley. 
 He was a lightnin -rodder, and he came to me to 
 talk rods. I was cold on the proposition, but he 
 was a clever sociable chap, and one thing led to 
 another, and before long he says. 
 
 "You ve got a lovely valley; what s land worth 
 here?" 
 
THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 15 
 
 I told him all the way from two an acre for 
 stumpage up to thirty for the best valley farms. 
 He seemed to think them figures mighty reason 
 able, for he asked me if I had any broke land 
 that u d do to clear for sheep. The upshot of 
 it was that I told him about that six hundred 
 acres I d been tryln to sell for such a time, and 
 he made me an offer of two an acre cash out of 
 hand. I wanted to kick myself, for I remembered 
 that fool option I d give Silas. 
 
 "Wait," said Silas, when I d hunted him up and 
 explained matters. "Don t be too hasty." 
 
 "Hasty! I can t be half quick enough. I want 
 you to tear up that blame paper, and let me sell 
 my land now I got the chance, Silas." 
 
 He wouldn t do it. He said that wasn t enough 
 for the land, and that I mustn t think of sellin , 
 for he wouldn t agree to it. Stubborn? I never 
 knew he could be so downright mulish. Argu 
 ment and entreaty didn t budge him. 
 
 That same night down to the store Miller took 
 me aside. It seems the lightnin -rod man had 
 been soundin him. It really appeared he was 
 more anxious to buy land than he was to sell 
 rods. He d made Miller the same offer he d made 
 me, and Miller was crazy to sell. He said he 
 never expected to get so good an offer again, but 
 that fool paper of Silas s stood in the way, and 
 he couldn t do a thing with Silas. 
 
 "If I only hadn t taken his blame dollar, I d 
 tell him to whistle!" said Miller, groanin*. 
 
16 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Did that simple cuss give you a dollar, too?" 
 I says. 
 
 "Simple? Why, George, his option is almost 
 as good as a deed. It s a contract for sale, him 
 to fix the price at any figure he chooses to name 
 above two an acre. WVve accepted a considera 
 tion. I ain t sure he s so simple, after all." 
 
 "What can we do, Miller?" I asked. 
 
 "There s only one thing, George, that I know 
 of," says Miller. "We must get him adjudged 
 insane, and recover them options that way; and 
 we mustn t lose no time about it, either, or that 
 sucker will buy other land." 
 
 It looked like what Miller feared would hap 
 pen, for when the lightnin -rod man found he 
 couldn t do business with me or Miller, he went 
 to Whittaker. Naturally Whittaker was wild to 
 sell, but he was up against Silas. 
 
 The lightnin -rodder was a sport, all right. He 
 said he d always counted it a fair test of a man s 
 ability to sell rods, but he was findin there was 
 stifTer business propositions, and he couldn t afford 
 to let no transaction get the better of him. He 
 was goin* to squat right there and buy his sheep 
 farm if it took all summer. You see he had his 
 nerve with him. 
 
 And through all them days of stress, when it 
 looked like his neighbors might mob him any 
 minute, Silas preserved the even tenor of his 
 way, like the fellow says, mindin* his chickens, 
 
THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 17 
 
 and goin around serene and ca m, at perfect peace 
 with the world. 
 
 But of course things couldn t go on like that 
 long. Something had to be done. It was Miller 
 thought of what he had ought to do Miller and 
 his lightnin -rod man. They got up a petition and 
 sent it to Pendagrast. They reminded him how 
 friendly he d be n with Silas, and urged him to 
 join us in sendin our poor friend to a private 
 asylum for the insane, where he could have the 
 medical attention he was requirin so much, and 
 be restored to such hen sense as the Creator had 
 endowed him with in the beginnin . 
 
 It showed what a simple genuine soul Penda 
 grast was when inside of a week his big yellow 
 car came scootin into the valley and drawed ug 
 in front of Miller Brothers store. 
 
 "Where s my poor friend?" he says, after we 
 had shook hands all round. "Yes," he says, 
 wipin his eyes, "it s best I should take him where 
 he can be confined and have medical attention." 
 
 We sent for Silas. Say, it was touchin to see 
 them two meet and clasp hands, each lookin in- 
 nocenter and simpler than the other, and like 
 butter would keep indefinite in their mouths. 
 
 "Are you well, Silas?" asks Pendagrast, with 
 his arm thrown acrost Silas s shoulder. "And 
 how s Mrs. Quinby and her good doughnuts?" 
 smacking his lips. "And the chickens, and your 
 vegetable garden all doin nicely, I hope. Well, 
 
18 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 you must make up your mind to leave these 
 simple joys for a spell; I want you should visit 
 me in my city home. I ve come to fetch you 
 away." And he winks at Miller. 
 
 They d arranged the doctors was to be intro 
 duced to Silas there without his knowin who 
 they was, so as he wouldn t be on his guard. 
 You see we hadn t been able to do nothing with 
 old Doctor Smith, the valley physician; he said 
 Silas had just as many brains as he ever had, 
 and a heap more than the folks who had put their 
 land in his hands to sell. 
 
 But Silas said he couldn t leave home. He was 
 awful firm about stayin just where he was. He 
 couldn t think of moving. 
 
 "It s that dreadful cunnin insane folks have," 
 whispers Miller to me. "He s suspicious of his 
 best friend." 
 
 It was just beautiful the way Pendagrast talked 
 with Silas, humorin him like a little child, pleadin 
 with him to visit him in his city home, where 
 there d be prayer-meetin every Thursday night and 
 two regular services on Sunday. He held out 
 every inducement he could think of, but Silas was 
 as firm as he was gentle. It was plain he was set 
 against leavin the valley. Presently Pendagrast 
 took him by the arm and says: 
 
 "Gentlemen, I must go down and pay my re 
 spects to Mrs. Quinby, and beg one of those nice 
 doughnuts off n her. Me and my friend will return 
 soon, I hope, to say that he has reconsidered his 
 
THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 19 
 
 decision, and will go with me to pay me the visit 
 I want him to." And they locked arms and 
 walked off, two as simple-souled men as you d 
 wish to see. 
 
 We owe it to Mrs. Qtiinby for a knowledge of 
 what happened down to Silas s. She listened at 
 the keyhole after she d fed Pendagrast a plate of 
 doughnuts and some buttermilk. 
 
 "You re actin very wrong, Silas, to keep them 
 folks from sellin their land when they got the 
 chance," Pendagrast says, after a little friendly 
 talk. "Yes, Mr. Miller s told me all about it. 
 They are thinkin of havin you locked up in an 
 asylum somewheres, and you d better destroy 
 them papers. I doubt if they are legal " 
 
 "They re legal," says Silas, smilin his sweetest. 
 "I d stake my life on that." 
 
 "Have you ever thought of them poor fellows 
 and their bitter disappointment?" says Penda 
 grast, his voice tremblin . "Have you put your 
 self in their place, my friend? Have you applied 
 that great moral test to the situation? Before 
 we go any further, would you like to kneel down 
 beside me and say your prayers?" he says. "I 
 know the temptations of greed, that money s the 
 root of all evil. It can do no hurt/ he urged in 
 that gentle wiiiiiin voice of his. 
 
 And Mrs. Quinby, beyond the door, covered her 
 head with her apron, she was that moved by the 
 simple soul s eloquence. She missed Silas s an 
 swer, but she heard Pendagrast go on. 
 
20 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "I tremble for your safety here, Silas even 
 your temporal safety, my friend. Every man in 
 the valley s got land to sell, and now it looks like 
 their opportunity has come, and you re blockin 
 the deal. It s cruel of you, Silas," he says. "And 
 they re a rough lot rough, but gentle, and they 
 may do you bodily harm, like tarrin and feath- 
 erin you without meanin to. I can t bear to 
 think of that, Silas; it hurts me here," he said, 
 restin his hand on his wish-bone. "And you 
 can t pray, my friend. It s a bad sign, Silas, when 
 a man loses the power to pray; it shows he s 
 walked afar with false gods," he says. 
 
 "They don t know what s best for them," says 
 Silas. "I got a buyer for their land. It ll be 
 sold in good time " 
 
 "What !" gasps Pendagrast, turnin white. 
 
 "I say I ve found a purchaser for their land." 
 
 "Who, Silas?" says Pendagrast. 
 
 And Mrs. Quinby, watchin through the key 
 hole, seen that he spoke with effort. 
 
 "It s a group of capitalists in New York. All 
 I got to do is to wire em, and their representative 
 will be here on the first train to close the deal," 
 says Silas. 
 
 There was a silence, then Pendagrast says: 
 
 "Why didn t you let me know of your havin 
 this land to sell, my friend? Suppose we form 
 a partnership, Silas. We ll close your options 
 out at once at two an acre, and I ll personally 
 
THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 21 
 
 guarantee you your commission, which I under 
 stand is ten per cent. That ll be ten thousand 
 dollars for you." 
 
 "No," says Silas, "I must do better than two 
 dollars an acre. These folks are my neighbors. 
 I want to do the best I can by them." 
 
 "YouVe wrong there, Silas," says Pendagrast. 
 "Business is different from most other things, and 
 it s a good rule to think of yourself first." 
 
 "Mebby so," says Silas; "but it s foolish any 
 way you look at it to sell the best coal land in 
 the state for two an acre. And when you get 
 your railroad built along the line of that old sur 
 vey that was made twenty years ago, you ll need 
 the gap on the Whittaker place, or you can t 
 get your line acrost the mountains without goin 
 clean around," he says. 
 
 Mrs. Quinby said Pendagrast pretty near fell 
 off his chair, hearin this, he was that outdone. 
 Presently he commands himself so as he could 
 speak, and says, sighin deep : 
 
 "I see it s as Mr. Miller said it was, and as I 
 feared, but hoped it was not. There ain t no rail 
 road, and I never heard of no old survey nor 
 coal," he says. "My poor friend, I would gladly 
 have stood between you and your neighbors, but 
 I see now the law will have to deal with you, 
 and the sooner the better, so these poor folks 
 can sell their land and get their money." 
 
 "What law?" says Silas. 
 
22 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "A lunacy commission," says Pendagrast. 
 
 "Wait a bit," says Silas. "Do you remember 
 that roll of papers you lost on the mountain? 
 Well, I found it. I don t need to tell you it con 
 tained your plans and a copy of the old survey, 
 as well as the location of the coal that your engi 
 neers, who come here two years ago trout-fishin , 
 had checked up for you." 
 
 "Quinby," says Pendagrast, he was dealin 
 now, "I ll take them options off your hands and 
 give you a bonus of fifty thousand dollars; but 
 you must agree to keep still until after I ve dealt 
 with these folks " 
 
 "No," says Silas; "I m askin two hundred an 
 acre for the land." 
 
 Pendagrast groaned. 
 
 "Two hundred! Why, that s what it s worth!" 
 he says in a shocked tone. 
 
 "Of course," says Silas. "That s what I want 
 to get for these folks all their land s worth." 
 
 "But that ain t business," urges Pendagrast, 
 almost moved to tears. "Silas, my friend " he 
 began, conjurin back that old winnin smile. 
 
 But Silas shook his head. 
 
 "Two hundred, or I wire them New York par 
 ties I ve been dickerin with." 
 
 And Pendagrast seen that he was like adamant 
 like adamant covered up with cotton-batting. 
 
 "No," cries Pendagrast, "rather than have you 
 do that, I ll pay what the land s worth." 
 
THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 23 
 
 "Two hundred," says Silas, gentle but firm. 
 
 Mrs. Quinby, looking through the keyhole, says 
 she seen something like a mortal agony wrench 
 Pendagrast; then he groaned horrid, showin the 
 whites of his eyes, and says weak: 
 
 "Fetch pen and paper. It s highway robbery, 
 but I ll sign I got to," he says. 
 
 "I ve the papers ready for you," says Silas. 
 
 Pendagrast signed them, then he drawed him 
 self up. 
 
 "I shudder for your future, Quinby," he says. 
 "No, I won t shake hands with you; I don t feel 
 cordial." 
 
 And he groped his way out to where his big 
 tourin -car was drawed up under the maples. 
 
 And that was how Silas Quinby saved the valley; 
 folks something like ten million dollars just by 
 bein such a simple soul. 
 
 The lightnin -rod man? Oh, he was Penda- 
 grast s agent. 
 
THE BAD MAN OF LAS VEGAS 
 
 WHEN the Bad Man of Las Vegas left Bak 
 er s ranch, taking himself reluctantly from 
 the midst of the unrighteous revel that was being 
 held there, day was just breaking. 
 
 It was about mid-morning and the sun was high 
 in the heavens when his horse stepped gingerly 
 over the cactus bushes and into the well worn 
 trail that led down to Las Vegas. 
 . The Bad Man drew rein. He was having a mo 
 ment with his conscience; one of the consequences 
 of the early ride; or it may have been the unavoid 
 able aftermath of Baker s whisky, which had been 
 not only abundant but vile. 
 
 He recalled how he had come to Las Vegas, a 
 raw lad of twenty. He saw himself as he was 
 then, lank and wondering, with factory bleached 
 skin. He had come West to make his fortune. 
 When that was accomplished he was to return 
 and settle down in the old home where his godly 
 forefathers had dwelt since Pilgrim times, self- 
 respecting and respected. 
 
 Las Vegas had been notorious for its wicked 
 ness when he first drifted there. For a while he 
 had kept clear of it all, then the experience of a 
 single night had changed the whole after current 
 
 24 
 
THE BAD MAN OF LAS VEGAS 25 
 
 of his life. Entering one of the gambling hells in 
 search of a friend, he had found him at cards 
 with the bully of the place. He had tried to get 
 him from the room, there had been words, a 
 quarrel, and then all was a blank until he awoke 
 from the delirium of his fear and anger to find 
 himself in the center of the room, beneath the 
 flaring kerosene lamps, with the bully dead in the 
 shadow at his feet. 
 
 He lived the years swiftly after that, in a sort 
 of mad, blood-letting frenzy. Every man has 
 friends, and one killing involves other killings. 
 It was not enough that he had killed one bad 
 man; he must keep on killing bad men or else 
 fall himself. 
 
 He had preferred to keep on. He speedily ac 
 quired a fatal handiness with his weapons, in a 
 few months growing into the strong alert man 
 capable of holding his own against all comers. 
 
 He knew, though the change came slowly and 
 almost imperceptibly, that he was none the less 
 surely living toward that day when he would be 
 hunted out of Las Vegas; when the advancing 
 tide of civilization would touch and pause there, 
 and his career would culminate with one murder 
 too many. 
 
 He took off his hat to let the wind fan his 
 forehead. It was like the springs he had known 
 in the East. 
 
 He seemed to catch the odor of roses and 
 
26 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 honeysuckle he remembered his first and only 
 love. Their parting came back to him with vivid 
 minuteness of detail. It had all been infinitely 
 bitter to them, but he was going where a man had 
 a chance, and he would return. 
 
 He had scarcely thought of it in years, and now 
 there was only the scent of the flowers and her 
 face rising out of the gray plain before him. She 
 had done her part faithfully and then she had 
 married, to live her days amid the hard common- 
 placeness of the little eastern village where she 
 was born. 
 
 The Bad Man gathered up the reins, which had 
 fallen from his hand to the horn of the saddle, 
 and was about to apply the spur to his horse s 
 flank, when, glacing back over his shoulder, he 
 saw a wagon coming down the trail, the center 
 of a moving cloud of dust. Influenced by a sud 
 den impulse he could not explain, he permitted 
 the reins to fall slack again. 
 
 As the wagon came nearer he saw that it was 
 a homesteader s outfit drawn by a single horse 
 that was dark with sweat and dust and flecked 
 here and there with white splotches of foam. A 
 man was driving, and at his back a woman s face 
 was visible. 
 
 As the wagon drew up alongside of the Bad 
 Man the homesteader reined in his horse. Las 
 Vegas questionable hero spoke first. He merely 
 remarked that it was a fine day. The homesteader 
 
THE BAD MAN OF LAS VEGAS 27 
 
 inspected him narrowly before answering the 
 greeting, then he said and his tone was one of 
 surly reserve, while his manner was neither easy 
 nor gracious "It is a fine day." 
 
 He was a round-shouldered man of thirty-five 
 with a sallow unhealthy skin and a scanty ill-kept 
 beard. He had put aside his coat and wore only 
 a faded, much mended cotton shirt and overalls 
 once blue, but now showing white at the seams 
 tucked carelessly into the tops of heavy boots. 
 
 The woman peered out anxiously and fearfully 
 at the stranger. 
 
 The latter said by way of continuing the con 
 versation: 
 
 "Where are you bound for, pardner?" 
 
 "Sunken River Valley. Got a brother there," 
 was the gruff response. 
 
 The Bad Man looked him over carefully and 
 critically, then the wagon, and last of all the horse. 
 He noted that the wagon showed the effects of 
 the roads and a long journey. The jingle it sent 
 forth whenever the horse moved spoke eloquently 
 for repairs. The horse, however, though it had 
 been driven hard, was comparatively fresh and 
 able. The gentleman from Las Vegas lived in a 
 community where men were largely judged by 
 their horses, and he decided that the animal be 
 fore him was a recent purchase. 
 
 "Where are you from?" he asked, when done 
 with his scrutiny. 
 
28 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Western Kansas. It s a hell of a country. 
 Grasshoppers one year and no water the next. 
 About cleaned me out." Then he added surlily: 
 "If you are done looking me over, I guess I ll be 
 moving." 
 
 Meantime the woman had disappeared from 
 view, but she could be heard speaking to some 
 one inside the wagon. Then a child s voice, fret 
 ful and tired, answered hers. 
 
 The homesteader s manner, even more than his 
 words, was an affront to the Bad Man, who was 
 perhaps unduly sensitive in such matters. He 
 was debating whether he should not interpose, 
 some objections to his continuing on his road, 
 when the woman called out querulously: "Do 
 drive on, Joe. It seems as though we shall never 
 get there!" 
 
 The man saluted with his whip. "So long." 
 And the wagon with a creak and a rattle rolled 
 off, jangling as it went. 
 
 The Bad Man touched his horse with the spur. 
 "I m going your way," he said. 
 
 For a time they rode on in silence. Every now 
 and then the homesteader stole a glance of doubt 
 and mistrust at his insistent and evidently unwel 
 come companion. Clearly he was far from being 
 at ease. Finally he said: 
 
 "You weren t wanting to say anything in par 
 ticular to me, were you?" 
 
 The Bad Man regarded him with mild surprise. 
 "I reckon not," he answered. 
 
THE BAD MAN OF LAS VEGAS 29 
 
 "I didn t know. Only you seemed so all-fired 
 set on stickin close to me, that s all; I didn t mean 
 no offense." 
 
 There was a pause. The Bad Man turned the 
 matter slowly over in his wind. He had formed 
 a very unfavorable opinion of the homesteader, 
 and was wondering whether it was not a duty he 
 owed society to tell him so frankly. He allowed 
 a certain latitude because of the different sense 
 of humor different men have, but there was noth 
 ing funny about the homesteader. He was just 
 plain uncivil. 
 
 "Yes, sir-ee," said the homesteader, "western 
 Kansas is a hell of a place. It ain t worth the 
 powder it would take to blow it to blazes. I wish 
 I d never seen it. When I made up my mind to 
 come West, my wife sort of persuaded me to 
 stop there. She didn t want to go any farther. 
 Sort of wanted to keep somewhere near the folks 
 in old Vermont. Then she was taken sick; she 
 was ailing before we started West. Then our 
 two boys up and died, and now the young un s 
 down. It s mighty hard on her ma. I got a 
 brother in Sunken River Valley, and some of the 
 folks from back East moved out there while we 
 were in Kansas. My wife will be mighty well 
 satisfied when she gets among her own sort again. 
 Women get lonely so darn easy." 
 
 They could hear the mother singing softly to 
 the sick child. The Bad Man jerked his thumb 
 over his shoulder. 
 
30 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "What s the matter?" 
 
 "Fever," said the other laconically. 
 
 "So you are from Vermont?" 
 
 "Yes. Wish I was there now, you bet. It s 
 God s own country." 
 
 "What part of the state do you come from?" 
 
 "Central part. Barrettsville." 
 
 The Bad Man started violently, but recovered 
 himself on the instant. 
 
 "I suppose you are pretty well acquainted 
 there?" he asked, with studied indifference. 
 
 "I ought to be. Lived there most of my life." 
 
 "That s singular. I met a fellow from Vermont 
 just the other day, from Barrettsville, too." 
 
 "Lots of our folks have come \Yest. They re 
 scattered all over out here. Some of em are 
 doing mighty well, too." 
 
 "You didn t happen to know the Thomases, 
 did you?" with elaborate carelessness. 
 
 "Which?" 
 
 "I guess the man I am asking about had some 
 thing to do with the mills. There are mills there, 
 ain t there?" 
 
 "Well, I declare! That s funny!" and the home 
 steader laughed a mirthless cackle. "Should say 
 I did know the Thomases. My wife was a 
 Thomas old French Thomas daughter. But" 
 lowering his voice "the old man s been dead five 
 years come next May." 
 
 The Bad Man turned his face away. 
 
THE BAD MAN OF LAS VEGAS 31 
 
 So that was the woman he had loved! 
 
 There was silence again, undisturbed save for 
 the clatter of the horses hoofs and the rattle of 
 the wagon. The child was asleep, and its mother 
 no longer sang to it. 
 
 The homesteader thrust aside the flaps and 
 glanced in. The woman, with the child in her 
 arms, was seated on a mattress at the back of 
 the wagon, looking out at the long dusty streak 
 that wound over the range and lost itself in the 
 gray distance of the plain. 
 
 Craning his neck the Bad Man saw her, and 
 then as her husband dropped the flaps, he pulled 
 up his horse and drew in behind the wagon. The 
 woman raised her eyes. 
 
 "Is the little one asleep?" he asked, his voice 
 shaking with an awkward tenderness. 
 
 "Yes. She s just pining away for green fields 
 and trees." 
 
 He surveyed the woman before him with a 
 certain wonder. He would never have recognized 
 her, she was so changed, so altered from the like 
 ness he had carried in his heart; but now, know 
 ing who she w r as, he could trace where she had 
 fallen from that likeness. He was quite sure 
 she could not recognize him, for he had changed, 
 too, but in a different way. 
 
 "If he d drive slow r er, wouldn t it be easier 
 for her?" 
 
 The woman looked into his face in alarm. 
 
32 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 "We want to get there as quick as we can. 
 Seems as though we d never get there!" 
 
 "You can t make it to-day." 
 
 "My husband says he ll drive till he gets there 
 if it takes all night." 
 
 "There ll be a dead horse between the shafts if 
 he tries it," said the Bad Man in a tone of calm 
 conviction. 
 
 "The horse " and the woman stopped. 
 
 "I don t reckon he sets much value on the 
 brute from the way he drives." 
 
 The woman gazed fixedly into his face. "Did 
 he tell you?" she questioned in a frightened 
 whisper. 
 
 In a flash he realized what the trouble was. 
 
 "He shouldn t have done it," he said gravely. 
 
 "I know that," she answered breathlessly. "But 
 what could he do? Our own horse had died. We 
 had no money, and with the baby sick we just 
 couldn t stop! If he is found out, what then?" 
 
 The Bad Man shook his head dubiously. "I d 
 rather not say." 
 
 "Do they hang men for horse stealing?" 
 
 "They have," he answered shortly. 
 
 Further conversation was interrupted by the 
 sudden stopping of the wagon. 
 
 "Darnation! Which trail do I take?" 
 
 The Bad Man pointed to the right. 
 
 "There s your road. You ll find it plain 
 enough." 
 
THE BAD MAN OF LAS VEGAS 33 
 
 "Much obliged to you, stranger. I don t reckon 
 you re going over to Sunken River Valley your 
 self?" 
 
 "Hold on;" and a detaining hand was placed up 
 on the lines the homesteader held. "That s a 
 good horse you re driving, pardner, but if you 
 keep this pace you ll take only his hide and bones 
 into Sunken River Valley with you." 
 
 "I ve got to get there, horse or no horse," an 
 swered the man nervously. 
 
 "How d you like to trade? I ve taken a fancy 
 to that animal of yours, and if you re bent on 
 killing a horse I don t, know but I d rather have 
 you kill the one I m riding." 
 
 The homesteader leaped from his seat on the 
 instant. 
 
 "I ll do it!" Then he bethought him that per 
 haps some little display of reluctance might be 
 seemly and natural. ".Your horse is sound, of 
 course?" 
 
 "Sound as a dollar. Look it over if you don t 
 think so." 
 
 The woman came to the front of the wagon, 
 listening breathlessly. Now she put the flaps aside 
 and looked out. 
 
 Her husband turned to her. "We re going to 
 swap horses you don t care, do you?" 
 
 She tried to meet the glance of the Bad Man, 
 but could not. 
 
 "It s all right, wife?" 
 
34 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Yes," she answered in a low voice; "it s all 
 right." 
 
 The animal was already free from the shafts, 
 and at her word he led it out from between them. 
 The Bad Man threw himself astride the stolen 
 horse. 
 
 "I ll say good day to you, pardner and to 
 you" to the woman, and without a word more 
 he was galloping off down the trail toward Las 
 Vegas. 
 
 "I guess I was darn lucky to get rid of that 
 horse," the homesteader remarked, as he gazed 
 after the Bad Man. 
 
 The woman said nothing. She only wondered. 
 
/^v 
 
 MOLLIE DARLING 
 of the warm distance came the song: 
 
 "Do you love me, Mollie darling? 
 Say you love none else but me " 
 
 The man seated in the cabin door raised a bat 
 tered face and listened, as down the trail came 
 the singer and the song. 
 
 "Mollie, sweetest, fairest, dearest; 
 Look up, darling, tell me this. 
 Do you love me, Mollie darling? 
 Let your answer be a kiss!" 
 
 The dog at the man s feet cocked his head 
 knowingly on one side and seemed to listen, too. 
 The man addressed the dog. 
 
 "Duffer, that s a right sweet old song, ain t it? 
 a right plaintive air. When you re fifty odd, 
 Duffer, them old songs dig holes in your mem 
 ory." As he spoke he gently caressed the dog. 
 It was yellow and palpably of uncertain breed, 
 but just as palpably of distinguished social quali 
 ties. "Duffer, I ll bet you what you like he ain t 
 fifty, and that his Mollie s within safe walking 
 distance!" 
 
 35 
 
36 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 Around a turn in the trail, a winding path that 
 led up and up, and from behind a big boulder, 
 came the singer in blue work-stained overalls and 
 blouse. He swung a tin dinner pail with one 
 hand and his cap with the other. His years were 
 plainly a scanty half of fifty. Catching sight of 
 the man in the cabin door, he paused, while the 
 song died abruptly on his lips. 
 
 "Hullo!" he said. 
 
 "Evening," responded the man. Middle age 
 had put its stamp upon him; hard-lived years ap 
 parently, for he was lean and muscular, with the 
 brown skin of perpetual sunburn. A long scar 
 slashed the bridge of his beak-like nose and 
 halved a shaggy iron-gray eyebrow with a white 
 welt. The eye beneath was fixed and staring, 
 yet it served to mitigate and soften the somewhat 
 severe expression that lurked across the way, as 
 it were, on the other side of his face; for his good 
 eye was dark and piercing, and held a deep spark. 
 
 Duffer, wagging his tail, investigated the new 
 comer. He sniffed at the blue overalls that kept 
 the rancid odor of smoke and oil and machinery. 
 The young man clapped his cap on his thick mop 
 of black curls, opened his dinner pail and found 
 a crust. 
 
 "Think he d like this?" he asked of the dog s mas 
 ter, who nodded. Duffer made short work of the 
 crust, and then, wise and inquiring, nosed the 
 bottom of the dinner pail. 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 37 
 
 "What do you call this place?" inquired the 
 elder man. There were sixteen houses on the 
 bench below. 
 
 "Sunset, Sunset Limited, some of us calls it. 
 Say, Alvarado s knocked the spots out of us, so s 
 Last Pan, so s Buffalo Bend. Sunset Limited, 
 yes, sir, and that ain t no joke either!" 
 
 "Quiet?" 
 
 "You can hear a pin drop during rush hours. 
 This is one of the rush hours, me going home to 
 supper. That gives you the dimensions of the 
 rush." The young man laughed pleasantly. "My 
 name s Johnny Severance," he added, by way of 
 introduction. 
 
 "Mine s Brown." 
 
 "Huh," said Johnny. "That s Brown s Peak 
 you re looking at. Brown was an old-time scout; 
 he stood off a bunch of Apaches here way back 
 in the early days. They named the mountain 
 after him." 
 
 "You ll always meet plenty of Browns wher 
 ever you go," said the owner of that name, in 
 impartial judgment of its merits. 
 
 "It is awful common," agreed Johnny. "You 
 prospecting?" 
 
 Brown shook his head. 
 
 "Health, mebby?" 
 
 But Brown s appearance was strongly against 
 this supposition. "I don t want no more health 
 than I got," he said. 
 
38 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 ".Well, you do look hearty," admitted Johnny. 
 "But every now and then they blow in here for 
 their health. That was the way with the last 
 fellow who had this cabin. He croaked." And 
 young Mr. Severance sank his voice in decent rec 
 ognition of the universal tragedy. He continued: 
 "I m keeping the pumps up at the Red Bird suck 
 ing. The stockholders are suffering from cold 
 feet. Well, so long, Mr. Brown!" and he moved 
 off in the direction of the sixteen houses that 
 constituted Sunset. 
 
 He passed fifteen of these houses, whose back 
 doors looked boldly out across an arid valley to 
 a distant line of jagged peaks that saw-toothed 
 the horizon under flaming bands of color. No 
 one of the fifteen but breathed an air of dilapida 
 tion and neglect, for they sepulchered dead hopes. 
 The sixteenth was in pleasing contrast; it was 
 newly painted and two stories high. A sign an 
 nounced this the Mountain House, M. Ferguson, 
 Proprietor. 
 
 Johnny passed about a corner of the Moun 
 tain House and paused beside the kitchen door, 
 where there was a barrel, a bench, a tin basin, 
 a roller towel, a cake of soap and a sixty-mile 
 view set under the splendid arch of the heavens. 
 He filled the basin at the barrel, tossed aside his 
 blouse, and began the removal of such evidences 
 of honest toil as he had brought away from the 
 Red Bird. 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 39 
 
 A window overlooked the bench, and he was 
 presently aware that a slender bit of a girl was 
 gazing down on him with serious blue eyes and 
 smiling warm red lips; a fresh color the mountain 
 wind had blown there was in her soft round 
 cheeks, which held a dimple that came and went 
 tantalizingly, and her hair curled in golden dis 
 array about her pretty face. Johnny stared up 
 at her through a mist compounded of soap and 
 water. 
 
 "My eyes are chuck-full of suds, but I can see 
 good enough to know you re the sweetest thing 
 that ever was, Mollie, honest you are!" he said. 
 
 The girl laughed, disclosing a row of white 
 even teeth. 
 
 "Well, will you just get on to them dimples!" 
 cried Johnny. 
 
 "Now, Johnny, honest?" 
 
 "Honest, what?" 
 
 "The sweetest thing " 
 
 "Wish I may die if you ain t !" said Johnny fer 
 vently. 
 
 He made great haste with the towel, then he 
 stepped close to the window. His mop of black 
 curls was raised toward the yellow head, there 
 was a soft sound and Mr. Severance seemed 
 greatly cheered and refreshed by something. 
 
 "Mollie, you got the sweetest lips to kiss, 
 honest you have," he said. 
 
 The girl laughed shyly. 
 
40 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 "You always say that." 
 
 "You want I should aways tell you the truth, 
 don t you?" he demanded, his arm about her 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Can t you say something different?" asked 
 Mollie, puckering her brows and then dimpling 
 at him. 
 
 "What s the use of trying? You bet you I 
 don t want to think no different," and Johnny 
 looked at her with adoring eyes, their faces very 
 close together. Finally he released her. "Any 
 news, Mollie?" he asked. 
 
 "The gentleman that s bought the Pay Streak 
 over at Alvarado was here for lunch. He come 
 in a big touring-car with his wife and baby, and 
 its nurse. They seemed awful nice people, John- 
 ny." 
 
 "I wish I had his bank roll. They say he s a 
 millionaire all right," said Johnny. 
 
 "Mollie !" a voice called from within, and 
 Mollie said hastily as she turned away: 
 
 "Supper s on the table; you can come in when 
 you get ready." 
 
 M. Ferguson was another Mollie, the younger 
 Mollie s aunt. Years before while Sunset was 
 still a prosperous mining camp, she had come 
 West to make her home with her brother and 
 to take charge of his motherless child. The 
 brother had died in that evil time when the bot 
 tom was dropping out of Sunset. She had given 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 41 
 
 the best years of her life to her niece; single- 
 handed she had fought a long fight with adverse 
 circumstances and had won a modest victory. 
 Now one can not live an utterly self-sacrificing 
 life to no purpose, so Miss Mollie had a certain 
 sweet dignity that came of much goodness, and 
 a soul at peace with itself. 
 
 The Mountain House was a part of the niece s 
 heritage. It was kept alive by chance tourists. 
 Johnny was the regular, the star boarder, and 
 frequently the only one, and at all times so much 
 at home that he usually wiped the supper dishes. 
 Mollie washed them. Johnny was the trusted 
 man up at the Red Bird, the very right hand of 
 a soulless corporation whose only symptoms of 
 life were in its feet and even they were undeniably 
 cold. He pulled down seventy dollars a month 
 just as easy! With all this wealth pouring in up 
 on him every thirty days, with money saved, too, 
 and Mollie flitting in and out of those big bare 
 rooms at the Mountain House, why, no wonder 
 he was intent on matrimony! 
 
 That night after the dishes had been duly 
 washed and as duly dried in the intervals between 
 sundry breathless moments when Johnny s black 
 curls and Mollie s golden head were very close 
 together, they strolled out upon what had once 
 been Sunset s long main street, past the houses 
 that still fronted it and up the trail toward the 
 Red Bird. 
 
42 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 Miss Mollie sat in the doorway of the Moun 
 tain House in the warm twilight and watched 
 them as they went slowly forward arm in arm. 
 They brought back the sentiment of youth, and 
 she shared vicariously in its romance. Yet there 
 was a heartache scarcely stilled in the realization 
 that the imperceptible gradations of time had 
 swept her away from the morning world in which 
 youth dwells; that for her, beginning to be vis 
 ible down the pathway of the years, were the si 
 lences the solitudes that she must before long enter 
 alone. 
 
 The twilight deepened. The last vestige of 
 color faded from the sky. The white cap of 
 Brown s Peak sank into the gloom, merged with 
 the blue of the heavens and was lost to sight. 
 There was a footfall on the path as a tall shadow 
 detached itself from the night, and Mr. Brown, 
 with his dog Duffer at his heels, paused on the 
 step. Seeing a woman in the doorway of the 
 lighted office, he removed his hat. 
 
 "Evening," he said. 
 
 "Won t you step in?" asked Miss Mollie, slip 
 ping aside her chair which blocked the entrance. 
 "I guess you re Mr. Brown Johnny was telling 
 us about at supper?" she added. 
 
 "Yes, ma am." Mr. Brown looked severe and 
 even purposeful, but his voice held a shy defer 
 ential note. 
 
 "He s not used to women," thought Miss Mol 
 lie. 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 43 
 
 From under the flapping brim of his hat Brown 
 stole a covert glance in her direction. She was 
 very good to look at, he decided, with her soft 
 brown hair drawn smoothly back from her comely 
 face, and her dark eyes that held just the hint 
 of a sorrow lightly borne. 
 
 Subsequently he negotiated for one meal a day 
 at the Mountain House. He elected that this 
 meal should be supper, because he would then 
 have the moral support of Mr. Severance s pres 
 ence. 
 
 When he had tested it he found that Sunset 
 yielded a superior article of peace. Save for 
 Johnny, who passed his cabin twice a day, he was 
 undisturbed. Usually it was Johnny s morning 
 song that brought him awake, Johnny on his 
 way toward the gaping hole at the timber line 
 with Mollie s farewell kiss sweet upon his lips. 
 Yet Mr. Brown did not succumb to the charms of 
 Sunset without a struggle. He told Duffer each 
 morning: 
 
 "I guess we ll pull out of here to-morrow, old 
 sport!" 
 
 But the to-morrows became a respectable divi 
 sion of time, and presently as a concession to 
 some inherent love of accuracy Mr. Brown 
 changed his formula. 
 
 "I guess we ll be leaving here along about day 
 after to-morrow!" 
 
 But the days after to-morrow went to join the 
 to-morrows, and Brown still lingered in Sunset. 
 
44 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 Into this Eden, like another serpent, came Mr. 
 Bunny, his hair slicked low across his forehead 
 and tastefully roached back over one ear. He 
 breathed an air of profound sophistication. John 
 ny and he met at the bench by the kitchen door 
 where Mr. Bunny was bestowing certain deft 
 touches to his toilet. 
 
 "Say, pardner, this million-dollar palace hotel 
 seems to be mainly in the hands of the suffra 
 gettes, don t it?" he remarked. 
 
 Johnny surveyed him without favor. 
 
 "Huh!" he said, and scooped up a basin of 
 water from the barrel. Mr. Bunny, not easily 
 discouraged, waited. 
 
 "What s your name, pardner?" he presently 
 asked. 
 
 "Severance," said Johnny shortly. 
 
 "Say, I knowed a fellow of that name in the 
 Klondike, I m a liar if I didn t. He was a card- 
 player. We was awful intimate " 
 
 "Huh!" said Johnny again. He was not im 
 pressed with Mr. Bunny nor Mr. Bunny s friend. 
 
 Mollie appeared at the window, but catching 
 sight of Mr. Bunny she vanished into the inner 
 regions of the Mountain House. 
 
 "Mama! mama! what was that?" cried Mr. 
 Bunny softly, in admiration. 
 
 "Look here !" said Johnny, wheeling on him. 
 "You cut that out!" 
 
 "It s the climate, pardner. These here high 
 altitudes braces a man up most amazin " 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 45 
 
 "The climate s all right, but you can get just 
 as rank here as anywhere else," warned Johnny. 
 Mr. Bunny gave him a sidelong glance. Johnny 
 completed his toilet in silence. 
 
 "Going in to supper now, Mr. Severance?" 
 asked Mr. Bunny affably. 
 
 Johnny nodded, led the way around the build 
 ing, in through the office, and on into the dining- 
 room where sat Miss Mollie, inoffensive Mr. 
 Brown and Mollie at supper. He presented Mr. 
 Bunny with no little formality. 
 
 Mr. Bunny s company manners immediately de 
 veloped one striking merit. They seemed to 
 afford their fortunate possessor the greatest pos 
 sible satisfaction and confidence. Also when you 
 tapped Mr. Bunny you tapped an unfailing spring. 
 Moreover he had a generous and withal a 
 thoughtful nature, had Mr. Bunny, especially was it 
 thoughtful. 
 
 "Miss Ferguson will try them pickles, Mr. Sev 
 erance. Just chase the butter down this way, Mr. 
 Brown, Miss Mollie s aimin her eye at it. Mr. 
 Severance, low me to shoot a slice of bread on to 
 your plate . . ." This and much more of a sim 
 ilar character in the interval of agreeable and 
 easy conversation, the burden of which Mr. Bunny 
 lightly sustained. And while he talked, his small 
 wicked eyes, close-set under their low brows and 
 of an indeterminable color, slid around in a fur 
 tive circle. They took in everything, but they 
 came back and back to Mollie. 
 
46 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Say, Denver, Albuquerque, Dawson, Frisco, 
 I ve seen em all; and say, I ve seen a lot of life, 
 too, and me only twenty-five. How many fel 
 lows do you reckon have been about as much as 
 me? But I m giving it to you straight when I 
 say it s good to hit a place like this where you 
 feel at home, and where you can wash out of a 
 tin basin at the back door like you done at moth 
 er s!" 
 
 Johnny listened abashed to Mr. Bunny s easy 
 flow of words. It might have occurred to him 
 that this fascinating stranger never spoke of any 
 body but himself; that his own moods, emotions, 
 ambitions, thoughts so called, occupied him en 
 tirely and to the exclusion of all else, for he 
 moved in a world of men rock walled by his own 
 towering egotism. It was wasted labor to try 
 to change the drift of the conversation. What 
 ever was said instantly reminded Mr. Bunny of 
 himself. At the most, one merely opened up 
 fresh and inviting fields for him to enter and 
 claim his place in the foreground. 
 
 After supper he cornered quiet Mr. Brown in 
 the office. That gentleman s bad eye had attract 
 ed his attention, and he seized the first oppor 
 tunity to ask Brown how he came by that scar, 
 thus artfully framing a question that covered the 
 eye as well. 
 
 "Knife slipped while I was picking my teeth," 
 said Brown, regarding him malevolently. 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 47 
 
 "Say, I thought you might have bit yourself 
 accidental," responded Mr. Bunny. 
 
 In the kitchen Johnny was talking earnestly 
 with Mollie, as they washed and dried the sup 
 per dishes. 
 
 "Don t you have nothing to do with that fal 
 low, Mollie " 
 
 "Why, Johnny?" 
 
 "Well, mainly because he s no good. He s the 
 rankest proposition I even stacked up against, 
 and I ve seen em as rank as they make em." 
 
 Mollie puckered her brows thoughtfully. She 
 was fond of Johnny and they were engaged, but 
 all the same she had the very human quality of 
 disliking orders, and Johnny s voice smacked of 
 command. 
 
 "I thought he was entertaining, and that he had 
 nice table manners," she said. 
 
 "Well, I didn t notice em if he had. I hate 
 these smart geezers!" 
 
 "He was awful polite, Johnny." She wished 
 Johnny to be fair to the stranger; at the same 
 time she felt affronted by his foolish jealousy. 
 
 "Fresh," said Johnny, "if you call that being 
 polite." 
 
 No more was said then, but somehow when 
 they walked up the trail there was this between 
 them, and they walked farther apart than usual. 
 They were silent, too, a good deal of the time. 
 Moreover it was a short walk; but before they 
 
48 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 reached the hotel Johnny had returned to the 
 vexed subject of Mr. Bunny and the treatment 
 Mollie was to accord him. 
 
 "Mollie, you are not going to talk to that fel 
 low any more, are you?" 
 
 "Certainly I shall talk to him. I am not going 
 to be impolite just because you are," rejoined 
 Mollie, with a little toss of her head. 
 
 Johnny flushed hotly, then the color faded from 
 his face. 
 
 "All right then, if you d rather talk to him than 
 me, you can, but I won t be here to listen to it 
 I can tell you that!" 
 
 They had reached the door by this time, and 
 Mollie, holding her chin very high, said coldly: 
 
 "Good night, Mr. Severance, I think I must 
 go in. Thank you for your company." 
 
 Johnny gasped, then he said politely: 
 
 "Good night, Miss Ferguson," and turned 
 away, while Mollie went up to her room with 
 burning cheeks and smarting eyes. 
 
 But it was not until she was safe in bed that 
 she shed a few surreptitious tears. 
 
 "He might have known . . . that I care more 
 for his little ringer than for all the Mr. Bunnys 
 in the world!" she whispered tremulously to her 
 self under cover of the friendly darkness. 
 
 Mr. Bunny, for reasons of his own, remained in 
 Sunset. He discovered that M. Ferguson desired 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 49 
 
 to introduce water on her premises. She designed 
 to have flowers, a kitchen garden and grass. This 
 involved a half-mile of ditch. He let it be known 
 that for a proper consideration he might be in 
 duced to betake himself to ditching, though he 
 also let it be known that this was a pursuit he 
 should never look back upon with any feeling 
 even remotely approaching pride. He further 
 gave M. Ferguson to understand that he had re 
 cently lifted a mortgage on his widowed mother s 
 quarter-section back in Nebraska. This had taken 
 his last cent. He drove a much better bargain 
 in consequence, did artless Mr. Bunny. 
 
 To Johnny he had already explained that he 
 had impoverished himself in Albuquerque; his at 
 tentions to a handsome brunette having been the 
 immediate cause of his financial undoing. Later 
 she had proved unworthy of his generosity. He 
 was hitting the high places now mainly because 
 of the throw-down she had given him. He indi 
 cated that this throw-down had been cruel and 
 perfidious beyond words. Brown had heard the 
 same story from Mr. Bunny s own authentic lips, 
 but in his case Mr. Bunny had added : 
 
 "Say, I put my coin on the black. You watch 
 me make my next play on the red. That ought 
 to fetch a change of luck." 
 
 Then one morning Johnny s song failed to rouse 
 Mr. Brown, but its very absence at the accus 
 tomed hour brought him wide awake. He heard 
 
50 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 Johnny s step on the path, and looking from his 
 window saw Johnny go by, his curly head bowed 
 and his shoulders rounded. 
 
 Mr. Brown sat in his cabin door and considered 
 the situation over his morning pipe. Subsequently 
 he sought out Mr. Bunny, peacefully ditching, gun 
 on hip. Not that Mr. Bunny was actually ditch 
 ing; truth compels the statement that he was 
 seated on a flat rock with his spade within easy 
 reach. Mr. Brown addressed the ditcher: 
 
 "Ain t you rinding this a mighty sedentary 
 job?" he asked. 
 
 "Shucks! I ve made big money in my time, 
 ten a day in the Klondike tending bar " 
 
 "What you getting here?" 
 
 "A dollar fifty, and my board," said Mr. Bunny 
 sheepishly. 
 
 "Why, she s doing you ain t she?" cried Brown. 
 "Robbing you right along! No wonder you re 
 warming them rocks. A dollar fifty to a high- 
 priced man like you hardly pays for the trouble 
 of drawing your wages!" 
 
 Mr. Bunny looked off, got up, dug his spade 
 disconsolately into the bank, threw a couple of 
 shovelfuls from him with disdain; and sat down 
 once more. Brown regarded him earnestly. 
 
 "And your mother back in Nebraska on that 
 quarter-section, like I heard you tellin Miss Fer 
 guson at supper last night, looking anxious to 
 you to remit . . . and that handsome brunette 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 51 
 
 down in Albuquerque that cost you such a pot of 
 money. . . . Say, Mr. Bunny, you got to do some 
 mighty close figurin , ain t you, to make both ends 
 meet?" 
 
 "Just between ourselves, Brown, you can cut 
 out the mother, but I was giving it to you 
 straight about the other." 
 
 "Well, I see you got all the feelings of a high- 
 priced man; it naturally fusses you to think how 
 Miss Ferguson s taken advantage of you. Dollar 
 fifty, why, that ain t whisky money for an am 
 bitious fellow like you." 
 
 "You re right, it ain t," said Mr. Bunny, shak 
 ing his head ominously. "I m going to pull out 
 of here soon. Say, Brown, " he continued con 
 fidentially, "I could take her away from him " 
 and he nodded in the direction of the Mountain 
 House. Mr. Brown understood he was referring 
 to Mollie now. "Just as easy as nothing. All I 
 got to do is just to crook my finger at her, 
 see?" said Mr. Bunny. "But pshaw! I don t 
 marry. They none of em ketch me. I ll have 
 my fun with a fair-looker, spend my money on 
 her. but there ain t an ounce of matrimony in my 
 system." And into Brown s ears he poured a 
 tale of triumphant sin, giving Mr. Brown to un 
 derstand that he, Bunny, was a bee among the 
 flowers. 
 
 Brown was viewing the gun on Bunny s manly 
 hip with a wistful eye. It had been years since 
 
52 THE HAND OF. THE MIGHTY 
 
 he had renounced such vanities. Bunny leaned 
 over to pick up a stone. 
 
 "Say, what in blazes you up to?" he cried, 
 for Brown had deftly slipped the gun from its 
 holster. He fell back a step and gave Bunny the 
 benefit of his good eye. Mr. Bunny was instantly 
 conscious of a cold feeling at the pit of his 
 stomach. "Say, you give me back my gun!" 
 And he began to bluster. 
 
 "Forget it!" said Mr. Brown softly. "If a man 
 took that trail and kept moving, he d be in Alva- 
 rado by to-morrow night " 
 
 "Give me back my gun, Mr. Brown " 
 
 "I never did believe in these here private irri 
 gation projects," said Brown. "And I don t be 
 lieve you re the man to put this one through." 
 He drew back the hammer of the gun. 
 
 "Say it s loaded, Mr. Brown " cried Bunny. 
 "Look out!" 
 
 "Of course it s loaded. I wouldn t insult you 
 by thinking you packed an empty gun. You keep 
 moving at a reasonable rate of speed and you 
 can be counting the lamp-posts in Alvarado to 
 morrow night, seven on Main Street, and four 
 on Prairie Avenue. You re wasting your time 
 here. . . . No, you don t need to go down to 
 the Mountain House you can start here!" 
 
 "Say, she s owing me money, Mr. Brown. A 
 man wants what he s earned, don t he?" said 
 Bunny meekly, but disposed to raise an issue. 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 53 
 
 "Of course he does, but he don t want what 
 he ain t earned." Brown looked at him with 
 weary petulance. "Ain t you open to a hunch?" 
 The muzzle of the gun menaced Bunny, who fell 
 back a step in consternation, ducked, turned and 
 fled shamelessly. 
 
 Brown returned to his cabin feeling that he had 
 permanently eliminated the fascinating Mr. Bun 
 ny, and evidences of a certain austere pleasure 
 radiated from his damaged features. But though 
 the hour arrived when Johnny Severance should 
 have come striding down the path from the Red 
 Bird, head thrown back and shoulders squared as 
 he swung his cap and dinner pail, it brought no 
 Johnny; and Brown, disturbed and wondering, set 
 out alone for the straggle of buildings on the 
 bench. 
 
 He found two anxious-faced women at the 
 Mountain House; the eyes of each were red from 
 much weeping, and he surmised that there had 
 been a crisis that his well-intentioned interfer 
 ence had been too long delayed and he suffered 
 a moment of intense humiliation. He had figured 
 creditably in more than one strenuous human 
 drama, but never before had he to reproach him 
 self with being dilatory. It gave him a unique 
 sensation. 
 
 Supper was eaten in dreary silence. At first 
 Miss Mollie had attempted to talk to her guest, 
 but her voice was forced and unnatural and now 
 
54 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 and again trailed off into what sounded very like 
 a sob, while Mollie s big blue eyes were misted 
 lakes of sorrow. In the presence of their grief 
 Brown was stricken into speechless shyness. He 
 felt that the feminine soul was a curious and an 
 awesome thing; he stood close to it with trepida 
 tion. But he did not lack a certain deep integrity, 
 he would see this thing through to a finish. 
 
 After supper he hung around the office, where 
 presently Miss Mollie joined him. He sensed it 
 that his hostess was only anxious to have him 
 go, yet he lingered, perturbed and ill at ease. At 
 last he cleared his throat. 
 
 "I don t see nothing of Mr. Severance," he re 
 marked with diffidence, as one who had encroach 
 ed on a forbidden subject. 
 
 The tears swiftly gathered in Miss Mollie s soft 
 brown eyes. 
 
 "I m afraid he s gone," she said. 
 
 There was a pause. Brown followed a crack 
 in the floor from the desk to the wall opposite 
 and back again with his embarrassed glance. 
 
 "Anything happened?" he at length asked, and 
 the very bluntness of his query threw him into a 
 state of intense and painful confusion, but he 
 gripped himself hard and went on. "She" he 
 jerked his thumb in the direction of the dining- 
 room where Mollie could be heard clearing away 
 the supper dishes "she s feeling pretty bad," he 
 hazarded, and once more was stricken dumb. 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 55 
 
 "Yes, she s feeling awful bad, Mr. Brown. 
 Johnny s gone. He sent down word a good-by 
 from the Red Bird this afternoon, and said he 
 was going." 
 
 Brown considered. 
 
 "He should be fetched back," he presently ob 
 served with conviction. 
 
 "Where is Mr. Bunny?" asked Miss Mollie, and 
 her tone betrayed anxiety. 
 
 Brown flushed under his sunburn. 
 
 "He s left Sunset. He went sudden." 
 
 "Did they did he and Johnny meet? was 
 there trouble?" began Miss Mollie. 
 
 "No, ma am. Bunny had his reasons for going. 
 They looked good to him and nothing was hold 
 ing him, so he just went. I seen him when he 
 went. It looked like it come over him all at once 
 that he had ought to go," explained Mr. Brown 
 considerately and at length. 
 
 "I am so glad! I was afraid that perhaps they 
 had met." 
 
 "Where s Johnny gone?" inquired Brown. 
 
 "We think to Alvarado." 
 
 Mollie had appeared in the dining-room door 
 way and was listening, but Brown s back was 
 turned toward her. 
 
 "What s to hinder my going there after him?" 
 asked Brown. "I can produce an argument he ll 
 listen to." Unconsciously his hand rested on Mr. 
 Bunny s gun. 
 
56 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "It s awful kind of you to suggest it, but per 
 haps you shouldn t go; it may make trouble for 
 you," said Miss Mollie. It was the habit of a 
 lifetime with her to think of others. 
 
 "You re a good kind man!" cried Mollie fer 
 vently through her tears, advancing. "You tell 
 him that I just hate and despise that Bunny. . . . 
 I didn t mean anything I said. . . . I m sorry 
 sorry!" She seized one of his hands in both of 
 hers. "Oh, he must come back! tell him to come 
 back, Mr. Brown " 
 
 "I m aimin to tell him just that, and he ll 
 come back all right," Brown assured her. 
 
 "Do you think he will? do you ... do you?" 
 
 "I was never surer of anything in my life." 
 
 Mollie relinquished his hand, and throwing her 
 arms about his neck, kissed him. An instant later 
 and she had buried her face on his shoulder and 
 was sobbing aloud. 
 
 Mr. Brown s unhandsome face flushed scarlet. 
 Never in all his varied experience had he known 
 anything like this. Then his face grew white, 
 and he shook as he had never shaken in the pres 
 ence of danger, violence, or the risk of sudden 
 death. 
 
 Johnny Severance had quitted the Red Bird and 
 turned his face in the direction of Alvarado. Two 
 years of perfect happiness had vanished in the 
 cataclysm that had overwhelmed him and Mollie. 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 57 
 
 A sudden mist swam before his eyes. Well, she 
 hadn t treated him right, but he hoped she would 
 find peace, he was man enough to wish no less. 
 He must shape his own future out of the wreck 
 she had made; though this didn t matter greatly, 
 since he was sure life held nothing for him, in 
 deed, he rather gloated in the thought of an ex 
 istence, bleak, purposeless and incomparably lone 
 ly, and again the mist seemed to burn his very; 
 eyeballs, while it sent the gray valley and the line 
 of purple peaks deep into the distance. 
 
 He kept the trail for Alvarado all that day and 
 at nightfall went into camp. Necessity now drove 
 him to the lunch he had brought away from the 
 Red Bird. He choked over each mouthful, for 
 Mollie s small deft hands had been busy here. 
 He reflected bitterly that never again was this 
 to be. 
 
 "It ll be up to some chuck-house cook to fill 
 my dinner pail!" he murmured sadly. With the 
 final mouthful he felt that he had destroyed the 
 last link that bound him to the past. 
 
 Morning found him sorely tempted to pocket 
 his pride and go back, back to Mollie, his pumps 
 at the Red Bird and the Mountain House; but 
 he sternly repressed this ignoble weakness. No, 
 sir! She had cast him off. Yet he sat a long 
 time with his head bowed in his hands and watch 
 ed the light flood the valley. Then again he took 
 the trail. His steps lagged. Not that he was 
 
58 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 tired, but the cataclysm was somehow seeming 
 less complete than it had seemed the day before. 
 
 He went forward, steadily resolute, with his 
 chin sunk on his breast and his glance lowered. 
 Suddenly he became aware that some one was 
 coming along the trail toward him and looked 
 to find himself face to face with Mr. Bunny. 
 There was a strained moment, then Bunny, eying 
 him askance, put out his hand. 
 
 "Why, how are you, pardner?" he said. Johnny 
 ignored the hand. "Say, what s your grouch?" 
 inquired Mr. Bunny in a tone of affected aston 
 ishment. Johnny gave him a look of scorn. "Oh, 
 that, well, see here, Mr. Severance, I ain t no 
 plaster saint, but say, I m on the level. Yes, sir, 
 I didn t interfere none between you and your 
 girl " 
 
 "Who said you did?" demanded Johnny, angry 
 with himself for allowing such a thought to gain 
 a place in Mr. Bunny s mind. 
 
 "Then why don t you shake hands?" 
 
 "I m willing enough to shake hands," responded 
 Johnny sourly. 
 
 "You didn t look like you was," said Bunny. 
 There was a moment s silence. Mr. Bunny s orig 
 inal idea had been that Johnny had followed him 
 with sinister intent; since this was evidently not 
 the case, what was he doing here? While he was 
 debating this point, a somewhat similar problem 
 was occupying Johnny. He had supposed Bunny 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 59 
 
 still at Sunset. "It s mighty agreeable to meet 
 old friends, ain t it, Mr. Severance? You going 
 on to Alvarado?" 
 
 Johnny signified that this was not unlikely. 
 
 "Say, when did you leave Sunset, pardner?" 
 continued Bunny. 
 
 "Yesterday," said Johnny briefly. 
 
 "Say, if we d knowed what was in each other s 
 minds we might have come away together," ob 
 served Bunny. 
 
 "You going on to Alvarado?" inquired Johnny. 
 
 "Not immediate," said Bunny hastily. "Yes 
 terday I run into a old friend who s been doing 
 a bit of prospecting. He s pulled down a grub 
 stake. Say, I m considering a proposition he s 
 made me. He s back yonder a spell." And Bunny 
 nodded indefinitely. 
 
 "Well, so long!" said Johnny. 
 
 "So long, pardner," responded Bunny. They 
 shook hands and separated. 
 
 Mr. Bunny passed back along the trail and was 
 presently lost to sight behind a gray fold of the 
 hills. Johnny found a convenient boulder and sat 
 down to consider this meeting from every point 
 of view. 
 
 "I reckon he lied about that grub-stake, I 
 reckon he s going back to Sunset!" was his defi 
 nite conclusion. "Honest, he s the most ambitious 
 liar I ever listened to!" 
 
 He quitted his boulder and went forward, but 
 
60 THE HAND OK THE MIGHTY 
 
 very slowly now. Memories of Sunset, memories 
 of Mollie, were tugging at his heart-strings. All 
 at once, breaking in upon the silence in which 
 he moved, he heard his name called, and turning, 
 was again gladdened by the sight of Mr. Bunny, 
 who was coming along the trail at a brisk run. 
 
 Say, pardner," he panted, when he had gained 
 a place at Johnny s side, "would you be willing to 
 help a fellow creature in distress? Oh, not me, 
 a fellow named Graham; a intimate friend of 
 mine, and a fellow in the hardest sort of luck. 
 It d make a wooden Indian shed tears to hear 
 his hard-luck story; and he s met with a accident. 
 Say, you re a western man, I reckon you 
 wouldn t turn your back on no fellow being in 
 real eighteen-carat distress the way Bob Graham is!" 
 
 "What s the matter of him?" asked Johnny, 
 with a striking lack of interest. 
 
 "One thing, he s got a hurt leg; spraint it on 
 these here rocks and he s sufferin something aw 
 ful. But what he s sufferin in his spraint leg 
 ain t a circumstance to what he s sufferin in his 
 mind. You bet you, that s what gets a fellow 
 every time ! I know, cause I know what I went 
 through with when that brunette throwed me 
 down in Albuquerque after getting all my coin. 
 I don t pose as no blighted being, but say, it was 
 agony yes, sir, agony!" 
 
 "Is this the fellow you were telling me about 
 first? Look here, Bunny, you began pleasant 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 61 
 
 enough with a grub-stake, and now I m hearing 
 all about a spraint leg," said Johnny. 
 
 "Well, what s to keep a man from having a 
 grub-stake and a spraint leg simultaneous? You 
 come with me, and I ll show you Bob Graham 
 who s got both." 
 
 "Huh !" said Johnny. 
 
 "I can t tell you all Bob s story, but there s a 
 woman into it, his wife, yes, sir. Say, talk about 
 throw-downs! Why, he s got yours and mine 
 beat to a pulp. Ain t it tough the way women 
 do? how they show you the high places and then 
 give you the laugh? Say, Mr. Severance, there 
 was reasons why I couldn t give it to you straight 
 about Bob without consulting him. If you feel 
 afraid of anything " 
 
 "What of?" demanded Johnny quickly. 
 
 "Durned if I know, but some people are timider 
 than others," said Bunny, with an oblique glance. 
 
 "You show me this friend of yours," said 
 Johnny. 
 
 Mr. Bunny led the way back down the trail to 
 the point where Johnny had previously seen him 
 disappear. They climbed a hill and entered a 
 small bottom. Here, prone on his back and gaz 
 ing peacefully up at the hot sky, was a gentleman 
 of singularly unprepossessing exterior. When 
 aware that his solitude was being invaded he ut 
 tered sundry heartrending groans and fell to 
 nursing his right leg, which was elaborately ban 
 daged in strips torn from a blanket. 
 
62 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Sh< " said Bunny, over his shoulder to Johnny. 
 "Sh ain t it pitiful ?" 
 
 The groans were continued with increasing 
 vigor. 
 
 "Bob!" whispered Mr. Bunny. "Bob, old 
 pardner !" 
 
 "Is that you, Bunny? I reckon I must have 
 fell asleep," said the sufferer weakly. 
 
 "Say, Bob, I want you should shake hands with 
 Mr. Severance." 
 
 Bob raised himself with apparent difficulty on 
 one elbow, and extended his hand. 
 
 "How are you, Bob?" continued Mr. Bunny 
 with anxious solicitude. "But I can see it s painin 
 you something awful!" 
 
 "Folks, I ve spraint my leg, mebby she s 
 broke " and Bob groaned. 
 
 "You want a doctor " said Johnny. Mr. Bun 
 ny and the sufferer exchanged significant glances. 
 
 "Folks, it ain t my leg that s hurtin me most, 
 it s here " and Bob rested his hand on the bosom 
 of his shirt. 
 
 "Stomach?" said Johnny innocently. 
 
 "Sh, heart !" said Bunny quickly. 
 
 "My feelin s are raisin hell inside of me. This 
 spraint leg ain t nothin ." But Mr. Graham 
 groaned lustily. "Mebby if you two was to help 
 me, I could manage to hobble to my shack. . . . 
 No, stranger" to Johnny, as they set out "I 
 don t want no doctor. He might set my leg, but 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 63 
 
 he couldn t cure me. Folks, I m hard hit where 
 no pills can ever get to." 
 
 They helped him back into the hills, but had 
 Johnny been a little less disposed to confidence 
 he might have doubted the integrity of that 
 sprained leg, for Bob had a curious way of for 
 getting and then suddenly remembering it with 
 many groans. If Johnny noticed this at all it only 
 went to prove Mr. Bunny s statement that the 
 mind of man was capable of furnishing a very 
 superior article of suffering. 
 
 Mr. Graham s retreat was a shack set down in 
 a grove of young pines. As far as Johnny could 
 see, his grub-stake seemed to be in a convenient 
 liquid form. 
 
 "Put the bottle down beside me, Bunny, where 
 I ll have it handy," said Bob, when they had 
 helped him to his bed on the floor in a corner of 
 the room. 
 
 "He needs a stimulant," explained fluent Mr. 
 Bunny. "When you re sufferin like Bob is, you 
 got to take a stimulant." 
 
 "Folks, I ve knocked around a heap," said Bob. 
 "I ve drunk whatever can be got through the 
 bung-hole of a barrel or out of the neck of a 
 bottle ; but when a man s really suffering whisky s 
 got all the other souse skinned a mile!" 
 
 "What did I tell you?" asked Bunny of Johnny, 
 with a glance of commiseration. 
 
 "Besides, I don t have no doctor from Alvarado, 
 
64 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 my enemy s got the everlasting drop on me, 
 that s why! If my leg s spraint she can stay 
 spraint if she s broke she can stay broke!" added 
 Bob with resolute stoicism. 
 
 "You certainly talk like a man, Bob!" said 
 Bunny admiringly. 
 
 "If I could only jest see my child " said Bob, 
 and passed the back of his hand before his eyes. 
 
 "It s them domestic feelin s that s hurtin him 
 so," w r hispered Bunny to Johnny. Aloud he said: 
 "I m in favor of tellin Mr. Severance just how 
 you stand, Bob, why you can t have no doctor." 
 
 "Kin you vouch for Mr. Severance?" 
 
 "Of course I can vouch for him. Ain t I told 
 you he was a hundred per cent, all right?" cried 
 Bunny warmly. He fixed Johnny with his shifty 
 glance and went on. 
 
 "When I first knowed Bob it was in Ogden. 
 He was a residin snug and makin a good livin , 
 ownin a saloon. There was no business man 
 there thought higher of. He had a nice trade 
 and plenty of friends because he was always aimin 
 to please. He was a married man, was Bob, and 
 had a wife and kid. . . . Say, when you know 
 what a woman can do to a man! You bet you 
 if I get many more throw-downs like I got in 
 Albuquerque I m going to cut em out! Well, 
 Bob had the happiest home you about ever see. 
 He owned a piano and a fast-steppin buggy horse, 
 and talk about your family man! I often says 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 65 
 
 to him, I says, Say, Bob, this looks awful good 
 to me and I don t know but you are to be envied, 
 yet it comes over me, ain t a man takin long 
 chances when he centers all his happiness on a 
 woman like this? I says, Say, it s mighty nice 
 to set here in your parlor and listen to Mrs. Bob 
 hit the hurdy-gurdy, but, I says, are you sure of 
 her? as sure of her as you are of yourself? 
 
 "Say, I must have had a hunch, for along comes 
 a Boston man. Say, she was fascinated! Here 
 was steady-goin old Bob doin a nice business 
 and never dreamin that a spider was gettin ready 
 to drop into his sirup! Well, one day Mrs. Bob 
 and the kid were missin . Next Bob heard she 
 was up at that stylish place in Nevada where the 
 divorces come from. Bob just sacrificed every 
 thing. He wanted his boy back. He was willin 
 to pass the mother up if she felt like that, but he 
 wanted the boy. Well, say, he followed em from 
 place to place, and finally the Boston man come 
 here and bought the Pay Streak over at Alvarado. 
 Bob followed em, but the Boston man had the 
 sheriff fixed. He showed Bob the outside of the 
 town that s what he done!" 
 
 Johnny had heard of the Boston man and the 
 purchase of the Pay Streak. He permitted his 
 glance to stray in Bob s direction. He had not 
 liked Mr. Graham s looks from the first, and he 
 was liking them even less as time went on. 
 
 "I don t care a cuss for nothin but the boy," 
 
66 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 said Bob the business man. "She can stick to her 
 millionaire, she s throwed me down, but I want 
 to see the boy just once and kiss him on his little 
 lips, and say good-by and get out. Folks, I know 
 when I been hit by the trolley." 
 
 "Ain t it pitiful? and him with his spraint 
 leg?" murmured Mr. Bunny. "Just wantin to 
 say good-by to his kid before he fans it on out 
 of here!" 
 
 "It ain t much to ask," said Bob gloomily. 
 "And yet I dunno as I shall ever see him again, 
 or hear his sweet little voice call me daddy like 
 he done in Ogden. I reckon they ve learnt him 
 to call the Boston man that afore this." 
 
 "Ain t that heart-breakin for you?" cried Mr. 
 Bunny. 
 
 "If he could just be fetched out here so I could 
 kiss him good-by, I d feel a heap better, folks. 
 But I dassant go into Alvarado. And you don t 
 go there either they d spot you for my friend." 
 
 "Ain t that a frame-up for you, pardner?" Bun 
 ny appealed to Johnny. "And yet nothing could 
 be easier according to what Bob s told me than 
 to fetch the kid out here. His nurse trundles him 
 to the Pay Streak every morning in his little buggy 
 when his imitation daddy goes up there, see? 
 And she trundles him back alone, it s a good 
 mile. Say, Bob, I wished I could help you !" 
 
 "I only wants to kiss him just once or mebby 
 twict," said Bob mournfully. 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 67 
 
 A brief pause ensued. Johnny moved uneasily 
 in his seat. He felt curiously committed to Mr. 
 Bunny and his afflicted friend. For some reason, 
 which he obscurely sensed, it was apparently up 
 to him to produce the child for that farewell kiss 
 on which Mr. Graham s happiness seemed so 
 largely to depend. 
 
 "I hate to see a western man downed!" re 
 sumed Bunny. "Say, Mr. Severance, when I met 
 Bob last night I told him about you I m a liar 
 if I didn t! I says to Bob, I says, Say, Bob, we 
 don t want no yearlin s in this. I says, There s 
 a fellow back yonder I d give a heap to have with 
 us. I wouldn t insult you by offerin money for 
 the job!" concluded Bunny with generous enthu 
 siasm. 
 
 "No," said Johnny hastily. "I ain t lookin to 
 earn no money that way." He appeared entirely 
 credulous, since he felt it to be his best protec 
 tion, but he was deeply regretting the alacrity 
 with which he had followed Mr. Bunny. 
 
 "There weren t many husbands like Bob here, 
 that gentle and considerate and always aimin 
 to please. Say, pardner, you take it straight from 
 me , it ain t the man any more, it s the bank roll 
 the dolls are after! That Boston man was a in 
 grate, I told you so, Bob, you remember? I 
 says, Bob, he acts white on the surface, but he s 
 a ingrate all the same! and I hate a ingrate! 
 Say, I suppose it s because I m a conservative." 
 
08 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 After tying himself up in this verbal knot, Bunny 
 heaved a sigh. 
 
 Johnny glanced about him. He was meditating 
 flight. The ideal parent had sniffed audibly at 
 Bunny s moving peroration. 
 
 "Sh " said Bunny softly. "Ain t it rank, the 
 affection a man feels for his own child? how it 
 kin make him suffer and suffer? * 
 
 Certain sounds issued from Bob s vexed interior 
 which were supposed to be indicative of the an 
 guish of soul that shook him. 
 
 "Say, Bob/ said Bunny, "I m in favor of lettin 
 Mr. Severance in on this with us. I got a heap 
 of confidence in him, and if it s agreeable to you 
 I m willin he should fetch your child out here. 
 We ll fix it this way : He ll be on the watch when 
 the nurse and the Boston man takes the kid up 
 to the Pay Streak, like you say they do every 
 mornin , see? he ll wait until she gets half-way 
 back to Alvarado, then he meets her strollin 
 casual along like he was goin up to the mine. 
 He snatches the kid out of his little buggy and 
 skips with him, does Mr. Severance. I ll be hid 
 back in the hills a ways and when he gets to me 
 I ll take the kid off his hands see?" 
 
 But Johnny did not see. He suddenly placed 
 his veto on this ingenious scheme. 
 
 "What!" cried Mr. Bunny in hurt astonish 
 ment. "You mean you ain t with us, pardner? 
 after we ve took you into our confidence like this 
 . . . and you a western man?" 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 69 
 
 "No," said Johnny. "I never had no luck in 
 pickin up strange babies. Seems there s some 
 thing in the way I take hold of em that makes 
 em holler." 
 
 "And say, you call yourself a western man?" 
 said Bunny in a tone midway between pity and 
 contempt. 
 
 "I m awful sorry, honest! He s been treated 
 tough all right." And Johnny glanced inquiringly at 
 Bob. 
 
 "And you don t put out your hand to help a 
 fellow creature up who s down?" demanded Bun 
 ny. "Here you go wormin your way into other 
 folk s confidence and then you give em the laugh, 
 you re a peach of a fellow!" The glance of 
 his shifty eyes became suddenly wicked and vin 
 dictive. "Say, you d ought to be beat up some, 
 a reptile like you!" 
 
 "I m in favor of givin Mr. Severance another 
 chance to show there s good stuff in him, Bunny," 
 said Bob. "I m in favor of offerin him money 
 for the job. What s a few dollars to come be 
 tween a parent and his love for his child?" 
 
 "What s your price, pardner?" asked Bunny. 
 
 "No," said Johnny. "If I seen a way open to 
 help Mr. Graham I wouldn t want money for doin 
 him a good turn, honest I wouldn t." He quit 
 ted his seat. 
 
 "Say, you set still !" warned Bunny menacingly. 
 "We ain t through with you. We ve took your 
 measure, and your dimensions don t suit!" 
 
70 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 Johnny was unarmed, while Mr. Bunny wore a 
 gun on his hip, a spare weapon he had borrowed 
 from Graham to replace the one of which Brown 
 had despoiled him. He half drew it, then, chang 
 ing his mind, he snatched up a stick of fire-wood. 
 Johnny backed hastily into a corner. 
 
 "Shoot his feet out from under him, Bunny!" 
 advised Bob. 
 
 "I use a stick on snakes!" Bunny heaved up 
 his club. 
 
 But just here a notable interruption occurred. 
 The door of the shack yielded to a man s hand, 
 and swunk back plainly disclosing Brown s gaunt 
 figure. 
 
 Bob, in the exigencies of the moment, forget 
 ting his sprained leg, sprang to his feet, while 
 Bunny dropped his stick and reached for his gun. 
 Indeed, the motion being made nimbly, his fingers 
 even touched it. They did no more. There was 
 a shot and he emitted a howl of anguish. Simul 
 taneously with Bunny, Bob had reached for his 
 weapon with confidence and speed, for in certain 
 select circles he enjoyed something of a reputa 
 tion as a gun-fighter; but he was no more for 
 tunate than his friend. He was quick, but Brown 
 was quicker. His hand traveled with the speed 
 of light. Apparently he had no use for sights. 
 He pointed his gun as casually as a man points 
 his finger at an object and with the same instinc 
 tive accuracy. In this particular instance Bob 
 was the object. 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 71 
 
 "You travel!" said Brown to Johnny, who 
 backed from the shack. Brown lingered to say 
 a few fervent words. When he was gone, Bunny 
 glanced at Bob, who was cursing while he nursed 
 a shattered wrist; he himself was shot in the 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Say, it was a man named Brown " said he 
 weakly. 
 
 Johnny and his rescuer moved rapidly off in the 
 direction of the trail. 
 
 "It was awful unexpected the way you showed 
 up," said Johnny. He glanced at Brown, dazed 
 and wondering. "Why, I didn t think you were 
 within thirty miles of here . . . you ve got the 
 full use of your two hands! You ve been consid 
 erable of a man in your day, and I wouldn t rec 
 ommend no one to fool with your remains " 
 
 "Was you hunting trouble, Johnny? I seen 
 that fellow with the tied-up leg sentenced two 
 years ago for a hold-up he d pulled off in Alva- 
 rado. Incidental I d like to ask you did you be 
 lieve what they told you about his wife and child? 
 They were aimin to use you in a kidnaping 
 scheme. Young man, they say a fool s born 
 every minute. I reckon you arrived punctual on 
 the clock tick all right." 
 
 "You don t think I believed em, Mr. Brown 
 honest?" protested Johnny. 
 
 "They weren t taking chances they were will- 
 in* to pass them along to you. It looked like 
 you d feed right out of their hands, sonny!" 
 
72 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "I couldn t see no other way out of it. Where 
 are we going now, Mr. Brown?" 
 
 "To Sunset." 
 
 "I can t go back there, honest, I can t!" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Well, just because I can t. She Mollie " 
 began Johnny doggedly, and paused abruptly. 
 
 "Naturally she s feeling some annoyed the way 
 you ve acted, but if you go back humble . . . 
 Look here, you don t know the first thing about 
 a woman s love. It don t go by merit. Just look 
 at a woman, take her as a mother, it s a boy, 
 or a girl, or it s twins, and she s there with her 
 love. She never makes a kick, not she ! That 
 boy, or that girl, or them twins, suit her appa 
 rently down to the ground. It s pretty much the 
 same when it s a case of man. You come along 
 and you re what she loves; not because you re 
 any good which you ain t but you re what life s 
 offerin* her and it s up -to her to make the best of 
 her chances. Does she notice any rake-off when 
 she sizes you up? Nope, she don t. It s her na 
 ture to make mistakes and have poor judgment. 
 She just loves you because you happen to be you. 
 That there s a sixty dollar a month limit to the 
 game you ll play, don t bother her none, for she s 
 got a heap more courage than sense; she takes 
 her fightin chance. She s ready to believe in the 
 luck you ll never taste, and through it all think 
 you re a good man but unfortunate." 
 
MOLLIE DARLING 73 
 
 "I wonder feeling that way about women, you 
 ain t never married," said Johnny. 
 
 "I respect em too highly. But if I ever had 
 any idea of that kind, I wouldn t be like you, 
 young man ! I d never go further than the Moun 
 tain House, M. Ferguson, Proprietor." 
 
 It was a week later. A crescent moon swung 
 low in the heavens and lighted up the trail that 
 led past Brown s cabin. Its faint radiance showed 
 Johnny and his Mollie walking very close to 
 gether, as was their wont, while they talked in 
 ecstatic whispers in the intervals of tender silences 
 that brought them dim night sounds from the val 
 ley below. 
 
 In their wake, but at a discreet distance, for 
 youth was having its right of way upon the 
 mountainside, came Miss Mollie and inoffensive 
 Mr. Brown, with Duffer at their heels. Miss Mol- 
 lie s unaccustomed hand rested lightly, shyly, on 
 Brown s arm. She was scarcely trusting her hap 
 piness. Those solitudes she had once feared were 
 to be shared with the man at her side, whom 
 Johnny had not ceased to exalt as a singularly ca 
 pable gentleman, and that quick my! one who 
 undertook to keep engagements with him was 
 likely to experience a terrible sense of being late. 
 Miss Mollie was already realizing this. She moved 
 as one in a dream. The heart of youth had quick 
 ened in her breast, the hard years were forgotten. 
 
74 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 Why, the very mountain seemed to nod a bene 
 diction in the half light. 
 
 "You re a mighty good woman, Mollie," said 
 Brown. He seemed to expand with an austere 
 joy. "If there are any crowns in the next world 
 you ll be wearin one instead of the sunbonnet 
 you ve worn in this." 
 
 "You re a good man, too. Just look what 
 
 you ve done for those two children, Mr. Brown 
 
 
 "Joseph " corrected Mr. Brown gently, "or 
 just Joe, when you get more used to the idea." 
 
THE BLOOD OF HIS ANCESTORS 
 
 WHEN he told me his story, prefacing it with 
 a scrap of philosophy, John Norton as 
 sured me it differed from that of scores of other 
 men of his class but in one or two unimportant 
 particulars. He gave it as his opinion that one 
 need not necessarily be a genius to get ahead in 
 this world; there are other qualities almost any 
 man can cultivate which command opportunity, 
 and in spite of the fact that he spoke with the 
 authority of a rather conspicuous success, he dis 
 claimed the possession of any special ability above 
 the average. 
 
 To begin with, Norton had much of the cheer 
 ful ambition characteristic of the average Amer 
 ican. He had been thoroughly drilled in the idea 
 that the one thing needful, if one wished to get 
 on, was industry, given this, the results were as 
 certain as that two and two make four. 
 
 He was a broad-shouldered young fellow, more 
 than commonly prepossessing, with an utter ab 
 sence of any ability for sharp practise; indeed, he 
 was inclined to view his fellows with a gentle 
 kindly confidence that proved costly until he 
 learned caution, and even then he was not bitter, 
 only a little hurt. 
 
 75 
 
76 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 He came of honest stock and of people in com 
 fortable circumstances, proud of their traditions 
 and their respectability and rather regretful of 
 the fortune old General Norton had somehow lost 
 when he emigrated from Virginia to Ohio in 1814. 
 
 Perhaps John would not have felt called upon 
 to make the plunge into business had his father 
 kept his name off the notes of his neighbors; as 
 a consequence of his indiscretions the broad acres 
 he had inherited slipped away piecemeal. 
 
 John was the eldest of four boys and the first 
 to leave home. At twenty he went East. He 
 recognized that he would probably have a good 
 many tips and downs before he finally got placed, 
 and he was thankful his career was to be among 
 strangers. 
 
 He was not much worried in the beginning over 
 ways and means, for his father sent him money 
 each week, and small as the sums were they gave 
 him a pleasing sense of security. He soon dis 
 covered that merely to make a living can be a 
 difficult problem; it also dawned upon him that 
 he reached the solving of the problem in a round 
 about fashion through a haze of uncertainty. 
 
 After his father s death, when it became neces 
 sary for him to make his own way unaided, 
 he brought to the task a sad earnestness. He 
 was, he felt, without business tact indeed, the 
 word business comprehended all of which he was 
 most ignorant. He could never impress people 
 
THE BLOOD OF HIS ANCESTORS 77 
 
 with the importance of those benefits they would 
 derive from thinking as he wished them to think, 
 for he was never quite sure about the benefits. 
 He could feel himself shrink and dwindle and 
 grow limp, when what he needed was a convinc 
 ing force. Still it continued part of his faith that 
 there was some work he could do well, and that 
 sooner or later he would have the opportunity 
 to do it. He was a little shocked to find that 
 there was no particular merit in being well-born 
 and well-bred. 
 
 He was in rapid succession clerk, traveling 
 salesman, bookkeeper, advertising solicitor and 
 real-estate agent; he went from place to place 
 hoping each time he made a change, that now he 
 was nearer success. 
 
 Meanwhile his mother died, and the home had 
 been sold to pay his father s debts. His brothers 
 had scattered, one was in California, a clerk in 
 a store, another was a miner in Colorado, a third 
 has gone to South America, while Tom, the 
 youngest, was editor of a country newspaper in 
 Texas. 
 
 At thirty John married, and wisely concluded 
 that the day for experiments was past. The idea 
 that he was to acquire riches he put resolutely 
 aside; if he could make a decent living it was all 
 he dared expect. 
 
 It remained for Mr. Thomas Haviland, of Bliss, 
 Haviland and Company, to give him his oppor- 
 
78 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 tunity. When he got with this concern, John felt 
 the connection to be a really notable one. The 
 position carried a salary of twenty dollars a week 
 with a fortnight s vacation each summer on full 
 pay. There was one drawback. The managing 
 director had the reputation of being exacting and 
 hard to please, with a disagreeable temper and 
 variable moods, but John was fully prepared to 
 make some sacrifices to obtain steady employ 
 ment. He wanted to be thrifty and sensible. One 
 of the first things he did was to have his life in 
 sured. This gave him a solid and substantial feel 
 ing, alike new and comfortable. Later, perhaps, 
 he would be able to open a bank-account. 
 
 He was relieved to find he could do this work, 
 about which he had had many misgivings, as well 
 as there was any need for it to be done. He was 
 fortunate in the start in escaping all personal con 
 tact with Haviland, or his satisfaction with him 
 self and his lot might have been less pronounced. 
 The managing director had a genius for taking 
 the very marrow out of a man s bones and the 
 hope out of his heart. On principle he never re 
 spected those in his employ. He would probably 
 have explained his attitude by saying it was im 
 possible to respect men who were content to earn 
 beggarly salaries of from fifteen to thirty-five dol 
 lars a week. Even at these prices it must be 
 owned he contrived to surround himself by an 
 uncommonly low grade of business intelligence. 
 
THE BLOOD OF HIS ANCESTORS 79 
 
 Perhaps he liked the contrast it offered to the vig 
 orous grasp he always maintained on affairs. 
 
 The clerks carried on their work in fear and 
 trembling, conscious that at any moment Havi- 
 land might come out of the private office, purple- 
 faced and furious over a trifling blunder, to lash 
 them with sarcasms that cut like a knife, or even 
 worse, some poor devil would be summoned into 
 the private office to explain; an utterly hopeless 
 proposition, as Haviland could not sit quietly 
 through an explanation. He made mistakes him 
 self, but he refused to recognize the right of 
 others to do so; at least he would not listen to 
 their excuses. He complained continually that 
 the clerks wasted his time, which he valued at a 
 fabulous figure, but he would spend half a morn 
 ing criticizing the mental equipment of a shaking, 
 underfed, five-dollar-a-week man, and then dis 
 miss him as if he were the scum of the earth, a 
 mere thing. 
 
 John saw and heard a good deal that filled him 
 with astonishment the first few weeks he spent 
 in the office of Bliss, Haviland and Company, and 
 he decided that Haviland was not a gentleman, 
 and when he discussed his character with Alice at 
 home of an evening he said a good many hard 
 and bitter things, for they talked of him inces 
 santly; he was the one topic in the homes of all 
 the men in the office; he lowered the tone of their 
 lives, and brought servility and fear into the lives 
 
80 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 of their wives and children. That John escaped 
 insult, he attributed to luck; apparently there was 
 no protection in the fact that he was earnest and 
 conscientious. Gordon, the old bookkeeper, who 
 had been with the firm forty years, was a model 
 of industry and exactness, yet he was in hot water 
 pretty much all the time when he was not in deep 
 water and trembling for his position. 
 
 To be sure Haviland had his own disappoint 
 ments and his nerves were on edge most of the 
 time. He was greedy of gain, but more greedy of 
 fame, or the irresponsible notoriety which he 
 mistook for fame, and which was perhaps sweeter 
 to him than a responsible fame would have been 
 with its obligations, and he hated the directors, 
 who seemed in league to limit him to a conserva 
 tive business with reasonable profits. 
 
 John, whose ancestors since the days of the 
 Norman Conquest had taken a hand in almost 
 every war in Anglo-Saxon history, resolved that 
 if Haviland ever "went for him" as he did for the 
 rest, he would let him have the ink-well or some 
 similarly convenient missile, but he was more and 
 more grateful as the days ran into weeks and the 
 weeks into months, that nothing unpleasant oc 
 curred involving him. 
 
 He had been with Bliss, Haviland and Company 
 almost a year when one afternoon, Gordon, the 
 bookkeeper, came out of the private office a dull 
 tallowy white, with blue-drawn lips. He stopped 
 beside John s desk. 
 
THE BLOOD OF HIS ANCESTORS 81 
 
 "Mr. Haviland wants to see you," he said. 
 "You are to go in now, right away." 
 
 As John turned to obey the summons he ran 
 over uneasily all those matters that had gone 
 wrong in his department and for which he could 
 possibly be held responsible. As he raiseH his 
 hand to knock on the door of the private office 
 he decided that happen what might he could not 
 afford to lose his temper. He reached this deci 
 sion quickly, and when he heard Haviland call 
 "Come in," pushed open the door. Haviland was 
 seated at his desk, and the expression on his face 
 was not reassuring. 
 
 "Oh! It s you, Norton; take a seat, I want 
 to speak to you." 
 
 John closed the door and at a sign from Havi 
 land sat down in the chair at the managing direct 
 or s elbow, which one of the clerks who retained 
 a sense of humor had christened "The Mourners 
 Bench." Haviland swung round and faced him 
 squarely. 
 
 "I shall have to send Gordon away," he said. 
 "How would you like his place?" 
 
 John knew that the bookkeeper received twen 
 ty-five hundred dollars a year, and he drew in his 
 breath quickly. 
 
 "You do your work well," Haviland continued 
 graciously, without giving John a chance to re 
 ply. "I have never had occasion to find any fault 
 with you; of course, you understand we shan t 
 pay you what we are paying Gordon, he has 
 
82 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 been with the house forty years. It s a very fine 
 opening for a young man, Norton, and I am glad 
 to be able to offer it to you. It will mean an ad-, 
 vance of two hundred a year at once." 
 
 "I shouldn t like to feel I was taking Gordon s 
 place " John said. 
 
 The red line of Haviland s neck with its heavy 
 veins swelled out over the top of his collar; there 
 was a moment s silence, and then he said curtly: 
 
 "You are not taking Gordon s place; he is to 
 stay on until the end of the month. That will 
 give him ample time to look up another place." 
 
 "I doubt it," John retorted, unconsciously im 
 itating his employer s tone and manner. "He s 
 an old man, Mr. Haviland, and I don t think any 
 one will care to make an opening for him." 
 
 Haviland frowned. 
 
 "I should be sorry to believe that, Norton, 
 very sorry, indeed. I shall advise him to take a 
 less responsible position one more suited to his 
 years," expanding cheerfully, as though his ad 
 vice would be of incalculable value to Gordon. 
 "Will you take the place?" 
 
 Norton hesitated. It would have pleased him 
 to tell Haviland just what he thought of him, but 
 he remembered Alice and said, "Yes," instead, 
 adding grudgingly, "I shall be glad to accept it." 
 
 "At twelve hundred a year?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Very well, then, that s all." 
 
THE BLOOD OF HIS ANCESTORS 83 
 
 As John went back to his desk he knew that 
 Gordon s glance followed him from the door of 
 the private office. He mounted his stool and 
 took up his pen. 
 
 The old bookkeeper slunk over to his side and 
 placed a trembling hand on one corner of the 
 ledger above which John was bending intently. 
 
 "What sort of a mood was he in, Norton, 
 nasty?" 
 
 John nodded. 
 
 "Did he have anything to say about me?" 
 
 Without lifting his head John nodded again. 
 
 Gordon fingered the corner of the big book 
 nervously. 
 
 "I never got such a calling down from him be 
 fore. But then, you know, you ve got to stand his 
 temper if you want to get along with him, and 
 what s the odds, we re paid for it, and it s all in 
 a lifetime." He studied John s face guardedly. 
 "What did he say, Norton?" 
 
 "I am awfully sorry," John began, "but per 
 haps you d as soon hear it from me as from 
 him " 
 
 "He didn t tell you I must go, did he? He 
 didn t say that I thought he didn t mean it " 
 
 "That s what he said." 
 
 Gordon leaned heavily against the desk. 
 
 "I knew he was wanting to get rid of me, but I 
 didn t think it would come yet a while; I I was 
 hoping I could hold on a little longer. Why! I 
 
84 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 have been here forty years I m not fit for any 
 thing else!" Unconsciously in his excitement he 
 raised his voice, and the last word was almost a 
 cry. He choked down his emotion. "He ll get 
 his deserts one of these days! A man can t go on 
 forever, as he s gone on, walking over people, and 
 prosper, and he ll find it so!" 
 
 John stole a glance over the room. 
 
 "I wouldn t speak so loud," he cautioned. "They 
 will hear you." 
 
 "I don t care!" fiercely. "I don t care what 
 they hear!" but he sank his voice to a hoarse 
 whisper. "I it isn t right, Norton, it isn t 
 right!" He paused an instant to let his gaze wan 
 der about the long bare room with its rows of 
 desks, and a sudden mist came before his eyes. 
 "Why! I haven t missed half a dozen days since I 
 started in here. Summer and winter every morn 
 ing at eight I ve pulled off my coat and hung it 
 with my hat on that nail over there, it s been 
 Gordon s nail for forty years!" Then he broke 
 down completely. 
 
 The office grew very hushed and still. The 
 clerks stopped in their work and took in the scene 
 with eager silent curiosity. 
 
 Fifteen minutes later they were working away 
 again as though nothing unusual had happened. 
 Gordon, at his desk, was trying to add a long 
 column of figures, while every now and then 
 something fell upon the pages of the ledger be- 
 
THE BLOOD OF HIS ANCESTORS 85 
 
 fore him that raised a round blister or blurred the 
 ink. 
 
 That day marked the beginning of the change 
 with John Norton. He felt that this new position 
 of his was held at the expense of manhood and 
 self-respect. This left its mark on his character. 
 Alertness and energy seemed to leave him as the 
 ambition faded out of his life. In his despair he 
 became morbid. His was the uncertainty of a 
 man who feels he has failed without knowing how 
 or where. He told himself the day was coming 
 to him just as it had come to Gordon, when his 
 services would no longer be of value to any one, 
 his little contribution to the world s progress hav 
 ing been made he would be discarded, he would 
 drift farther and farther out of the moving current 
 of things until he finally reached the great Sar 
 gasso of human energy where the wrecks stay, 
 a derelict. 
 
 At first he had preferred to look upon the posi 
 tion as temporary, as a convenience to serve his 
 end until a better offered, but nothing better did 
 offer and he finally lost all idea of another place. 
 His only fear was that he might be discharged, 
 and he knew that a week s idleness would be a 
 calamity. 
 
 Try as he would he could not get ahead. It 
 was with difficulty that he managed to keep up his 
 life insurance, which was the only provision he 
 was able to make for the future. 
 
86 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 It was probable that at this time neither his 
 economies nor his expenditures were ordered with 
 any particular intelligence or to any practical 
 ends. His ability was that of the average man 
 and he sacrificed himself to the average opinion. 
 It was necessary for him to live in a certain way; 
 his home must be in a respectable neighborhood, 
 his wife and children must be well dressed. These 
 were the essentials. 
 
 Sometimes he talked with Alice of giving up 
 the struggle. He had a vague notion that if he 
 went into the country, where he could work with 
 his hands, he would do better and get larger re 
 turns for his toil. But it always ended in talk; 
 nothing ever came of it; his point of view was 
 the extreme one. He felt that he belonged to 
 another race and time, with different ideals, differ 
 ent capacities and different aptitudes. The men 
 he knew were all of the same sort. With the 
 brawn of pioneers and soldiers wasting in their 
 arms they were clutching pens pathetically enough, 
 or selling silks and millinery when they had much 
 rather be felling trees. But the trees are all felled, 
 the world s work as far as it can be clone by hand 
 is finished, and these primitive natures, who in a 
 wilderness would have been all sufficient to them 
 selves, retain but a doubtful utility. 
 
 Alice never really knew how difficult it was for 
 him, he kept that to himself. 
 
 He was held accountable for all the laxity on 
 
THE BLOOD OF HIS ANCESTORS 87 
 
 the part of those under him, and the office force 
 was habitually indifferent, as men are apt to be 
 who feel there is nothing to be gained by zeal 
 and conscientiousness. Scarcely a day passed that 
 he did not smart beneath the weight of Havi- 
 land s displeasure, nor could he rid himself of the 
 terrible and degrading fear he had of the man. 
 He would stand in dogged silence abject, bruised 
 and shaken whenever Haviland chose to break 
 the ready vials of wrath upon him. Haviland 
 was not always disagreeable, however; he had his 
 genial moments when it was wise to enter heartily 
 into the spirit of his peculiar humor. 
 
 Norton s position was nominally at least, con 
 fidential. Once each year he made out a state 
 ment that found its way before the directors at 
 their annual meeting. In preparing this state 
 ment it was necessary to go over the stocks, 
 bonds and securities in the vaults with Haviland; 
 then together they counted the cash in hand and 
 John signed his name to the report, a formality 
 having a certain significance in the mind of one 
 of the directors at least, for he turned in his first 
 statement unsigned, and had been called before 
 the directors. Mr. Bliss, the largest individual 
 stockholder in the company, had gravely interro 
 gated him regarding the matter. The explana 
 tion was simple enough. Haviland had not told 
 him to sign the statement. Upon learning this, 
 Mr. Bliss had suggested that the managing di- 
 
88 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 rector immediately inform the bookkeeper as to 
 the exact nature of his duties. John was greatly 
 impressed by the incident, so much so that after 
 ward, when making out the annual statement, he 
 was always troubled by an exaggerated sense of 
 its importance. 
 
 He had been with Bliss, Haviland and Company 
 three years, when he made a little discovery. 
 Haviland was speculating, in direct violation of 
 his agreement with the company. 
 
 John had been in possession of this secret about 
 five weeks when one morning he was summoned 
 into the private office. He found Haviland look 
 ing rather disturbed. 
 
 "We ll have to be getting at our annual report," 
 the managing director said. "Let me see, this 
 is the eighth of the month; I suppose you already 
 have it well along." 
 
 "I ve been at work on the books for the last 
 two weeks." 
 
 "Make a full and complete showing, Norton." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 At eleven o clock Haviland left the office hur 
 riedly in response to a telephone message. 
 
 Half an hour later a spruce-looking youth with 
 a small paper parcel under his arm walked into 
 the business office and inquired for him. John 
 went over to the railing where he stood. 
 
 "Mr. Haviland s out; can I do anything for 
 you?" 
 
THE BLOOD OF HIS ANCESTORS 89 
 
 "I am from Brown and Kemper," mentioning 
 a well-known firm of brokers. "I want to leave 
 these bonds for Mr. Haviland." He untied the 
 parcel as he spoke. "Will you take their numbers 
 and give me a receipt?" 
 
 John was too dazed to speak. Not only was 
 Haviland speculating, but he was speculating with 
 the funds of the company. He was vainly endeav 
 oring to collect his scattered wits when Haviland 
 came in, panting and in hot haste. He gave the 
 broker s clerk a shove that sent him spinning 
 toward the wall, then with a single furious ejacu 
 lation he snatched up the bonds and disappeared 
 into the private office. 
 
 During the next two or three days John in fancy 
 lived through all the agony of an unsuccessful 
 search for another position, and at last awoke to 
 a proper understanding of the case. Haviland 
 was afraid to dismiss him. 
 
 The directors meeting was called for the twen 
 ty-ninth, and late in the afternoon of the twenty- 
 fourth, as John was closing his desk, Haviland 
 came out of the private office and strode to his 
 side. 
 
 "I want you to come up to my house to-night, 
 Norton; it s about that statement I want to see 
 you. Can you come?" 
 
 John did not look at Haviland; he felt em 
 barrassed and ill at ease. They had avoided each 
 other for days. 
 
90 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "I am sorry to bother you, Norton. L W.on t you 
 come up to dinner? I am all alone." 
 
 "No," hastily. "I guess I d better not; my wife 
 will be expecting me." 
 
 "Just as you like. I can look for you about 
 eight?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Haviland moved away a step. He was mopping 
 his face with his handkerchief. He seemed old 
 and broken. His aggressive arrogance of man 
 ner had entirely deserted him. 
 
 "Everything was all right to-day?" he inquired 
 aimlessly. 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "Then I ll look for you at eight." Haviland 
 turned and went slowly into the private office. 
 As John passed the door on his way out he caught 
 a glimpse of the managing director; he was sit 
 ting with his elbows resting on his desk and his 
 chin sunk in his hands. 
 
 When John mounted the steps at Haviland s 
 that night, it was with a good deal of reluctance. 
 The butler admitted him and showed him into the 
 library, where Haviland welcomed him with an 
 effusive cordiality that only served to increase his 
 desire to escape from the house. A table stood 
 in the center of the room, with cigars and decan 
 ters on it. Haviland had evidently been drink 
 ing; his face was flushed and his manner confident. 
 John put aside the glass he pushed toward him. 
 
THE BLOOD OF HIS ANCESTORS 91 
 
 "I ll have a cigar, if you don t mind thanks." 
 
 Haviland leaned back in his chair. 
 
 "Well, how s the statement coming on? The 
 business makes a pretty good showing, eh? J 
 
 "It s been the biggest year in the history of 
 the house." 
 
 "If they d let me alone, I d make Bliss, Havi 
 land and Company a power," with something of 
 his old self-assertiveness. "But they don t see 
 it my way." 
 
 John looked his assent. Haviland filled his 
 glass. 
 
 "You won t join me?" 
 
 "No, I thank you." 
 
 "I am going to have your salary put back to 
 the old figure, Norton. I ll have to get the di 
 rectors consent, but you can tell your wife when 
 you go home that you have a raise to twenty-five 
 hundred." He turned expectantly toward his 
 bookkeeper; he was counting on enthusiasm 
 gratitude, even, but he saw no trace of either on 
 John s face. 
 
 Their relations had undergone a great change. 
 Haviland was no longer the despot John had 
 known in the private office; he no longer inspired 
 fear; he never could again. He was simply a red- 
 faced vulgar man who was seeking to bribe an 
 employee to betray his business associates. John 
 had brooded over the possibilities of this inter 
 view; he had thought of the sarcasms he would 
 
92 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 hurl in his tyrant s face but the tyrant was no 
 longer a tyrant, he was only a guilty man, more 
 or less pathetic to look upon, as guilty men are 
 apt to be when retribution is in sight. 
 
 To cover his losses, Haviland had taken almost 
 half a million dollars from the company, conse 
 quently the necessity for a statement that would 
 satisfy the directors and leave no room for in 
 convenient questioning was imperative. Provided 
 it was forthcoming, it would give him a year in 
 which to return all the securities he had hypothe 
 cated. Personally, he felt quite safe; he had gone 
 deep enough into the funds of the company while 
 he was about it to protect himself effectually, 
 at the worst he could always effect a compromise. 
 He could turn over his property; carefully han 
 dled, it would easily reach half a million, and there 
 was his stock in the concern besides. But he had 
 no notion of compromising if he could help it, for 
 what would he do without money, his credit and 
 reputation gone ! He grew sick. It all rested 
 with the bookkeeper, who promised to be difficult 
 to manipulate. He silently added five thousand 
 dollars to the sum he was willing to offer as a 
 last recourse. He cleared his throat. 
 
 "Now about that report, Norton; I suppose 
 you will want my help to-morrow." 
 
 John looked distressed. 
 
 Haviland hitched his chair nearer and dropped 
 his voice to a confidential whisper. 
 
THE BLOOD OF HIS ANCESTORS 93 
 
 "You know how busy I am, you are ready to 
 sign that statement what s the use " 
 
 With a calmness he was conscious he did not 
 feel, John took the cigar from between his teeth 
 and said slowly: 
 
 "I am not so sure about that." 
 
 Haviland looked at him blankly for a moment. 
 He laughed shortly, and remarked: "I guess you 
 are not such a fool, after all." 
 
 He drew his check book from his pocket, took 
 a pen from the table, and dipping it in the ink, 
 dated a check and signed it. 
 
 "For what amount shall I make it, Norton?" 
 The pen hovered above the blank space on the 
 check. 
 
 John shook his head. 
 
 "No," doggedly. "I can t do it, I m sorry for 
 you, but I can t. What s the use? it will be 
 about as hard on me as on you, I ll lose my 
 place." 
 
 But Haviland was not heeding him. 
 
 "If I make it ten thousand, will that satisfy 
 you?" 
 
 It was John s turn to look blank. Ten thou 
 sand dollars! He turned faint and giddy; he tried 
 to speak; he saw the pen circle and then sweep 
 down toward the check. He put out his hand and 
 caught Haviland by the wrist. 
 
 "No, don t!" he gasped. 
 
 "Shall I make it fifteen thousand?" 
 
94 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "No." And this time there was no irresolu 
 tion. 
 
 Haviland groaned aloud; the sweat clung in 
 beads to his forehead. He rose from his chair. 
 
 "I am offering you fifteen thousand dollars for 
 the stroke of your pen, if it is not enough, name 
 your own price," he added hoarsely. 
 
 "I can t do it." 
 
 "Do you mean you won t come to terms?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why?" His face was livid. 
 
 "Because I can t do what you ask of me, I 
 can t shield you, and I can t take your money. 
 I don t suppose you understand, it wouldn t do 
 me any good I should feel as though I had 
 robbed some one I could never tell my wife how 
 I got the money; there would always be that be 
 tween us. I ll finish what I can of the statement 
 to-morrow and hand in my resignation." 
 
 As he spoke he came slowly to his feet. 
 
 Haviland only half heard what John said. He 
 was standing with his hands resting on the table, 
 staring straight ahead into vacancy. The whole 
 world would know ! This stupidly honest fool, 
 whose intelligence he had always put at zero, was 
 the Nemesis in his path. For the first time in 
 his life he was cowed. He turned to John with 
 a dumb fear in his eyes. 
 
 "For God s sake, Norton do you realize what 
 this means?" he cried brokenly. "You must stand 
 
THE BLOOD OE HIS ANCESTORS 95 
 
 by me; I ll come out all right! Don t go over 
 to them they will never do for you what I will!" 
 
 "I hadn t thought of them, or what they ll do." 
 
 "No!" with something of his old explosive man 
 ner. "You are looking to them for your reward 
 when you have betrayed me! But what will it 
 amount to? A few hundred a year, perhaps!" 
 
 "That was what you offered me first." 
 
 "Oh, you ll get it from them! It s easy enough 
 to see what your game is !" Then, as a last 
 appeal, he cried: "You know nothing positively. 
 All I ask you to do is to take your money the 
 money I am willing to give you, no matter why 
 and clear out go where you choose do as you 
 please " 
 
 But John moved toward the door, and Haviland 
 read in the tense set lines of his face his decision. 
 
 John went down the steps slowly, like a man 
 in a daze. It had been the most dramatic mo 
 ment of his life; it left him confused and stunned, 
 and with an inexplicable fear of the future. 
 
 Soon this fear took a definite form. He quick 
 ened his pace. He must hurry home and tell 
 Alice the whole circumstance and ask her advice. 
 Perhaps he had already committed himself by go 
 ing to see Haviland! He revolved the matter in 
 his mind. What could Haviland do would he 
 dare accuse him? He could run no risks he 
 owed it to Alice and the children to take every 
 precaution. But how was he to protect himself? 
 
96 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 John turned sharply, with a new idea. Above all 
 other claims, above the consideration of self, he 
 owed a duty to the stockholders. They had a 
 right to know what he knew; he could not shield 
 Haviland with his silence. He must see one of 
 the directors. He paused uncertainly on a street 
 corner. To whom should he go? At the board 
 meetings he had been impressed with Mr. Bliss 
 kindliness of manner; he would go to him rather 
 than to any of the others, and tell him what he 
 knew of the situation, and resign. He was sick 
 of the whole business and felt himself unequal 
 to it. He glanced around, hoping he might see a 
 belated cab, but the street was silent and deserted. 
 It was three o clock when he reached Mr. 
 Bliss . Four times he halted doubtfully before 
 the door; four times he felt his courage ebb and 
 flow, and four times he wandered aimlessly down 
 the block. The fifth time he mounted the steps; 
 there was a momentary irresolution, and then he 
 rang the bell with a firm hand. He felt like a 
 criminal, a conspirator, as he stood there, for, 
 after all, Haviland had his good points only one 
 would never have supposed it merely from asso 
 ciating with him. He was on the point of aban 
 doning his project, when the sickening fear re 
 turned that in some way he might be implicated. 
 He thought of Alice and the children, and set his 
 lips in grim determination; he dared not do less 
 than protect himself. At last a sleepy half- 
 dressed footman opened the door. 
 
THE BLOOD OF HIS ANCESTORS 97 
 
 "What do you want?" he asked crossly. 
 
 "I must see Mr. Bliss," and John pushed past 
 him into the hall. 
 
 "Come in the morning." 
 
 "I must see him now." 
 
 "Well, you can t! He s in bed." 
 
 At that moment Mr. Bliss himself appeared at 
 the head of the stairs, dimly visible in a long white 
 sexless garment. 
 
 "What is it, Martin?" he asked. "A telegram?" 
 
 "It s I, Mr. Bliss, Norton the bookkeeper 
 from Bliss, Haviland and Company. I must see 
 you! It s a matter of the utmost importance," 
 he said earnestly. 
 
 "Martin, light the gas in the library. I ll be 
 down in a moment, Mr. Norton." 
 
 Ten minutes later he joined John down-stairs in 
 the library. 
 
 "Now, what is it, Mr. Norton?" he asked cheer 
 fully. 
 
 "It s about the directors statement," said John 
 with a troubled air. 
 
 "Well?" his companion interrogated, while he 
 bent upon the young man a shrewd glance. He 
 wondered if the bookkeeper had been purloining 
 the funds of the company. 
 
 "I have just come from Mr. Haviland," John 
 explained. "I want to resign. He expects me to 
 make up the statement without going over the 
 securities. He has offered me fifteen thousand 
 dollars for the kind of a statement he wants." 
 
98 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 He paused uncertainly, and then went on hur 
 riedly: "Last week securities to the value of thir 
 ty thousand dollars, which I supposed were in the 
 safe and which should have been there, were re 
 turned from a broker s office. Mr. Haviland has 
 been speculating. I have known this for some 
 time, but I did not know that it was with the 
 funds of the company until these securities were 
 handed me by mistake." 
 
 "You are quite sure of what you say, Norton?" 
 the director asked. "These are very grave charg 
 es you are making." 
 
 "I am quite sure, Mr. Bliss. I suppose he ex 
 pects to return every dollar he has taken," John 
 added. It was a comfort to be able to say a good 
 word for Haviland. 
 
 "No doubt, every man who speculates with 
 money not his own intends to do that. Haviland 
 will be called on to make good within twenty- 
 four hours, and if he can t why " The pause 
 was eloquent. He was silent for a moment; then 
 he said: "Tell me as nearly as you can just what 
 passed between you to-night." 
 
 Slowly and carefully John gave the substance 
 of his interview with Haviland, while Mr. Bliss 
 watched him narrowly. 
 
 "And you want to resign, Norton?" he asked 
 at length. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Bliss laughed shortly. 
 
THE BLOOD OF HIS ANCESTORS 99 
 
 "Why don t you ask for an increase of salary, 
 you ll be more apt to get that." 
 
 "I haven t told you what I have with any hope 
 of that sort, Mr. Bliss," said John a little stiffly. 
 
 "No of course not. But put the notion that 
 you are to resign out of your head. More likely 
 you ll be asked to help reorganize the company 
 under my direction, for Bliss, Haviland and Com 
 pany can t go under, no matter what ducks and 
 drakes Haviland has made of our money." 
 
 John came slowly to his feet. 
 
 "I must go home to my wife now," he said, 
 "she will be wondering what has kept me so late." 
 
 "Wait a moment," said Bliss. "I ll go with 
 you. Let me call a cab," and he summoned the 
 footman. 
 
 "It is very kind of you," said John. "But is 
 there any reason for it?" 
 
 "It s just as well. We must see the directors 
 before nine o clock." 
 
 As John leaned back in his seat in the cab, Bliss 
 said kindly: 
 
 "You look worn out, Norton." 
 
 "I am tired," he admitted; but beyond his fa 
 tigue and weariness he was feeling a sense of 
 peace, security and hope. His old ambition, long 
 dead, as he told himself, stirred within him. After 
 all, after all the waiting and doubt and fear, suc 
 cess had come at last when he least expected it. 
 
 The cab drew up before the dingy flat-house 
 
100 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 where he lived, and John sprang lightly to the 
 pavement. They entered the building. It was 
 still quite dark in the narrow halls, but as they 
 came to the landing before his own door John 
 gave a start. Two men were standing there; one 
 was Haviland, and the other a stranger. Over 
 their shoulders he caught a glimpse of Alice s 
 white scared face. Hearing his steps, Haviland 
 turned with a hungry wolfish look. 
 
 This is the man," he said shortly. "Arrest 
 him." 
 
 The stranger moved forward, but Bliss, coming 
 slowly up the dark stairs, said gently: 
 
 "It s too late. It s no use I wouldn t do 
 that!" 
 
 He took the warrant from the detective s hand 
 and tore it into long strips, while he and Haviland 
 gazed into each other s eyes. 
 
WHEN WE HAVE WAITED 
 
 ! I beg your pardon," some one said 
 politely from before me in the darkness. 
 
 This I thought was remarkably handsome, as 
 I must have all but knocked the speaker off his 
 feet. 
 
 Then, in an instant, I was wondering who had 
 spoken. 
 
 If it were Jackson he would have said I knew, 
 for I had heard him more than once on occasions 
 when I was endeavoring to mount the narrow 
 stairs at the identical moment he was trying to 
 descend them "Get out of the way, you beast! 
 What the devil do you mean by walking all 
 over me?" 
 
 Therefore, being vastly amazed at the polite 
 ness emanating from the blackness in front of 
 me, I put up my hand to find the gas-jet we 
 were on the second-floor landing and having 
 found it, fumbled in my pocket for a match and 
 lighted the gas. 
 
 This enabled me to see who had ventured 
 to introduce civility into the atmosphere of mild 
 ruffianism that prevailed among the outcasts at 
 Mrs. Tauton s. 
 
 Standing jammed rather close against the wall, 
 101 
 
102 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 where he had evidently considered it safe and 
 expedient to withdraw in view of my hurried 
 ascent of the steps, was a young man with a round 
 boyish face. 
 
 "I really beg your pardon," he repeated. I was 
 so astonished at his continued politeness that, 
 with the mistaken intention of turning on the gas 
 still farther, I turned it out altogether, and we 
 were a part of the surrounding gloom again. 
 But in the momentary brightness lent by the 
 flickering flame I saw Gavan for the first time. 
 
 From this not entirely favorable beginning there 
 came about a speaking acquaintance that soon 
 ripened into friendship. 
 
 I was a clerk in a down-town ofHce, and had 
 by a series of misfortunes gravitated from the out 
 skirts of cheap respectability to the dingy apart 
 ments that Mrs. Tauton kept for the exclusive use 
 of single gentlemen of uniformly large hopes and 
 small means, and I took my meals they had a 
 marked tendency to cast a cloud over any sunni- 
 ness of temper I might have originally possessed 
 with wretches of my kind at the same low- 
 priced resort just around the corner. 
 
 In after years some of us will remember the 
 dyspepsia, there acquired, particularly young 
 iTompkins, who ruined a fine constitution in a 
 vain endeavor to subsist on a diet of pie inter 
 spersed with milk. 
 
 Tompkins subsequently made a million or two 
 
WHEN WE HAVE WAITED 103 
 
 by a singularly soulless operation in railway 
 shares. I have never blamed him for his con- 
 sciousless greed, as I attribute it to the food his 
 early poverty compelled him to live on in the 
 effort to keep body and soul together. 
 
 I simply think he failed in his object. 
 
 It was on the steps at Mrs. Tauton s that I 
 first met Gavan. It was not long until he gave 
 me his complete confidence and I was permitted 
 to know his aims and ambitions. 
 
 He desired to write plays and to dispose of 
 those he had already written. 
 
 It soon became his custom to make nightly re 
 ports to me, giving me detailed accounts of his 
 doings, and I came to know what actor or man 
 ager had promised to read his work. 
 
 His appearance was so youthful, I do not ques 
 tion but that it condemned him unheard in the 
 minds of most. I think it prevented his being 
 taken seriously. 
 
 When the people he wished to reach were kind 
 and considerate, it was because they were amused 
 and regarded the whole thing as a joke. 
 
 In any event his plays were being returned to 
 him with almost every mail, accompanied by let 
 ters more or less encouraging, as they reflected 
 various degrees of kindliness on the writer s part. 
 
 I had not known him for many months before 
 I was aware of a change. His face wore an 
 anxious look, but he retained his cheerfulness, 
 
104 THE HAND OF. THE MIGHTY 
 
 which was, however, more a habit than a condi 
 tion of thought. I knew that he was wretchedly 
 lonely and that disappointment came to end each 
 hope he dared indulge in. 
 
 It was a mighty step from the sleepy little 
 southern town where he had lived, to New York, 
 with its supreme indifference to so small a unit 
 in the struggling mass. 
 
 With his grave earnest eyes, which were almost 
 pathetic in their seriousness, and the face, that 
 the days of waiting had stamped with lines 
 markings of the hand that was empty for him 
 he was only one of many. 
 
 His mother was an invalid, his father had long 
 been dead, and they were very poor. This bit of 
 information he imparted with the utmost reluct 
 ance. I guessed at it without the telling, as no 
 one, unless there was the grim incentive of press 
 ing poverty, ever braved the terrors of life at 
 Mrs. Tauton s. 
 
 Little by little he told me of his mother, and 
 I saw that love for her was the one strong pas 
 sion of his heart. She lived none too happily 
 with relatives in the town that had been the 
 home of his family for a great many generations. 
 
 He seldom or never spoke of what he would do 
 for himself when he should achieve success; it 
 was his mother who was to profit by it. 
 
 One night he came into my room and dropped 
 dejectedly down on the edge of the bed, that 
 
WHEN WE HAVE WAITED 105. 
 
 answered all the purposes of a chair when not in 
 actual use as a couch. 
 
 "What is it, Gavan?" I asked. 
 
 "Nothing much. Only my first year in New 
 York is about at an end, and there is no gain of 
 any sort to show for it. The whole thing has 
 been miserably discouraging." 
 
 "Why, Gavan, you are making important ac 
 quaintances all the time, who will aid you on to 
 what you want." 
 
 "It is deadly slow. It s forever and eternally 
 to-morrow." 
 
 He made a troubled little gesture with his 
 hand. 
 
 "They say my work is good, that it is emi 
 nently clever sometimes even that it s great; 
 but that is not enough, and I try again. Try 
 to be more like not myself but some one else; 
 for it seems they don t want me on any terms. 
 I wonder if there is such a thing as a man s being 
 absolutely unavailable in the world being of such 
 an odd size and shape of both soul and mind that 
 there is no niche he can fill. Do you know, I 
 am beginning to think it of myself, that I don t 
 fit just don t fit anywhere." 
 
 And he looked at me questioningly. I had 
 never seen him so despondent before. 
 
 He must have understood my thought, for he 
 continued: 
 
 "I am ashamed to burden you with my woes. 
 
106 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 If I were the only one concerned it wouldn t be 
 so bad, I could stand it." 
 
 A wistful far-away look came into his eyes as 
 he said softly: 
 
 "But there s my mother. It s for her I am 
 working much more than for myself. Her life 
 is so hard, with poverty and the contemptible 
 pettiness of those about her." 
 
 He turned from me to hide the tears that would 
 gather against his will. 
 
 "And there she sits," his voice sank to a whis 
 per, "counting the days till I shall come and take 
 her away. And what if I never can, what if I 
 end in failure ! We wouldn t require much for 
 perfect happiness, but small as the sum needed 
 is, I can t make it. I shan t stay here much 
 longer. I ll go home and settle down at some 
 thing else." 
 
 "You wouldn t give up your work!" I cried. 
 
 "I can t keep her on the ragged side of uncer 
 tainty. I ll go back; unless soon there is a change 
 for the better in my prospects." There was an 
 abrupt pause. His voice had broken on the last 
 word. 
 
 For a time we sat in silence, and when he spoke 
 again it was cheerfully and of other things. 
 
 A few days later Gavan left the shelter of Mrs. 
 Tauton s roof and went farther down-town, where 
 he had rooms with an old shoemaker and his 
 wife, who were "just as good and kind as could 
 
WHEN WE HAVE WAITED 107 
 
 be," he informed me; and I think they were, but 
 the apartments he had quitted were palatial by 
 comparison with those he now had. 
 
 About the same time I made a move in the 
 opposite direction toward my former mild re 
 spectability. 
 
 One Sunday he came to my lodgings, his face 
 radiant. At last a play was accepted. There 
 were only a few minor changes to be made; he 
 could do them in a week or so, and then the com 
 pany would begin to get up in their parts. 
 
 "I shan t have to quit and go home after all," 
 he said. "I ve written mother all about it. I d 
 give a good deal to be there and enjoy it with 
 her. It would be such fun! Perhaps it isn t 
 many months off till she can join me here, and 
 then, old fellow, you are to come and live with 
 us." 
 
 This last was one of his favorite ideas for the 
 future. When he felt elated or particularly hope 
 ful it was always broached, and it was character 
 istic of his general goodness that he wished to 
 share all he had, or was to have, with his friends. 
 
 When I saw him a week later his work was 
 progressing and the play would surely go on be 
 fore the season ended. But by our next meeting 
 his hope had evidently moderated, for he looked 
 downcast and troubled as he explained the pro 
 duction had to be deferred. "They haven t the 
 money it will take. A heavy outlay for scenery 
 
108 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 is involved, you know. It will go on the first of 
 the coming season, and that s about the most I 
 can expect under the circumstances. In the mean 
 time there s a lot of work I wish to do, so it 
 doesn t much matter. I can wait, only" and 
 his glance became tender "it will go hard with 
 mother. She won t understand why it s not as I 
 said it was going to be." 
 
 Unfortunately, when the manager returned from 
 his summer trip abroad, he brought with him 
 from Paris the success of a thousand nights. 
 
 "He will do that at once, and then try mine. 
 He really prefers my work, but thinks that more 
 immediate profits are to be expected from the 
 French piece," Gavan told me, and this was all 
 he had to say. 
 
 The imported play had a long run in New York, 
 half the winter and better. Then it was taken 
 on tour. 
 
 "They can t drop a sure thing," he explained 
 nervously when he informed me of the new ar 
 rangement. "However, the very first opening 
 is to belong to me; no telling or guessing when 
 it will come, but scarcely until next year. I ll 
 have to do what I can meanwhile to drag out 
 an existence. I can t give up. I ve done so much 
 it would be foolish even to think of stopping. 
 If there is only a decent bit of luck in the end, 
 a few months will pay up for the two years of 
 misery. Of course, it s tiresome, this everlasting 
 
WHEN WE HAVE WAITED 109 
 
 putting off, but if I wait long enough and don t 
 starve, I am sure to see the play go on. The 
 manager has said over and over that he wanted 
 to stage it, and I think he does. It wouldn t be 
 so rough if I were the only one concerned, but 
 there s my mother. I know she is feeling it 
 keenly, though she tries not to show it." 
 
 He was still brave, but the deep secret joy 
 was gone from his eyes. He was slowly drifting 
 back to the despondency that had marked the 
 last weeks of his stay at Mrs. Tauton s. 
 
 "I don t suppose," he added, "that mother can 
 comprehend how slow a matter it is, and I don t 
 know that I make it clear to her." 
 
 How he lived through the winter and the 
 spring that followed, I never knew. 
 
 When summer came I tried to induce him to 
 go into the country with me for an outing. 
 
 He was profuse in his expressions of gratitude, 
 but felt that he must remain in the city. The 
 season was almost over and soon everybody would 
 be there. It was his opportunity. 
 
 "I don t know why it is," he wound up re 
 flectively, "but I seem to have a harder pull of 
 it than most do. I wish I didn t look so young. 
 Then, too, my work is original, and I find orig 
 inality is an offense to most people. I can t do 
 clever trifles." 
 
 No, his work was not clever; I appreciated 
 that. It was only great. 
 
110 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 On my return from the country he met me 
 in Jersey City. 
 
 "I didn t write you about it, old fellow," he 
 said, as we crossed on the ferry. "My time 
 comes in a month. Everything is in shape for 
 the production scenery painted and costumes 
 made. I ve hung around for three years, but my 
 day has come at last!" 
 
 He took my congratulations with the gracious- 
 ness that was characteristic of him. 
 
 "It isn t unmitigated bliss," he remarked. "I 
 have had to all but ruin the piece to get it on. 
 I guess it will pass muster and that s all I care 
 for now. Three years such as I have spent are 
 warranted to take the pride out of any man s 
 soul." 
 
 Lightly as he spoke, I knew he was staking all 
 his future on the event. 
 
 "Drop in for the first night," he said, as he left 
 me at my lodgings. "I want your opinion. I 
 have great faith in your judgment," he added po 
 litely. 
 
 I knew he hadn t, but he was invariably kind, 
 even at the expense of truth. 
 
 During the month, the last one of waiting, I 
 saw him frequently. The many interests relating 
 to the presentation went forward with unexpected 
 smoothness, and there was but one drop of bit 
 terness in Gavan s cup. His mother was unwell. 
 He had observed a decided change in the tone of 
 
WHEN WE HAVE WAITED 111 
 
 her letters, something that was deeper than mere 
 sorrow at his absence. One of his relatives (for 
 like a true Southerner he had a surpassingly large 
 number of them) had written that it was his duty 
 to come home at his earliest possible convenience. 
 
 When Gavan told me this, he said: 
 
 "And it s the truth; I have been away a long 
 while. Once the first night s over with, I turn 
 my back on New York. My mother needs me." 
 
 I could see that he was very much exercised 
 about his mother s condition. 
 
 "You know she may be a lot worse than they 
 say. I have no idea that they would go into 
 detail even if it were a serious matter, and mother 
 herself would be the last person in the world 
 to expect information of that sort from." 
 
 The eventful night came. I was late, having 
 been detained at my office, and the first act was 
 ended when I reached the theater, but I was in 
 time to see Gavan bow his thanks to those in 
 front from the stage. This I saw through the 
 blur of lights and the mist that swam before my 
 eyes. 
 
 The curtain had gone down on the last act 
 when I made my way around back and joined 
 him. 
 
 "Come," he said, as I took his hand. "Come, 
 let s go home. I am tired and I am satisfied." 
 
 He was silent until we reached his door. 
 
 "Come in, don t leave me yet." 
 
112 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 And I followed him up to his room. 
 
 He had again relapsed into silence, but I could 
 see that he was happy. Finally he roused him 
 self from his reverie to say: 
 
 "You don t mind if I go to bed, do you? and 
 stay a little longer; I want to talk to you. It s 
 such a comfort to have you here." 
 
 I said I would stay all night if he desired it. 
 I was too excited to sleep. 
 
 He was soon in bed, and I drew up a chair 
 close beside him. 
 
 Then he began to talk of his mother, to tell 
 me of what he would do for her. "For I fancy 
 the turning point is past," he said. "I signed 
 contracts to-night for more work, and now money 
 goes to bind the bargain. They are not the bar 
 ren formality they were when I put my name to 
 the first one two years ago. I ll go home and 
 see how mother is before I do anything else, and 
 take a rest of a month or so. I can afford it, for 
 the play s a big hit. There can be no mistake 
 about it. Now that success has come, somehow 
 it s not quite all I anticipated. A part of the sat 
 isfaction has been lost in the struggle, and a part 
 of my ambition as well. I ve served my appren 
 ticeship to art. I have starved, hoping against 
 hope, for three years, and now I ll be content 
 with the money it will mean. After all, it nar 
 rows down to this: We begin with different aims 
 before we have exhausted ourselves in trying to 
 overcome the ignorance and prejudice of others." 
 
WHEN WE HAVE WAITED 113 
 
 .When I left him he was sleeping with his head 
 upon his arm. The boyish roundness seemed to 
 have returned to his face and the anxious look 
 was gone. He was as I remembered him in the 
 old days at Mrs. Tauton s. 
 
 The night was at an end when I went into 
 the street. Boys were calling the morning pa 
 pers and the city was wide awake. I made a 
 collection of the various papers and left them with 
 the old shoemaker, who was already at work in 
 his little basement shop, to give Gavan when he 
 should have had out his sleep. Then I went up 
 town to breakfast in my own rooms. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when I started 
 back to see him, and as I reached the house the 
 old shoemaker met me at the street-door. I saw 
 his kind face was grave and serious, with lines of 
 grief upon it. 
 
 "Is he sick?" I asked. 
 
 The old man motioned me to follow and with 
 out a word we went up the stairs. In the bare 
 desolate hall above, with its unpalliated hideous- 
 ness now garishly alight with day and sun, stood 
 a policeman, the center of a group of curious men 
 and women. 
 
 Still I did not comprehend. 
 
 I entered the room. Gavan was lying upon 
 the bed just as I had left him. In his hand was 
 clutched a crushed and torn scrap of yellow paper. 
 
 As I paused, looking stupidly down at the bed 
 and its burden, I became dimly conscious that 
 
114 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 the old man was standing at my side speaking 
 to me, telling me how it had happened. 
 
 "He got a message from home. His mother 
 died last night. It s that he s holding so tight 
 in his hand. Poor lad! a power of promise and 
 real goodness went out of the world with him." 
 
 There were dark stains upon the bed-clothes, 
 and he lay in the midst of the papers that told 
 him of his triumph. 
 
THE DESERTER 
 
 PRIVATE AUSTIN sat languidly upon his cot 
 and slowly raised a cloud above his head 
 from the disreputable black pipe firmly clenched 
 between his teeth. His eyes, wandering aim 
 lessly, finally rested upon a shotgun leaning 
 against the opposite wall, one of two furnished 
 by a kind and benignant government for the sole 
 and exclusive use of the sportively inclined mem 
 bers of Company A and his vague unrest took 
 form in a desire to spend the day with that gun 
 upon the prairie in a search for solitude and 
 game. 
 
 To gain this privilege, the consent of the offi 
 cer on duty was indispensable, and Private Austin 
 who had seen much pack-drill and who had ac 
 quired a valuable familiarity with the inside of 
 the guard-house, knew that this consent was not 
 for him. However he arose, giving himself a 
 vigorous shake, and his attire, previously wrinkled 
 into a thousand twists and creases, became the 
 undress uniform of a private of remarkably neat 
 appearance. 
 
 Passing along the narrow gangway between the 
 long line of cots, taking care in doing so not to 
 awaken the sweltering tossing figures slumber- 
 
 115 
 
116 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 ing uneasily upon them, he reached the door and 
 stepped out into the open air. 
 
 For an instant as he inhaled the fresh morning 
 air and gazed upon the blue hills rising from the 
 level stretch of plain, their dusky outlines now 
 tipped as with gold by the sun, his own mean life 
 his rough companions were forgotten. Then 
 as slowly and reluctantly his eyes turned from 
 their distant point of vision and roamed around 
 the circle of accustomed objects, the white frame 
 cottages of the officers quarters, the bleak, stern, 
 uncompromising walls of the too familiar guard 
 house, the well beaten earth of the abhorred pa 
 rade ground, the very stunted trees that seemed 
 to have lost all graceful form and to stand in stiff 
 unbending ranks as though nature itself felt the 
 control of a military despotism, he was once 
 more a soldier, common and unclean, with an 
 unquenchable thirst for beer and a loathing for 
 all discipline. 
 
 As he stood alone with his disgust, his atten 
 tion centered itself upon Lieutenant Parsons who 
 was returning at breakneck speed from his morn 
 ing canter. As the lieutenant drew near the post 
 he reined in his horse. This gave Private Austin 
 an opportunity to approach and make his petition. 
 
 Lieutenant Parsons turned in his saddle and 
 looked at the soldier in utter and unmitigated 
 contempt. To the disciplined well-trained West 
 Pointer the general conduct of Private Austin 
 
THE DESERTER 117 
 
 could only be accounted for by a moral turpitude 
 and a state of original sin shocking to all well- 
 ordered minds, and his present highly audacious 
 request was but one of those constitutional aber 
 rations arising from that condition. 
 
 A prompt and vigorous expression of his opinion 
 was on his tongue s end, but contenting himself 
 with a brief answer in the negative, half deadened 
 by the bugle-call which rang out at the moment, 
 he continued on his way to headquarters. 
 
 Private Austin followed with his glance the fig 
 ure of his superior until he had reached a dis 
 tance that made comment safe and pleasant, when 
 he proceeded to express himself in such crisp 
 and belligerent English as only the resident of a 
 military post would be able to appreciate. He 
 continued as he reentered the barracks to voice 
 his indignation in a fashion both edifying and 
 pleasing to the aroused soldiers. Then suddenly 
 he picked up a shotgun and made his way to the 
 rear of the room, heedless alike of the sergeant s 
 sharp command to stop his noise and fall in line 
 and the wondering gaze of his fellows. With a 
 vicious jerk he tossed open a window and care 
 fully deposited the gun without, immediately fol 
 lowing with other government property, namely, 
 Private Austin, of Company A. 
 
 As the others emerged upon the open space 
 before the barracks, he shouldered his gun and 
 walked off in a deliberate and unconcerned man- 
 
118 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 ner, taking care, however, to maneuver a course 
 that brought the barracks between himself and 
 the rapidly assembling regiment upon the parade 
 ground. But the deliberateness of his march was 
 pure bravado, for no sooner had he reached a 
 sheltering cluster of trees that offered conceal 
 ment from the curious eyes of any of his com 
 rades who might be watching his movements, 
 than bending low he started on a swift run. 
 
 At last his breath failed him and he threw him 
 self down at full length upon the scant verdure 
 of the prairie. And now he thought for the first 
 time of the penalty of his act. There were two 
 courses open to him: either to obtain all the 
 pleasure that could be obtained from his unwonted 
 liberty and then return to the post, there to spend 
 many a day in the guard-house as a consequence of 
 having been absent without leave; or he might 
 attempt to make his way across the plains and 
 there lose himself. But this was an almost im 
 possible project as he knew, since the reward the 
 government offers for the return of each of her 
 straying defenders keeps the border sheriffs on 
 the alert. No, it would be wiser to return and 
 face the consequences at the post, than to risk 
 spending the next five years of his life in the mili 
 tary prison at Leavenworth. He would surrender 
 within the specified twelve hours, beyond which 
 time the comparatively innocent "absent without 
 leave" would become the dreaded "deserter". 
 
THE DESERTER 119 
 
 Having now recovered his breath and his cus 
 tomary spirits, which had been rather damped 
 by his reflections, he started to made a wide cir 
 cuit with the mingled determination of spilling 
 the blood of every living thing that should be so 
 unfortunate as to come within the range of his 
 gun, and of arriving at the post before nightfall. 
 
 A prairie schooner, drawn by a pair of meager 
 oxen and driven by a sad-faced woman, was toil 
 ing over the sandy ridges. A half-grown boy, 
 barefoot and ragged, led the way, shading his 
 eyes from time to time with his sunburnt hands, 
 and gazing eagerly on all sides in a vain hope that 
 each moment might bring to view the longed-for 
 haven of their march. On the seat beside the 
 woman two children crouched, so weary of it all 
 that they seemed involuntarily to avoid looking 
 at anything save their own brown feet. Within 
 the wagon among the poor belongings of the 
 family was a rude bed and on this bed lay a man, 
 gaunt and hollow-cheeked. By his side a young 
 girl watched. 
 
 The man turned feebly toward her. 
 
 "The post?" he asked fretfully, reiterating the 
 question that never left his lips. "Can you see 
 it yet?" There was an age of suffering, endur 
 ance and longing in his voice. 
 
 "Not yet, father," replied the girl soothingly. 
 "But we will surely reach it before night." 
 
120 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 "If we have not already passed it," said the 
 man. "It is impossible that Frank has kept the 
 trail." 
 
 "He has done his best, father." 
 
 Without replying the man turned away, and in 
 a few moments either slept or had sunk into a 
 stupor. 
 
 The stretch of prairie was at last broken to 
 the west by a strip of timber. The oxen turned 
 toward it longingly. Instinct told them that where 
 there were trees there must be water. Even the 
 stolid lad in front quickened his pace, and dis 
 appeared in the undergrowth that skirted the 
 edge of the grove. Close following came the 
 oxen. 
 
 The woman s face had not changed, but the 
 children s, before so indifferent, now seemed alive 
 with cheerfulness and expectation. Then sud 
 denly they heard the boy give a shout of warn 
 ing. But all too late, for like a streak of gray 
 light a skulking coyote went flying past. The 
 report of a gun sounded, and one of the sad-eyed 
 oxen breathed a sigh of relief, bowed its knees 
 and then fell gently forward upon its side. 
 
 At the sight of this great calamity all else was 
 forgotten. The woman moaned dismally, while 
 the girl looked over her shoulder so stupefied 
 that she paid no attention to the sick man who 
 in querulous tones demanded the cause of the 
 excitement. 
 
THE DESERTER 121 
 
 This was the scene that presented itself to Private 
 Austin s astonished gaze, when, gun in hand, he 
 emerged from the thicket in the hope of getting 
 another shot at the coyote. He saw the dying 
 ox, the dismayed faces, the tearful eyes, and he 
 wished devoutly from the bottom of his heart 
 that Private Austin, heavily ironed, was again 
 within the walls of the most dismal prison that 
 in his varied life he had ever known. 
 
 Approaching slowly he spoke a few words half 
 apologetic, half sullen. He would have been glad 
 to arouse a fury, more easy to meet than their 
 calm despair. Stepping forward he unhitched 
 the remaining ox, and promised a prompt and 
 sufficient recompense for their loss. The night 
 was closing in upon them, the distance to the 
 post was great, they must make their camp where 
 they were, and in the morning he and the boy 
 could go for assistance. 
 
 A busy man that night was Private Austin. 
 He brought a smile to the woman s worn face, 
 he caused the children s merry voices to ring out 
 in the darkness as they drew round the camp-fire. 
 His arms gently shifted the sick man from his 
 hard bed in the wagon to one of gathered leaves 
 and grass that was as down to his tired limbs. 
 He made the girl smile and blush and turn away, 
 only to come again. But a change came over 
 him when all was hushed and silent, when he 
 alone kept watch beside the smoldering camp- 
 
122 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 fire. Three times he arose and strode off into the 
 night with his face toward the east, and then 
 turned back. 
 
 It was well toward morning and the boy Frank 
 lay sleeping beneath the protecting shelter of the 
 wagon-bed, when a heavy hand was placed upon 
 his shoulder and he awoke. Crimson streaks of 
 light told that the day was near. With a finger 
 on his lips as a sign not to disturb the others, 
 Private Austin motioned the lad to follow him. 
 
 "A reward is offered by the government for 
 the return of Private Austin, deserter, late of 
 Company A," read the placard nailed upon the 
 barrack walls. "A reward is offered by the gov 
 ernment for the return of Private Austin, deserter, 
 late of Company A/ read the telegrams that sent 
 out a thrill of greed through the veins of half 
 a score of sleepy sheriffs. "A reward is offered 
 by the government for the return of Private Aus 
 tin, deserter, late of Company A," read the colonel 
 in front of the gathered regiment. And then a 
 strange thing happened: across the open space 
 came Private Austin, his hands tied behind him 
 with his own belt, and by his side a half-grown 
 boy with Private Austin s shotgun held in his 
 grasp. To the waiting colonel came the pair. 
 
 "Colonel, the boy took me. He gets the re 
 ward," said Private Austin. 
 
WHAT REARTON SAW 
 
 REARTON dropped down in the chair I pushed 
 forward. 
 
 "Can you give me a moment or two?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "As many as you like," I answered. "Just wait 
 till I put my name to this " and I signed the 
 letter before me. 
 
 He watched me fold and slip it into an envelope, 
 then he said: 
 
 "I want your opinion on certain matters." 
 
 "Come now, Rearton," I entreated. "Let me 
 off if it s to be another talk on spiritualism!" 
 
 "Confound it ! Why will you persist in calling 
 my beliefs by what to me is the most offensive 
 of names? I recognize the existence of the super 
 natural. Every intelligent man must." 
 
 "Then, praise heaven, I am not intelligent." 
 
 "I want to ask you this. How much more than 
 you actually see would you be willing to believe?" 
 
 "A great deal less, and even then I question 
 not I d be pretty well deceived. The evidences 
 of the senses are no evidences at all. They are 
 a cheat ninety-nine times out of a hundred. The 
 testimony of no two witnesses ever tallied ex 
 actly, even though they stood side by side look 
 ing on the same event." 
 
 123 
 
124 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Come, that s a broad statement," he objected. 
 
 "Of a very general truth," I supplemented. 
 "And it holds good from the crucifixion down to 
 the present day, whether the occasion was most 
 momentous or most trivial." 
 
 I was aware that my friend was dabbling in the 
 occult, and if any thing I could say would throw 
 discredit on it I was anxious it should not be left 
 unsaid. 
 
 "Look here," he continued, "supposing I should 
 state to you as a fact susceptible of positive proof, 
 that the future can be made visible to a man." 
 
 "Oh, come!" I interposed. "Let s drop this." 
 
 "No, I can t." He had become suddenly grave. 
 "I want you to promise me that if I send for you 
 during the next week you will respond to the 
 summons." 
 
 "See here, Rearton, what folly are you about 
 to engage in?" 
 
 "My dear boy, it s not folly! If what I expect 
 happens, I shall be able to gratify a rational de 
 sire to read the future, my own particularly." 
 
 "When you do," I burst out, "I hope I ll be 
 there to see how the thing s done!" 
 
 "That s exactly the favor I m asking." 
 
 We sat silently looking at each other for a 
 moment. I felt vaguely that my friend was not 
 the man for such experiments. He was far too 
 likely to be the dupe of another s cunning, being 
 sensitive almost to the verge of weakness, essen- 
 
WHAT REARTON SAW 125 
 
 tially a dreamer with all a dreamer s love of the 
 unreal. 
 
 "What does Miss Kent say? does she know?" 
 I asked. 
 
 "Miss Kent is quite willing." 
 
 "Probably she agrees with me that it s all a 
 pack of nonsense." 
 
 "There you re mistaken," he said quickly. 
 
 "Faith, supreme faith, must be dominant in 
 her character then. Few women would care to 
 have the man they expect to marry forestall time 
 in the fashion you propose." 
 
 "Miss Kent is not the ordinary woman. Her 
 willingness shows sublime faith in our affection." 
 
 "Quite so, that is if she really thinks it pos 
 sible." 
 
 "I assure you" and his pale face flushed "I 
 assure you she shares my beliefs fully. Why 
 shouldn t the future be as plain as the past?" 
 
 "Now see here, Rearton," I said, "I m not es 
 pecially fond of argument, and if I can t swear my 
 way through a dispute it is rather apt to languish 
 as far as I am concerned. One thing I am sure 
 of, if bare one-half of your good fortune was 
 mine I d be amply satisfied with the present. 
 Nothing so remote as the future would trouble 
 me." 
 
 Rearton, seeing that I was not inclined to dis 
 cuss the question he had propounded, took his 
 leave of me. 
 
126 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 A day or so later I received a note from him 
 requesting my immediate presence at his apart 
 ments. I hastened there. He opened the door 
 himself in response to my knock and I followed 
 him into his room. I could see he was laboring 
 under some great excitement. His first words 
 were evidently intended to explain matters. 
 
 "He will be here in a moment." He spoke 
 hurriedly and in a low voice as though he feared 
 a listener. "The reason I sent for you is because 
 of all my friends I think you are the least likely 
 to be imposed on. I have the uneasy feeling that 
 many of my investigations were not conducted 
 with absolute fairness, an uncomfortable sensa 
 tion of having been tricked. Understand me, my 
 faith in the great principle remains unaltered, but 
 the methods used in its demonstration have been 
 unworthy." 
 
 I made a gesture of ridicule and dissent, and 
 he added: 
 
 "Your unbelief and doubt are my mainstay. I 
 trust to you to see that what is to follow is car 
 ried out in the spirit of truth that prompts the 
 undertaking." 
 
 I was about to make a reply when some one 
 said in a voice of marvelous sweetness and cul 
 ture: 
 
 "If you are ready, gentlemen." 
 
 I turned hastily. Standing beside the door that 
 gave access to my friend s dressing-room was a 
 
WHAT REARTON SAW 127 
 
 man in a loose robe of dark and curious fabric. 
 Not the habit, but the man, riveted my attention. 
 I saw a colorless face devoid of beard or mus 
 tache, a face incontestably perfect as to feature and 
 outline, but the very antithesis of handsome. The 
 mouth was fine and cruel, the forehead serene and 
 broad, with wonderful eyes that burned and 
 glowed with a peculiar lusterless fire as they met 
 mine. The whole effect was distinctly unpleasant. 
 The man was of the kind that one might imagine 
 murdered from love of crime as an art, to whom 
 profit was secondary to pleasure. I instinctively 
 knew that the quality of his mind, though incom 
 parably acute, was debased and diseased far 
 beyond the limits of the rational, yet nothing 
 could be further removed from insanity nor mad 
 ness. 
 
 Rearton said, "This is my friend," placing his 
 hand on my arm as he spoke. 
 
 The man, having advanced to the center of the 
 room, and acknowledged the introduction by an 
 inclination of the head, said, "Let us begin." I 
 observed the same quality in his speech that had 
 arrested my attention in his face. Soft and sweet 
 as the tones of his voice were, they were entirely 
 divorced from feeling. It was a soulless perfec 
 tion. 
 
 In the center of the room was a table with 
 three chairs drawn about it. Rearton took the 
 one at the head, and in response to his bidding 
 
128 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 I seated myself at the foot. The man medium 
 or whatever he might be dividing the space 
 between us. 
 
 For a moment or two I kept my glance fastened 
 upon him, then I turned to Rearton. A marked 
 change had taken place in his appearance. He 
 had sunk down in his chair in a heap like a drunk 
 en man or an imbecile in a period of bodily degen 
 eracy corresponding to the mental. The white of 
 his eyes showed through their half opened lids a 
 dull lead color. His skin was splotched and yel 
 low. He seemed scarcely to breathe. It was 
 altogether horrible ! 
 
 As I gazed, slowly he straightened up, the lids 
 rolled back, and with a convulsive motion a 
 nervous tremor he sat erect, staring at the man. 
 The latter began to sway from side to side, and 
 as the needle follows the magnet, so Rearton s 
 body moved in unison. He was dumbly obedient. 
 
 All this while I was far from being unaffected. 
 I don t know that I can better describe my sensa 
 tions than by saying that flashes of cold coursed 
 through my veins. I had an uncomfortable and 
 cowardly desire to turn and see who was behind 
 me. This continued until I was absolutely chilled 
 and shivering. My head began to swim, a sickenn 
 ing nausea lay hold of me, and still those wonder 
 ful eyes against my will and reason held me spell 
 bound. I could not draw away my own from 
 them. I followed their search into futurity. 
 
WHAT REARTON SAW 129 
 
 At last, in desperation, placing my hands upon 
 the table, I sought with the aid of the support it 
 gave to rise. It was all folly! I must throw off 
 this influence it was a cheat a swindle . . . 
 strange that I should be powerless to resist. 
 
 Suddenly as I struggled to retain the mastery 
 over my senses a cry of pain escaped my lips. I 
 had received a shock as though the base of my 
 brain had been seared with a red-hot iron. I 
 felt my head go down upon my breast, and then 
 another mind than mine swayed me. 
 
 Without any effort on my part, uninfluenced 
 by will or force self-expressed, I turned to Rear- 
 ton ; and as I looked at him he grew indistinct 
 far removed and distant and yet I knew that by 
 putting out my hand I could touch him. There 
 began to be strange faces that peered on me from 
 out the mist that had fallen on us. They came 
 and went like passing shadows. 
 
 This phase of my experience ceased abruptly. 
 Once more I saw Rearton, his glance fixed and 
 unwavering, his lips moving as if in speech. It was 
 the vision of his future that he saw, and what 
 he saw was shown me. 
 
 I seemed ,to know that he was married, and to 
 Miss Kent. This I knew, not as an onlooker, 
 but as his second self; and yet in what was to 
 follow I suffered simply as one suffers with those 
 whom he loves, who bears a portion of their grief 
 through sympathy. 
 
130 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 He was living in the rapture of his joy, and 
 obedient to his deep desire, her presence stole 
 from among the shadows that surrounded us and 
 came so near that she stood beside his chair. She 
 was so beautiful with youth and innocence that 
 I heard him murmur her name in an ecstacy of 
 love and tenderness, putting forth his arms as 
 though to take her into his embrace. 
 
 Vagueness closed in, shutting out the picture, 
 but only for an instant. It was cleared away, and 
 Rearton was seen kneeling at the foot of a low 
 bed. Hers was the pale face on the pillow. My 
 first thought was that she would die; but it was 
 the beginning, not the end, of life. 
 
 As the days came that were made manifest to 
 us, the story was carried on. We saw the child 
 against her breast, she softly singing it to sleep. 
 A thousand gracious things we beheld in those 
 glad days of love. 
 
 By slow degrees a change came into their lives. 
 The note of harmony that had been struck, sound 
 ed for the last time, and was silent. It was the 
 gradual decay of affection, but so insidious was 
 the transition so covert the difference that 
 neither could have said, "Here the evil started." 
 Soon neglect mounted up and stood for wrong. 
 Again and again they parted, she in tears he 
 angry and dissatisfied. 
 
 Staining the cheeks of Rearton s real self were 
 tears, too. He strove to speak to contradict the 
 
WHAT REARTON SAW 131 
 
 false evidence, to say it should not be as foretold 
 to comfort her, but his lips refused him utter 
 ance. 
 
 Slow growing came the change until at last 
 they had drifted far apart, each with separate in 
 terests; the only bond between them, the child. 
 
 With startling rapidity the pictures flashed back 
 and forth in front of me. She was seated alone 
 before a window that opened out upon a vine- 
 covered balcony. The sweet odor of honeysuckle 
 rilled the air. She was a mature woman now, no 
 longer the girl, no longer the young mother, but 
 the matron whose ripened charms had reached 
 their full perfection. Yet in the gain of years 
 and experience there was plainly evinced a loss to 
 her. She had gained the bitter wisdom that hard 
 ens the heart and soul of its possessor. 
 
 A man appeared at the window. He seemed 
 to speak her name, for she arose and went to 
 him. At first I thought it might be Rearton, for 
 his head was turned from me, but it was not. It 
 was one whom I had never seen. I did not have 
 to wonder much what brought him there. They 
 were lovers. By gesture and the visible sem 
 blance of speech I knew that he entreated her to 
 go with him. She half yielded, only to hesitate. 
 Something held her some memory the thought 
 of some duty not love for her husband. That 
 was dead, long dead. 
 
 At my side the real Rearton sat with hands 
 
132 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 resting on the table, staring wildly into vacancy. 
 Great drops of sweat stood on his forehead, and 
 the muscles of his throat were knotted as from 
 the mighty but unavailing effort he was making 
 to speak. With merciless strength and cruelty 
 he was chained down to the sight. 
 
 He saw the woman he adored, through his 
 neglect and indifference, about to cast away her 
 life. She had all but yielded, when she ran back 
 into the room and paused beneath a picture that 
 hung on the wall. It was of herself when she 
 was a bride. She compared herself with it. They 
 were the same in look and feature, and yet she 
 had lost so much ! Standing on tiptoe, with her 
 small white hand she struck the canvas until it 
 was torn and marred. She would leave no record 
 of the past to mock at her to tell what she had 
 been! 
 
 A few moments sufficed for the work of de 
 struction, and she rejoined the man who had 
 waited for her the while by the window. To 
 gether they were advancing toward it, when a 
 figure glided from behind the curtains that closed 
 an inner door. It was Rearton s future self. A 
 polished bit of steel glittered in his hand. He 
 came between them and the balcony. 
 
 Thus confronted, the woman sank into a chair, 
 bowing her head in her hands; but more from 
 shame than fright. The two men gazed sternly 
 at each other. Slowly, steadily, Rearton raised 
 
WHAT REARTON SAW 133 
 
 the gleaming piece of metal, there was a puff of 
 smoke another and another 
 
 With the first one the woman had sprung to 
 her feet and darted forward, throwing herself 
 before the man she loved. With the last puff of 
 smoke she slipped from his arms for she had 
 sought a refuge there, falling swiftly to the floor 
 with a little sob of mingled pain and relief that 
 compassed all contentment, for it was distinctly 
 audible, stealing through the silence of the unborn 
 years. A spot of purple darkened the whiteness 
 of her breast. 
 
 Seeing what he had done, Rearton fell on his 
 knees beside her and took the heavy head on his 
 shoulder, trying to call her back to life and love. 
 When he saw that all hope was vain, he covered 
 his face with his hands. 
 
 Once more the shadows came. Once more the 
 faces filled the air, and the scene had shifted. 
 The signs of unspeakable suffering were stamped 
 upon Rearton s brow when I again saw distinctly. 
 He stood on the deck of a ship, his son at his 
 side. I divined that he had escaped punishment, 
 and was seeking forgetfulness the unfound in 
 wanderings to the far ends of the earth. Hiding 
 in his cabin aboard the same ship, they uncon 
 scious of his presence, but he conscious of theirs, 
 was the man who had loved Rearton s wife. By 
 what chance they were brought so near was un 
 known to me. For an instant I observed the 
 
134 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 three and then they were gone. Space swallowed 
 them up, and only the ocean lay climbing to the 
 moon. 
 
 Then came wind and storm, and the waters 
 throbbed against the night, beating its black bos 
 om; but the first streaks of dawn showed both 
 sea and shore, the sea still vexed by memory 
 of the gale, and a mighty stretch of sand that 
 rolled before the wind as did the waves. The 
 sun rose red, and showed dark on its crimson rim 
 the solitary figure of a man edging the desert. 
 It was Rearton. He was alone. I saw that his 
 dress was torn and discolored, stained and wet. 
 
 All day long, beginning with the dawn, he 
 paced the shores of a little land-locked bay, never 
 taking his eyes from its glassy surface save to 
 search among the wreckage that littered the 
 beach. All day he came and went. All day, 
 searching, always searching. Day gave place to 
 night, and the day was born again, and still he 
 passed back and forth scanning the bay with in 
 tent glance that sought no relief from the hot re 
 flection of sky and water. 
 
 Finally thirst drove him inland to where the 
 starved stream, that gave the greater part of its 
 moisture to the dry and hungry earth, was un 
 tainted by the ocean s salt. Across the hot sands 
 each day at evening he made his lonely pilgrim 
 age for the means whereby he might sustain life. 
 
 When the waters of the bay were quiet and 
 
WHAT REARTON SAW 135 
 
 untroubled, huge bubbles could be seen to rise 
 and break, bursting when the air was reached. 
 Whenever this happened, the watcher would mark 
 the spot with his eye and swim out, diving re 
 peatedly as though seeking for something that 
 lay in the slime at the bottom. But on each 
 occasion he came back empty-handed. Still he 
 waited, making no effort to leave the desolation 
 of which he had become a part. 
 
 Many days passed in this manner. One even 
 ing when he had gone to the stream, a black and 
 bloated object rose with a single bubble on the 
 bay. And then one by one up came the dead, 
 until a hundred floated on the slack of the tide, 
 or moved lightly, influenced by the imperceptible 
 current. They were the bodies of men and 
 women, with streaming knotted hair to which the 
 seaweed clung. As the tide came in, they drifted 
 to and fro, ever faster with its increasing flow. 
 Each seemed to hurry in itself, a silly parody on 
 life and haste. Lashed by the wind, the surf dis 
 turbed the smoothness of their resting place. 
 Then a strange thing happened. As the bodies 
 followed back and forth, they smote one against 
 the other, darting from spot to spot, bobbing up 
 and down, or rolling from side to side. At one 
 point when the tide boiled over a sunken ledge of 
 rocks, they had a wild fashion of making the pass 
 so close together that the hindmost would strike 
 those before them with such force in the swiften- 
 
136 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 ing current that they would leap their length from 
 the water, or come erect, standing knee-deep in 
 the waves with much waving of stiffened arms. 
 It was the dead at play. 
 
 The wind and the waves were going down, sink 
 ing with the sun. Still the bodies kept up the 
 chase in the swirling rush of the waters. The 
 moon came up. The tide reached its fulness and 
 stood spreading out on the beach, and the dead 
 were at rest. 
 
 Rearton returned and saw the dark things that 
 were black in the shadows of the shore. He 
 waded in among them, pushing his way through 
 the rotting mass that seemed to sob and sigh as 
 they struck one another, for his progress in their 
 midst created movement. Hours he searched, 
 turning over those that floated face down that he 
 might see their features and miss none. All 
 through the night, aided by the moon s rays, he 
 continued his ghastly quest until it was day. 
 
 He, himself, was changing rapidly. The wild 
 light of delirium and madness shone in his blood 
 shot eyes. As he thrust the drowned bodies 
 from him, I could see him laugh with a foolish 
 hanging of the lip from which the saliva dripped 
 and frothed. 
 
 At last when he was on the point of abandon 
 ing the search, one body drifted out from the 
 shore until it was fair beneath the moon, and he 
 saw, within the circle of mildew that clung to 
 
WHAT REARTON SAW 137 
 
 hair and garment, his son s face. A white film 
 covered the open eyes, the flesh was blue and 
 horribly swollen. Without hesitation he took the 
 hideous reeking mass into his arms and carried 
 it ashore. 
 
 I looked again to see the waters, the moon and 
 all beneath the night the bodies of the dead, but 
 they were blotted out. I could see Rearton alone 
 where he had taken the body back from the beach. 
 He had placed it upon the ground and covered 
 it with his coat. Not far off he was on his knees, 
 digging in the loose earth. This was all I saw 
 in the somber grayness of the dawn. Skulking 
 in the gloom that foretold the day came a shape 
 across the waste. It paused upon a hill of sand 
 that the wind had blown together, and with head 
 erect and ears drawn up, sniffed the air. Then 
 it followed the scent. 
 
 It came near where Rearton dug with bare 
 hands and a fragment of plank from the wreck. 
 Came near, and squatting down, watched him for 
 a space as he labored. Then with stealthy tread 
 it went forward. 
 
 A growl of greedy satisfaction attracted Rear- 
 ton s notice. He looked up and saw the hyena 
 tearing at his son. Snatching up the piece of 
 plank with which he had been digging, he rushed 
 at it. Man and beast met with a shock, and I 
 saw the animal leap repeatedly at Rearton s 
 throat, its teeth tearing and lacerating his face 
 
138 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 and throat. With the desperate strength born 
 of peril and his madness, he wielded his weapon 
 and succeeded in beating off his furious antago 
 nist. Then a single blow dealt with savage fervor 
 stretched it lifeless at his feet. Without stopping 
 to tie up his wounds he resumed his work upon 
 the grave. 
 
 Soon the hole was sufficiently deep, and he 
 placed the body in it and covered it with earth. 
 To make sure that the grave would not be mo 
 lested, he brought what portions of twisted beams 
 he could carry away from the wreckage that 
 strewed the beach and piled upon it until a great 
 heap marked the place of burial. 
 
 Twice the sun sank, and twice it made radiant 
 the heavens before the task was completed to 
 his liking. 
 
 He had been mad, crazed by grief and misery, 
 before he found the body of his son. He was 
 further poisoned by the wounds he had received, 
 and because of them he had gone mad as a beast 
 and not as a man. Flakes of foam were thick and 
 white upon his beard; he had a frightful manner 
 of swinging his head from side to side, snapping 
 with his teeth at whatever came within reach. 
 
 It was the third day since he had been so. He 
 remained in the vicinity of the solitary grave, not 
 even leaving it to go for water. that he no longer 
 needed. The grave continued to hold a meaning, 
 though he was far beyond the saying or the know- 
 
WHAT REARTON SAW 139 
 
 ing why he stayed. It was blind obedience to an 
 impulse or an emotion that survived the extinc 
 tion of the last spark of human intelligence, in 
 him quenched forever. 
 
 His roving glance that shifted constantly, hap 
 pened to see a cloud of smoke that ascended from 
 a point a mile or so farther up the coast than 
 he had yet gone. For a space this wonder fixed 
 his vacillating interest. A dulled intelligence 
 stirred within him. It drew him in that direction. 
 He went slowly at first, on hands and feet, then 
 standing, he hurried forward at a run almost. 
 
 On a tongue of land that projected out boldly 
 into the ocean, a great bonfire had been built 
 and set alight. As the maniac approached, he 
 saw the builder of the fire where he stood be 
 tween it and the sea, his eyes fastened upon a 
 passing ship. At first the maniac paid no heed 
 to him, but walked around and around the blazing 
 pile. He was unseen, for the man had no thought 
 but for the ship that drew in, guided by flame and 
 smoke. Finally he became aware that he was 
 not alone. He moved back to the fire and Rear- 
 ton saw his face, the face he had seen last when 
 he had bent over his dead wife where she had 
 fallen. He gazed at his former friend stolidly for 
 a time with unwavering insistence, but by degrees 
 a partial capacity for reason dawned upon him 
 and with it came a measure of memory and hate. 
 
 Meanwhile the man was frozen to the spot, 
 
140 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 horror-stricken by fright of what was revealed 
 to him. 
 
 It may have been a minute, it may have been 
 ten, that the maniac and man stood staring at 
 each other; the former with foaming lips that 
 sweated drops of blood; the latter with cheeks 
 that blanched and paled. The man turned toward 
 the ship. Its coming promised safety, should it 
 come in season; and while he did so Rearton 
 advanced a single step, pausing when the man 
 faced him again. 
 
 There was power in sanity. It exercised a cer 
 tain mastery over him. Man and beast stood 
 looking fixedly each at the other, but he could 
 not resist the desire to turn and see from time to 
 time the movements of the ship, and whenever he 
 did so Rearton, crouching low, came closer. For 
 an hour this was the fashion of his advance, and 
 in that hour the man had looked at the approach 
 ing ship just thirty times. The maniac had made 
 just thirty forward steps that counted thirty 
 yards. Perhaps there remained ten that separated 
 them. 
 
 The ship was stationary, and a boat had left its 
 side and started in. Strong as was his tempta 
 tion the man dared not look. He kept his face 
 turned to the maniac. He put one foot behind 
 him and fell back in the direction of the beach, 
 moving with the utmost caution. With equal 
 caution the maniac followed. 
 
WHAT REARTON SAW 141 
 
 They had almost reached the water. They 
 heard the distant splash of oars disturb the still 
 ness, and giving way to weakness, the man with 
 drew his eyes that he might see the boat. In 
 stantly, with a bound, the maniac darted at him. 
 He gave a smothered cry of rage as he hurled 
 himself on the man, bearing him to earth. There 
 was a short terrific struggle as they wrenched to 
 and fro, his teeth were buried in the man s throat, 
 and mouthing closer with vise-like grips he stran 
 gled him to death. 
 
 As this was doing the sailors landed, and armed 
 with their oars came near the place where the two 
 men were. Rearton relaxed his hold on the dead 
 man s throat and with an angry snarl sprang at 
 the foremost. With their oars the sailors beat him 
 off and hastily retreating to the boat pushed 
 afloat, still defending themselves against his mad 
 attacks. 
 
 When sufficient space was between them, they 
 paused to look and marvel. They could see him 
 alone now in the desert, down on his hands and 
 feet, chasing and biting at the cloud shadows that 
 drifted over the waste and sandy plain and fruit 
 less earth. 
 
 Slowly, lurching forward by stealth and cun 
 ning across the table, came Rearton s actual self. 
 He was frothing at the mouth, his face showed 
 red with livid scars. Nearer nearer he came, 
 
142 THE HAND OK THE MIGHTY 
 
 until I felt his hot breath touch me. I could not 
 move . . . but fear gave me power ... by a 
 mighty effort I sprang to my feet, breaking the 
 spell. Still he followed me on hands and knees 
 over the table. It was no fancy. I saw him with 
 unclouded senses. I could see the flakes of foam 
 upon his lips, for there they were ! I could see 
 the livid cuts and bloodshot eyes. He was mad. 
 The vision had become the reality. So bestial 
 was he, so awful and inhuman, that without a 
 thought of pity for him I snatched up the chair 
 in which I had been sitting, and swung it up above 
 my head. He crept nearer in his hideousness. 
 The chair quivered in my clutch, ready to fall. 
 It was his life or mine, and he was mad. 
 
 But I was saved the after pain and remorse 
 that would have been mine had he taken hurt or 
 harm at my hands. The man who had done this 
 thing, who was destined to answer for this sin of 
 his committing, glided in between us. Rearton, 
 where he crouched in readiness to spring at me, 
 glanced up, his interest diverted for the moment, 
 and his eyes met those that were so strangely 
 dark and luminous. He wavered beneath the com 
 pelling force they exercised, wavered for one 
 brief instant and then with a whine like a dog s 
 for mercy, fell down at the man s feet, licking 
 the floor with his black and swollen tongue. 
 
 I waited to see no more, but rushed from the 
 room out in the street. I had no conception of 
 
WHAT REARTON SAW 143 
 
 the time we had spent together, but it must have 
 been hours and hours, for the streets were de 
 serted and empty. I judged it to be long after 
 midnight. 
 
 For a while I walked aimlessly about, seeking 
 to calm and rid myself of a portion of my horror. 
 Eventually pride and a sense of affectionate pity 
 for Rearton returned. Maybe it was all a vision, 
 the last as false and unreal as the first ! Though 
 I tried to convince myself of this, it was only 
 by the strongest exertion of will that I was en 
 abled to mount the flight of stairs that led to 
 my friend s apartments. 
 
 I listened in front of the door for an instant. 
 No sound came from within. With a hand that 
 trembled violently, I pushed it open and entered 
 the room. There on the floor were Rearton and 
 the man, now the victim of his victim. Rear- 
 ton s teeth had torn his face and breast in a shock 
 ing manner, and their last fatal hold was at his 
 throat, on which they were firmly set. Both were 
 dead. About the room the broken furniture gave 
 every evidence of a frightful and prolonged strug- 
 gle. 
 
HOW MR. RATHBURN WAS BROUGHT IN 
 
 RATHBURN paced the room with noiseless 
 tread, now and then stopping to look at the 
 tossing figure of the boy upon the cot or to 
 listen to the words he spoke in his delirium. 
 
 Once he thought he caught the sound of hoofs 
 upon the trail and he halted abruptly as his hand 
 stole beneath the tails of his long English coat. 
 
 Mr. Rathburn s nerves were unstrung by the 
 strain imposed upon them by recent and painful 
 events. As he had expressed it to himself half a 
 hundred times that day, "The gentleman who 
 brings me in, whether it s afoot or in a pine box, 
 goes just five thousand dollars to the good," 
 and each time his thoughts reverted to the power 
 ful inducement the general public had to "bring 
 him in," his hand had stolen beneath the tails of 
 his long English coat; and the comfort he de 
 rived from so doing had enabled him to say, "It 
 won t be the first who tries nor the first six who 
 try, but the seventh gets the pot." 
 
 Mr. Rathburn had left Denver the morning pre 
 vious in great and pressing haste, and with a care 
 ful avoidance of human kind. He had never been 
 a social man and the reward of five thousand dol 
 lars that was "out" for the man who would bring 
 
 144 
 
MR. RATHBURN 145 
 
 him in only served to intensify the natural auster 
 ity of his character. 
 
 The difficulties that beset Mr. Rathburn arose 
 indirectly out of a quiet little game of poker when 
 the stakes had been high, and when the game 
 had ended (two gentlemen going broke), the 
 tempers of all concerned had been even higher 
 than the stakes. 
 
 Mr. Rathburn s honor had been called into 
 question. Certain remarks, chiefly notable be 
 cause of their extreme brevity and almost brutal 
 frankness, had been directed at him. 
 
 What followed was hasty and unpremeditated. 
 
 Now that time had given opportunity for reflec 
 tion, Mr. Rathburn consoled himself with the 
 thought that it was in self-defense. In his view 
 of the matter he stood at variance with that of 
 the public, which was "wilful murder". 
 
 Fear of public sentiment had, however, never 
 been a potent factor in Mr. Rathburn s career, but 
 now, for the first time in his life, this sentiment 
 of disapproval was backed by money, and he was 
 aware that several bands of men were patroling 
 the country and that the various individuals com 
 posing those bands were anxious to get within 
 speaking, or, to be more exact, shooting distance 
 of him. 
 
 Rathburn had been making the best of his way 
 over the range that afternoon in the usual unos 
 tentatious manner of a man fleeing from justice, 
 
146 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 when young Gordon saw him from his ranch near 
 the trail and rushed in pursuit. Young Gordon 
 will never know how near he was to death, for 
 Mr. Rathburn turned and faced him, his hand 
 beneath the tails of his long English coat. As a 
 general thing, when people saw Mr. Rathburn s 
 hand disappear behind him, they left precipitately, 
 for that motion and the one that followed it were 
 known to be singularly fatal to human life. 
 
 Young Gordon, in ignorance of this fact, had 
 continued his approach, which, after all, was the 
 best and safest thing he could have done, for 
 Rathburn got a view of his face, and being a 
 student of faces, he instantly decided that young 
 Gordon was not looking for trouble. 
 
 The news of Mr. Rathburn s latest shooting af 
 fray had not reached the Foot Hill Ranch, and 
 young Gordon did not know that the governor of 
 Colorado had deemed it expedient to offer a large 
 reward to the man who would put a check upon 
 Mr. Rathburn s further independent action and 
 hand him over to the proper authorities in Den 
 ver. Whether or not Mr. Rathburn was to be 
 turned in alive or dead was left to the taste and 
 judgment of his captor; the prevailing tone of 
 the proclamation suggested, however, that Mr. 
 Rathburn dead was easier to handle than Mr. 
 Rathburn alive, and at present there were bets 
 pending as to the probable appearance Mr. Rath- 
 burn would present to the community when on 
 
MR. RATHBURN 147i 
 
 view at the undertaker s shop; for the opinion 
 that he was "a goner" was strong. 
 
 Young Gordon s face, white and drawn with 
 sorrow and apprehension, was more eloquent than 
 any words. His -brother was sick dying for all 
 he knew. Would Rathburn remain at the ranch 
 while he went for a doctor? He dared not leave 
 his brother alone. Would Rathburn remain until 
 morning? 
 
 Mr. Rathburn had looked down the trail. He 
 was quite sure that somewhere behind him were 
 a number of enterprising gentlemen, and that the 
 reward of five thousand dollars had stimulated a 
 degree of activity that would be his ruin if he 
 lingered. He looked at the mountains beyond, 
 which, when reached, promised safety, and they 
 were very near. 
 
 An elevation and generosity of conception char 
 acterized many of Mr. Rathburn s acts. Outside 
 of his profession, and when removed from the 
 unworthy and corrupting influence of the flesh, 
 he was not without a certain nobility of soul. 
 
 He cast one longing look at the mountains, 
 wavered and was lost. 
 
 Just ten minutes later young Gordon was gal 
 loping down the trail at breakneck speed, while 
 Mr. Rathburn remained in attendance upon the 
 sick boy. 
 
 As long as there was light in the sky he had 
 turned frequently to the window and followed 
 
148 THE HAND OF. THE MIGHTY 
 
 with his eyes the dusty streak of gray across the 
 range that marked the windings of the trail, but 
 from without the distance there came neither 
 sound nor sight of life. 
 
 By turns, as the night wore on, Mr. Rathburn 
 was nervous and reflective, now sitting in a chair 
 beside the cot, now pacing the floor restlessly. 
 The present experience was a new one for him. 
 To be sure, at various periods of his eventful and 
 not entirely blameless life he had found it both 
 safe and necessary to deprive certain localities of 
 his presence. Perhaps the necessity would again 
 occur if he succeeded in spite of the delay in mak 
 ing good his escape; but he was not prying into 
 the future, the present was enough for him, quite 
 enough. 
 
 It was not long before he had forgotten his own 
 troubles in his interest in the boy upon the cot, 
 and it was borne upon his consciousness that the 
 boy was very sick indeed, that his fever had reached 
 a crisis and that unless a change for the better came 
 before morning he would no longer need the doctor s 
 aid. 
 
 The boy was very young, sixteen or seventeen 
 at most. 
 
 Mr. Rathburn smoothed his pillow with gentle 
 touch, and seating himself beside the cot, took 
 the boy s hand in his own. The boy tossed to 
 and fro, his eyes open and glassy, his skin hot and 
 burning. Mr. Rathburn placed his disengaged 
 hand upon the boy s brow and set himself to work 
 
MR. RATHBURN 149 
 
 to control and quiet his ravings by his own force 
 of will. 
 
 The hours wore on. One, two, three. The 
 little clock on the shelf beside the door ticked 
 them off; still the boy tossed from side to side. 
 But the watcher noticed that from time to time 
 there came moments of quiet to the sufferer. 
 They grew in length and frequency as the hours 
 passed. 
 
 "We are getting the better of it," murmured 
 Rathburn hopefully. "On the whole I am not 
 sorry I stayed." 
 
 The hands of the clock were pointing to four, 
 and the cold gray of dawn was stealing over the 
 range, shot with rays of light in the east, when 
 Mr. Rathburn pushed back his chair. 
 
 The boy was sleeping peacefully, his breath 
 coming soft and regular. For the first time that 
 night Mr. Rathburn discovered that he himself 
 was both tired and sleepy. 
 
 He pushed back his chair until he reached the 
 center of the room, then bringing his feet to an 
 equal elevation with his head by means of a table, 
 he, too, slept. 
 
 The sunlight was streaming into the room 
 when sounds on the trail aroused him. He awoke 
 with a start. His first glance was at the boy 
 who was still sleeping. Then he arose and 
 walked to the door. 
 
 Four men were cautiously approaching the 
 house, while a fifth held the horses of the party. 
 
150 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 Mr. Rathburn recognized the sheriff of Arapa- 
 hoe County and his deputies, and his hand stole 
 beneath the tails of his long English coat. 
 
 Then he remembered the sleeping boy upon the 
 cot. 
 
 Mr. Rathburn stepped into the yard. 
 
 "Don t shoot/ he said softly, "I give myself 
 up." 
 
MISS CAXTON S FATHER 
 
 IF Miss Caxton s father had been called on to 
 give a detailed account of Miss Caxton s life, 
 he would have described it as a perpetual round 
 of gaiety. By what process of reasoning he 
 arrived at any such conclusion is known only 
 to himself; but from out the depths of his ignor 
 ance this belief had sprung, and it bore fruit in 
 an inclination to curtail any pleasure other than 
 the purely domestic in which Miss Caxton might 
 have desired to indulge. 
 
 It was his custom to observe that if one had a 
 good home, that home was decidedly the best 
 place for one, and on occasions when he knew 
 Miss Caxton was desirous of spending an eve 
 ning out, it was his wont to introduce this state 
 ment at the supper table, as the moral to sundry 
 fables. 
 
 Likewise he manufactured numerous fictitious 
 conversations supposed to have taken place be 
 tween himself and others, in which Miss Caxton 
 was held up as a shining example of domesticity; 
 then he would light his cigar and saunter down 
 town to play at whist until a late hour of the 
 night. 
 
 That there was anything incongruous in his 
 151 
 
152 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 conduct or any discrepancy between his words 
 and his acts never occurred to him. 
 
 Once, when Miss Caxton ventured to point out 
 this apparent difference in word and deed, he had 
 explained that the noise the children made wore 
 upon his nerves but he was quite sure that no 
 man loved his home more than he did, and that 
 when Thaddeus, Roderick and Leander, the twin, 
 grew up and attained a decent age, he would 
 greatly enjoy spending an evening now and then 
 with his family. Nothing could have induced him 
 to believe that the noise wore upon Miss Caxton s 
 nerves. He knew very well that women liked 
 that sort of thing immensely. 
 
 He was not a man of imaginative temperament, 
 or he might have wondered what he would have 
 done had there been no elder sister to look after 
 the children when Miss Caxton s mother followed 
 the youthful Leander s mate out of this world. If 
 this thought ever gained a place in his mind, he 
 had put it aside with the convincing argument 
 that in supplying the little boys with an elder sis 
 ter he had placed himself beyond reproach. Miss 
 Caxton was a living proof of that forethought 
 that marked the serious operations of his life; 
 nor was Miss Caxton overlooked in this happy 
 adjustment; she had Thaddeus and Roderick, not 
 to mention the twin and even half a twin was 
 better than no twin at all. 
 
 This satisfactory arrangement had continued 
 
MISS CAXTON S FATHER 153 
 
 for some years, when the advent of The Fool 
 upon the scene disturbed the serenity of the Cax- 
 ton household. Of course The Fool was not the 
 name bestowed upon him by his sponsors in bap 
 tism; it was an appellation conferred by Miss 
 Caxton s indignant parent, and he only made use 
 of it in his daughter s hearing. That any one 
 else should slip in and supplant him in his daugh 
 ter s affection while he was away playing whist, 
 filled him with indignation. He also was aston 
 ished that his daughter should seem to care for The 
 Fool. Though he seldom saw him, he was aware 
 that most of his unoccupied time was spent in 
 Miss Caxton s society, and he also knew that each 
 night, as he came in at one door The Fool was 
 taking his leave of Miss Caxton at another. But 
 the young man s departure was so nicely timed 
 with reference to the charms of whist that he had 
 never actually set eyes upon him in Miss Caxton s 
 presence. 
 
 Never before having come in contact with the 
 inevitable, Miss Caxton s father had a poor opin 
 ion of it. He began a vigorous campaign, in 
 which he was uniformly worsted. They had 
 Bunker Hill for breakfast, Miss Caxton trium 
 phantly crossed the Delaware for dinner and 
 Cornwallis surrendered at supper time, and with 
 drew to play whist, leaving Miss Caxton and The 
 Fool in possession of the field. 
 
 Miss Caxton s ability to keep her temper and 
 
154 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 preserve that equanimity which was her most 
 marked characteristic, gave her undoubted emi 
 nence in this species of warfare for the cloud 
 of battle hung forever over the house. Her 
 calmness exasperated her father more than any 
 words could have done. 
 
 Under these trying circumstances a man of less 
 fixed habits would have taken to drink as a means 
 of relief Miss Caxton s father took to abusing 
 the children. The little boys and the twin began 
 to lead a dog s life, particularly the youthful 
 Leander, who seemed to possess a great though 
 unconscious power of enraging his parent far in 
 excess of all endurance. At dinner and supper, 
 the only meals they took with their father, they 
 were barely permitted to speak in whispers, and 
 then only to make known their wants in the most 
 direct English at their command. This had a re 
 pressing tendency on youthful spirit. 
 
 How long it would have been possible for this 
 happy state of affairs to have continued there is 
 no telling. Miss Caxton saw fit to bring matters 
 to a crisis. One day, in company with The Fool, 
 she left the paternal roof; at the same time she 
 despatched a communication to her father, re 
 questing his immediate presence at home. When 
 he received the summons it had a mystifying ef 
 fect upon him, but in obedience to the request, he 
 repaired to the scene of his domestic joys. He 
 had no sooner crossed the threshold than some 
 thing within him corresponding to intuition made 
 
MISS CAXTON S FATHER 155 
 
 manifest to his mind s eye that all was not right. 
 The little boys were not visible; even Leander s 
 voice was hushed. Most assuredly something 
 was wrong. 
 
 But what? 
 
 Miss Caxton s father inspected the various 
 rooms comprising his establishment. In his own 
 room he found, conspicuously tucked in one cor 
 ner of his looking-glass, a neatly folded note, 
 directed to himself in Miss Caxton s familiar 
 hand. This evidently was meant to explain the 
 mystery. He tore it open. He read it. Then 
 he read it over. 
 
 That the contents of the note were exercising 
 a powerful and not wholly pacifying influence 
 upon him was easy to be seen. Miss Caxton had 
 eloped with The Fool. 
 
 She asked him to look after the children until 
 she should return, which would be as soon as she 
 was married. Miss Caxton s father held the note 
 out toward his angry reflection in the glass: 
 
 "Here s gratitude for you! Well, she needn t 
 come back home, I m done with her!" 
 
 Then, being only a man, he swore; and while 
 he swore he made up his mind to a course of ac 
 tion that he intended should very much astonish 
 Miss Caxton, when that young lady returned as 
 Mrs. Some-body-else. 
 
 "Does she think I ll stand this? I see myself 
 forgiving her. If I lay my hands on The Fool 
 he ll spend his honeymoon with broken bones!" 
 
156 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 Suddenly he bethought him of the little boys. 
 They no doubt had availed themselves of the ab 
 sence of all restraining force to do as they pleased. 
 As this flashed through his mind he turned a 
 trifle pale. He rather regretted that he had been 
 so severe with Leander, for supposing 
 
 He ran down-stairs and into the yard, only 
 stopping to glance at the kitchen stove with a 
 vague dread lest Leander had crawled into it and 
 been cremated. On reaching the yard he exam 
 ined the well, and was greatly relieved to find it 
 empty of everything except water. 
 
 Then he espied the little boys with the twin 
 between them perched upon the roof of a con 
 venient coal shed in the rear of the house, whither 
 they had withdrawn, knowing that something un 
 usual was about to happen. The instant his eyes 
 fell upon him his habitual acrimony for the twin 
 asserted itself: 
 
 "Come down off of that ! Do you want to break 
 your necks?" he gasped. "Come down, I say!" 
 
 This the little boys were reluctant to do. They 
 knew their father as an exceedingly irate gentle 
 man. Therefore, when they caught sight of him, 
 it begot no special joy in their hearts. Roderick 
 and Thaddeus started to descend from the roof, 
 while the twin, lifting up his voice, howled forth 
 his dismay. 
 
 "Hold on to the twin!" called Miss Caxton s 
 father. "Do you wish him to fall?" 
 
MISS CAXTON S FATHER 157 
 
 What activity the little boys possessed was 
 dispelled by their father s evident anger. They 
 sat upon the ridge of the roof, motionless and 
 speechless. Their parent inspected the premises. 
 
 "How in the name of sense did you get up 
 there?" 
 
 A sob from Leander was the only answer. 
 Thaddeus and Roderick maintained a discreet si 
 lence. 
 
 Miss Caxton s father was a very busy man for 
 the next fifteen minutes. He obtained a long 
 pole and poked the little boys off the roof, one 
 at a time, beginning with the twin; then as they 
 rolled from the shed he ran and caught them. A 
 good deal of physical energy was required in the 
 operation, and when Roderick was dislodged, he 
 being the last, Miss Caxton s parent was hot and 
 exhausted; there was also a baleful gleam in his 
 eyes, suggestive of the wrath to come. 
 
 He picked up the twin, whose small lungs 
 seemed to distil shrieks, and followed by the 
 little boys who sulked at his side, entered the 
 house. During the next hour or two he gained a 
 larger experience in the pure joys of domestic 
 life than are usually crowded into so brief a 
 period. 
 
 He gave Roderick and Thaddeus their supper 
 and something else as well and put them to 
 bed. Then he took Leander in hand, and tried 
 to get his faculties into a condition for sleep. 
 
158 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 The twin refused to be comforted; he wanted 
 Miss Caxton, and Miss Caxton only. It was the 
 burden of his woes. His father looked at him. 
 In his glance paternal love seemed to be in abey 
 ance. 
 
 "You d better make up your mind to going to 
 bed without her, for she s put you to sleep for 
 the last time." 
 
 Whereat Leander howled afresh. 
 
 "If you don t stop and let me have a moment s 
 quiet, I shall punish you. You hear?" 
 
 Leander choked down a sob and was silent. 
 
 "There," said his father approvingly, "I guess 
 we can get along all right. Now, you go to sleep 
 right off." 
 
 Leander s sobs broke forth again. 
 
 "What s the matter now?" 
 
 More sobs and a howl. 
 
 "I thought I told you to keep still. Why don t 
 you?" 
 
 Then he grew persuasive. 
 
 "Don t you love your papa?" 
 
 The twin looked at him with wide eyes. 
 
 "I am appealing to his better self," reflected 
 Miss Caxton s parent. "The instinct of affection 
 that a child has is a most wonderful thing, a wonder 
 ful thing." 
 
 Leander dissolved into tears. 
 
 "Hang the brat! What s got into him now?" 
 
 Miss Caxton s parent arose and paced the floor. 
 Leander s grief continued unchecked. His father 
 
MISS CAXTON S FATHER 159 
 
 regarded him in amazement; the twin s capacity 
 for sorrow was very astonishing; and his anger 
 merged into something akin to wonder. 
 
 "He must be very wet inside," he thought 
 
 He addressed the twin in conciliatory tones. 
 
 "See here, Leander, do you think it safe to cry 
 like that?" 
 
 But Leander, unheeding him, wept on, in a 
 highly original manner. His father grew uneasy. 
 
 "Why doesn t he stop? Hush! There! There! 
 To please papa, who loves you so much. Con 
 found you! How long is this going to last will 
 it be all night?" he asked himself. 
 
 His resentment was weakening. Each sob of 
 the twin lessened the enormity of Miss Caxton s 
 crime. Her father was willing to take her back 
 at any price and The Fool into the bargain. In 
 desperation he brought the sugar bowl and placed 
 it as an offering of peace at Leander s feet. 
 
 "That should stop him," he muttered. 
 
 But it didn t. With a guilty blush he went 
 down upon his knees in a vain effort to seduce 
 the twin in the belief that he was a horse. He 
 was in this interesting position when Miss Caxtori 
 opened the door and entered, smiling and serene. 
 The Fool was with her, but he was by no means 
 so serene as he could have wished to be and his 
 smile was not an easy one. 
 
 Miss Caxton mastered the situation at a glance. 
 Without a word she possessed herself of the 
 twin s small person. 
 
160 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "I am sorry, papa, that you missed your game 
 of whist, but it won t occur again," she said, as 
 she walked from the room. 
 
 When she returned twenty minutes later, after 
 having put Leander to bed, she found her father 
 peacefully drinking cold tea "to restore the tone 
 to his nervous system," as he explained while 
 he gave The Fool a detailed and truthful account 
 of his adventure with the twin. 
 
THE HALF-BREED 
 
 JOHN LE BO YEN was an Indian half-breed; 
 the son of a whisky-drinking white man and 
 a slovenly whisky-drinking squaw. Fate, which 
 decreed he should have a copper skin, lifted 
 him into temporary and unsavory prominence 
 only as the perpetrator of certain vulgar atroci 
 ties, yet because there had been peace on sea and 
 land for a decade, history once paused to give him 
 a brief paragraph. Balancing the books, after 
 another decade, she dropped him out of her rec 
 ord of events. 
 
 As a boy, Le Boyen had been taken in hand by 
 the government and sent to school, where he 
 mastered a little reading and less spelling with 
 infinite difficulty. Later he was turned back on 
 his reservation, given land, together with a yearly 
 allowance in supplies, and told to shift for himself. 
 
 Now the grazing lands of Le Boyen s reserva 
 tion were particularly fine and the neighborhood 
 ranchmen rented the range from the Indians for 
 their cattle. All went well until the stockmen 
 sent in a petition to Congress praying that virtu 
 ous body to remove the Indians, as they inter 
 fered materially with the cattle business. Con 
 gress despatched a commission to inquire into 
 the matter. 
 
 161 
 
162 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 The tribe had been given their land just fif 
 teen years previous, with the solemn assurance 
 that they should not be molested. They had be 
 fore that been moved exactly three times. These 
 moves had each involved a little war, and the 
 government had shot a few of the rebellious 
 tribesmen at a cost of several thousand dollars 
 apiece, which was expensive, but had proved 
 profitable in the long run, for, once dead, they 
 cost nothing to maintain. This was indeed the cheap 
 est mode of procedure. 
 
 The commissioners came upon the scene and 
 they found the Indian very much in the way. He 
 was dirty, wasteful and not to be tolerated. When 
 they had seen these things, they returned to 
 Washington to deliberate. This last consisted 
 mainly in discussing the next election the true 
 essence of statesmanship. A month or so later 
 the Indians were informed that the great white 
 father, who had his home toward the rising sun 
 and who was chiefly notable because of his in 
 satiate appetite for land, desired their reservation. 
 The tribe voiced a feeble protest, but the pressure 
 brought to bear upon the white father was rather 
 more than he had the moral backbone to with 
 stand. Troops were massed in the vicinity pre 
 paratory to a summary dumping of the Indians 
 farther west. 
 
 The threatened calamity had brought the sav 
 ages together in one corner of the reservation. 
 They buzzed like a swarm of angry bees. The 
 
THE HALF-BREED 163 
 
 young men danced strange dances, and chanted 
 songs their fathers had chanted when there were 
 buffaloes on the plains; but the old men, the men 
 who had gone out in seventy-three with Captain 
 Jack, shook their heads. They had known the 
 white father to devour whole tribes, simply that 
 he might call a few rods of sage brush and buffalo 
 grass his own. 
 
 When night settled down the chiefs gathered 
 around the council fire. After the weak and in 
 effectual manner of savages, they wished to test 
 the forbearance of the dominant race; they might 
 make a harmless little dash into the cow country 
 and then, before the troops were fairly on their 
 trail, slip back to the agency. Under similar cir 
 cumstances the white father had been known to 
 display a prodigal generosity in the matter of 
 lean contract steers, which were turned out to 
 be slaughtered and gorged on. 
 
 In the midst of these deliberations, a man 
 strode into the circle of light. It was Le Boyen, 
 who silently raised his arm high above his head. 
 The reeking trophies his hand held brought the 
 shadowy figures pressing close about him, while 
 a sullen murmur grew up out of the tense still 
 ness that had fallen on the tribe. The half-breed 
 had precipitated an unexpected crisis. Already 
 mounted men were spurring over the range 
 spreading the news of another Indian outrage. 
 As this sure knowledge took hold of the savages, 
 the murmur swelled into a roar. 
 
164 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 All in a second the group resolved itself into 
 a sea of tossing arms and waving hands, and a 
 portion of the straining mob became detached, 
 wrenching and tearing itself away from the rest. 
 In the center of the detached band was Le Boyen. 
 About him were twenty or thirty men who were 
 ready to put their fortunes to the hazard of war, 
 and following them came their wives and chil 
 dren. These fell back unhindered upon the tents, 
 struck camp, got together their horses and rode 
 away. To state the case exactly, Le Boyen, with 
 perhaps thirty men and an equal number of 
 women and children, had taken preliminary steps 
 to declaring war against the United States of 
 America. 
 
 During the next ten days he and his followers 
 were a fruitful source of newspaper interest. His 
 experience had taught him, among other things 
 worth remembering, that if you kill a man he is 
 done for. Had his education taught him propor 
 tion he would have known it was wasted labor 
 on his part to begin the extermination of sixty 
 odd millions of human beings with the means and 
 men he had at hand. Not appreciating this, he 
 began his ambitious undertaking at once, mov 
 ing across the plains with no fixed plan or desti 
 nation, gathering in the settlers along his line of 
 march; and the gathering in was attended by 
 horrors not to be told. Then he took himself off 
 toward the mountains with the most complete 
 
THE HALF-BREED 165 
 
 and extensive collection of scalps made in many 
 years. 
 
 Through all these days of success his interest 
 in the total destruction of the white race never 
 flagged; but certain of his followers were not so 
 constituted that they cherished a lofty ideal purely 
 for the ideal s sake. These, after the first flush 
 of war had paled its glow for them, began to 
 think sadly of consequences. The hard life, the 
 thirst and starvation of the foray, grew stale and 
 tedious; they longed for the ease and sloth of the 
 reservation, where water was plenty and rations 
 had the noble quality of regularity. 
 
 Two Indians in particular wished to be taken 
 back into the fold; and as the days came full of 
 effort and hunger, this wish thrived apace, and 
 they agreed that the white father would doubtless 
 pay well for a little information as to Le Boyen s 
 whereabouts. To furnish him with the coveted 
 knowledge it would be necessary for one to re 
 main with the band, while the other deserted. 
 Their plan was no sooner perfected than it was 
 acted upon, and Le Boyen, suspecting the mean 
 ing though not the extent of the disaffection, put 
 his people on forced marches. For four days they 
 toiled into the mountains, while the traitor in 
 their midst left his fatal marks on every rod of 
 land they crossed. On the fourth day the band 
 went into camp, that Le Boyen might have time 
 in which to mature plans for the future. 
 
166 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 Day had scarcely dawned again when the traitor 
 stole out to inspect his surroundings. All the 
 warriors slept, even to the guards, who, as they 
 sat about the ashes of the fires, nodded over the 
 guns in their laps. The only ones astir were a 
 few Indian mothers, who were already lashing 
 their babies to the travaux strapped to their lean 
 dogs. The traitor had mounted a rugged bluff 
 that overhung the canyon leading back into the 
 valley where the temporary encampment was 
 made, and straining his eyes to the farthest dis 
 tance he saw what he yearned to see, a long line 
 of mounted men. Rations were destined to be 
 regular and his heart was glad. Without a back 
 ward glance toward the camp he started on a 
 run in the direction of the approaching horsemen. 
 
 In the valley the band slumbered on. The 
 fagged ponies nipped the grass. The squaws 
 moved quickly to and fro among the tents. Then 
 one of the dozing sentries awoke with a start and 
 stood erect. Black against the crimson disk of 
 the rising sun he saw the solitary figure of a man ; 
 and even as he gazed another and another filed 
 into view. He knew they were mounted men, 
 though a rise in the ground hid the horses from 
 his sight. While he stood looking at them in 
 stupid and speechless amazement, they wheeled 
 over the intervening hillock with the sharp clang 
 of steel on stirrup iron, and with a wild hurrah 
 raced down the hill upon the camp. What the 
 
THE HALF-BREED 167 
 
 savages first knew, roused from their sleep, was 
 that a hundred men were riding furiously among 
 the tents with blazing carbines. The surprise 
 was so complete that the Indians offered no re 
 sistance; those who could, men, women and chil 
 dren, rushed toward the ponies, stimulated by a 
 vague hope that they might escape; and as they 
 ran they were shot down. 
 
 Foremost among those who strove to reach the 
 horses was Le Boyen. His war pony, saddled and 
 bridled in constant readiness for alarms, grazed 
 apart from the tired mounts of his party. He 
 reached and threw himself astride of it, and with 
 a yell whirled through the ranks of the slaughter 
 ing whites. In the stupendous strain of the few 
 short seconds while he was flying through their 
 midst he was absolute master of himself, and in 
 a cloud of dust and smoke, a score of men firing 
 at his half-naked figure, he dashed up the trail 
 unscathed, away from the horror of total anni 
 hilation that lurked in the valley. 
 
 Ahead of him the trail dipped into a narrow 
 bottom. Crossing this it wound up a steep ascent 
 and disappeared in a rocky gorge. Le Boyen 
 gained the bottom and the partial cover of its 
 timber, when his horse stumbled. He drew it up 
 with a savage jerk. The next instant it collapsed 
 in a heap under him. He cleared his feet from the 
 stirrups and leaped from the saddle, and with his 
 cartridge belt in one hand and his rifle in the 
 
168 THE HAND OF, THE MIGHTY 
 
 other, plunged through the brush toward the as 
 cent. At his back the mounted men came crash 
 ing through the timber, and as Le Boyen sprang 
 out of the cover and bounded up the ascent, the 
 bullets of his pursuers flecked up the earth at his 
 feet; but he gained the entrance of the gorge in 
 safety, and threw himself down behind the first 
 shelter that offered, a great square of granite. 
 
 He had his revolvers to fall back upon, so he 
 emptied the magazine of his repeater. When the 
 smoke cleared away he saw that his fire had been 
 eminently successful. Two men lay dead at the 
 base of the ascent, and a third, wounded, was 
 endeavoring to crawl away. Le Boyen knew that 
 his case was hopeless. He wondered what was 
 back of him, if it were not possible to enter the 
 gorge farther along. In fancy he saw his own 
 hurried rush for a fresh cover. It would be the 
 last episode in the clenching of a victory destined 
 in point of collusiveness to be little short of a 
 massacre. 
 
 A medley of sounds came from the camp. He 
 heard the voices of the white men; an occasional 
 order given; the piteous yelping of the dogs; now 
 and then a stray shot. A glance in the direction 
 of the valley told him what this last meant: the 
 soldiers were shooting the dogs, who, faithful to 
 their tiny charges, would not allow the white men 
 to approach them. Wary and thoroughly fright 
 ened, they circled about the camp, stopping at in- 
 
THE HALF-BREED 169! 
 
 tervals to howl dismally. An officer had sug 
 gested the expedient of shooting the dogs as the 
 only means of saving the babies; but this was not 
 proving successful, for sometimes the dogs moved 
 at the wrong moment or the soldiers aim would 
 prove uncertain, and the baby and not the dog 
 would be shot. 
 
 In the timbered bottom a gray-haired colonel 
 was listening to the reports of several soldiers, 
 who, according to the fertility of their imagina 
 tion, variously estimated that there were from ten 
 to twenty Indians secreted among the rocks. 
 
 "Then they are very saving of their ammuni 
 tion," commented the colonel dryly. He turned 
 to the officer at his side: "What do the scouts 
 say, Captain? Is there any way of getting at the 
 rear of the redskins?" 
 
 "Yes, Colonel." 
 
 "How long will it take?" 
 
 "About two hours." 
 
 "Very well. Detail Lieutenant Brookes and 
 twenty of our men to make the detour. We ll 
 keep the volunteers here." The colonel looked 
 annoyed. "I don t like this, Gordon," he said. 
 "I wish it might have come six months hence, 
 when I shall be retired and growing roses in 
 California with my wife on that bit of a ranch 
 I ve told you of. ... Do be careful about those 
 dogs; detail two or three of the best shots for 
 that work." 
 
170 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 A bullet from Le Boyen s Winchester cut a 
 leaf from just over the colonel s head. 
 
 "Better fall back, Colonel," suggested Gordon, 
 on the point of turning away. 
 
 There was another report from among the 
 rocks, and the colonel sat down very stiffly on the 
 trunk of a fallen tree, the expression of his face 
 one of utter astonishment. 
 
 "Are you hit?" cried Gordon. 
 
 "I believe I am," said the colonel in a whisper. 
 He raised his hand to his breast as he spoke; then 
 he coughed, and Gordon saw that there was blood 
 on his lips. Before he could reach him, the col 
 onel had fallen and lay quite still among the 
 tangled underbrush. 
 
 They made a place for him on the edge of the 
 timber, and Gordon covered him with his own 
 coat. 
 
 "Poor old colonel!" he said sadly to his lieuten 
 ant. "He always wanted to grow a garden, poor 
 fellow, and in six months he would have been free 
 to amuse himself in his own way." There was a 
 pause. "Well, make up the detour party and get 
 it started; Til give those redskins something to 
 think of while Brookes is getting to their rear." 
 
 During the next half-hour, from his place of 
 concealment, the half-breed did much excellent 
 shooting, now and again changing his position, 
 while the bullets of the command flattened them 
 selves on the rocks that hid him. 
 
THE HALF-BREED 171 
 
 When the lieutenant rejoined his superior after 
 Brookes departure, he found that Gordon had 
 taken up his station near the spot where the col 
 onel had been killed. It overlooked the edge of 
 the timber where he had stationed his men. The 
 lieutenant, who was fresh from the East, was pal 
 pably nervous; while the captain s manner indi 
 cated long familiarity with just such affairs as 
 the one in hand. 
 
 "Brookes has gone?" he queried, without wait 
 ing for the lieutenant to speak. 
 
 "Yes, half an hour ago." 
 
 "And there s nothing stirring in the camp back 
 of us? That was a pretty clean sweep. How 
 about Sergeant Porter and the dogs?" 
 
 "He thinks he s got them all, sir." 
 
 "That s good; that s very good!" 
 
 Gordon took the young man by the arm, and 
 side by side they fell to pacing back and forth. 
 The captain was well pleased with the situation. 
 
 "Brookes and his party will soon be behind the 
 redskins," he observed; "and when they break 
 for fresh cover we shall have a good chance to 
 test the new guns and ammunition." 
 
 The lieutenant smiled. It was not a mirthful 
 smile; but then he was between the captain and 
 the gorge, and anything like enthusiasm over 
 gunshot wounds was beyond him. 
 
 "Do you count on the home talent standing if 
 the Indians try for this cover?" he asked. 
 
172 THE HAND OK THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Certainly. The cowboys don t have much of 
 an open season in which to shoot Indians. We ll 
 wind em up in the open." Leveling his field- 
 glass, the captain took a hasty survey of the 
 gorge. "I guess they are coming now. Yes, it s 
 Brookes and his men!" 
 
 Le Boyen, among the rocks, was also aware 
 of the approach of Brookes. He was also aware 
 that the captain was getting his men in hand. He 
 had found time to roll a boulder or two to the 
 rear of the position he had originally assumed, 
 and now, on the top of one of these, he placed 
 his two revolvers. On the whole, he was not par 
 ticularly desirous of living since the destruction 
 of his band; but he was desirous of doing as much 
 hurt to his enemies as he could. 
 
 The volleys of the men from below and the 
 volleys of the men in his rear now swept his hid 
 ing-place. It would have been fatal to expose a 
 hand or an arm even. He would wait until the 
 two parties had advanced so close that they must 
 discontinue their fire, then there would be a brief 
 second or two in which one who was really in 
 different about living could do much harm. And 
 so it happened that Brookes and his men were 
 face to face with the rest of the command, scarce 
 ly fifty yards separating them, when Le Boyen 
 picked up a revolver in each hand and rose from 
 his lair. Before the startled troopers knew what 
 he meant to do, he was emptying them in their 
 faces. 
 
THE HALF-BREED 173 
 
 The captain had been the last man up the as 
 cent, owing to the shortness of his legs. He found 
 Brookes and his men clustered about a solitary 
 figure on the ground, a figure riddled and torn 
 with bullets. 
 
 "Humph!" with a glance at the half-breed. 
 "Where are the rest, men?" he added. 
 
 "That s all, sir," said Brookes. 
 
 "Nonsense; you don t mean that he stood us 
 off alone?" 
 
 The lieutenant looked at the figure on the 
 ground. 
 
 "It s just about the right proportion, don t 
 you think?" he ventured. 
 
 "Well, I wouldn t say that for the credit of the 
 race," said the captain. "Poor old colonel; think 
 of getting shot in an affair of this kind!" 
 
WILLIE 
 
 ffT^HEY say The Pines is a great place to 
 * feed. I thought you d be tickled to death 
 with the assignment!" said Chisholm. 
 
 Bentley Ames glance came back from the 
 dome of the capitol, seen now through the clos 
 ing mists of a rainy day and the falling twilight, 
 to rest on his chief s face with a lurking suspicion 
 of disfavor. 
 
 "I supposed you d let me cover the convention," 
 he said. "What s Carveth going down to Little 
 Mountain for? if he wants the nomination why 
 doesn t he get busy?" 
 
 "He s made his canvass. You see, Ames, he 
 runs a factory in one of the western counties, 
 makes shirts, the business office gets a thousand 
 a year out of him and the News has got to treat 
 him right." And the following morning, Ames, 
 the expression of whose face told of the spirit of 
 resignation that possessed him, boarded the train 
 for Little Mountain. 
 
 He expected to reach his destination by ten 
 o clock, but there was a freight wreck on the 
 road. As a result he spent five hours at a sad 
 little way station, and when the line resumed its 
 
 174 
 
WILLIE 175 
 
 functions as a common carrier, he took the after 
 noon train that had just pulled in. He first sought 
 the parlor-car, which he found occupied by three 
 ladies; then in rather low spirits, his mind divided 
 between thoughts of the luncheon he had not had 
 and the dinner he would order at The Pines, he 
 wandered on into the smoker. Near the door 
 were four men playing cards. There next fell un 
 der his scrutiny a young fellow of five or six and 
 twenty, who was reading a shabby volume of 
 Emerson. Three seats farther on was the only 
 other passenger in the car, a solidly built man of 
 sixty with a pleasant ruddy face; he was dressed 
 in black broadcloth and wore a high silk hat, and 
 as Ames dropped into the seat opposite him he 
 gave the News man a half smile of friendly recog 
 nition. There was something so genial and win 
 ning in his very air that Ames smiled in return. 
 
 "Sightly, ain t it?" and the silk hat dipped in 
 the direction of the autumn landscape, where the 
 brown fields yielded at intervals to gorgeous reds 
 and russets set in a murky haze. Ames admitted 
 the beauty, and the stranger took the cigar from 
 between his strong even teeth. "Fond of nature?" 
 he inquired. 
 
 In a general way Mr. Ames was, but he was not 
 enthusiastic about it; indeed, he was so profound 
 ly sophisticated that sensation of any sort reached 
 him in a very diluted form. The elder man scan 
 ned the younger; then he drew from the region 
 
176 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 of his hip a flat learther pocketbook. It yielded 
 up a square of pasteboard which he passed across 
 the aisle to Ames, who read: "Jeremiah Carveth. 
 Originator Plymouth Rock Dollar Shirt. Made 
 on Honor/ 
 
 "By Jove!" cried Ames. "You re just the man 
 I want to see, Mr. Carveth. I m from the News." 
 
 "Are you now?" Mr. Carveth was frankly 
 pleased. "What s your name?" 
 
 "Ames Bentley Ames." 
 
 "Excuse me " and Mr. Carveth turned in his 
 seat. "Willie, step here!" he called, and the 
 reader of Emerson put aside his book. "Mr. 
 Ames, I want you should know my secretary, W. 
 C. B. McPherson, William Cullen Bryant Mc- 
 Pherson," said Mr. Carveth, when the secretary 
 stood at his elbow. "He s a newspaper boy, too 
 does the locals on the Marysville Clarion. Mr. 
 Ames, of the Capital City News, Willie." 
 
 W. C. B. McPherson gave Ames an embarrassed 
 smile. 
 
 "Not a newspaper man in the sense that Mr. 
 Ames is." It was evident he stood in awe of 
 this more metropolitan member of the craft. 
 
 "I don t know about that," said Mr. Carveth. 
 "I ve always considered the Clarion a mighty clean 
 sheet." 
 
 Ames smiled enigmatically. He was thinking 
 of Mr. Carveth s rival, General Pogue, "Slippery 
 Dick, who lived with his ear next the ground," 
 
WILLIE 177 
 
 and of James Cartwright Smith, who was back of 
 the general. Carveth resumed the conversation. 
 
 "Ever been to Marysville? It s named after 
 my wife; my factory s there." 
 
 Ames had not been to Marysville; he admitted, 
 however, that he had heard of the place. 
 
 The landscape beyond the car windows had 
 changed its characteristic aspect. The fields had 
 grown smaller, the goldenrod and immortelles 
 waved over heaps of stones in the fence-rows, 
 while the russets and reds and browns had given 
 place to the somber green of pine and hemlock. 
 And now the train drew up at a tiny ornate sta 
 tion. The three men climbed into the coach that 
 was waiting for them and were soon toiling up a 
 winding road, from which they presently emerged 
 upon the single street of a sleepy village. Beyond 
 the village and crowning the mountain s summit 
 they could distinguish the long stone and timber 
 facade of The Pines in the shadow of the sinking 
 sun. 
 
 Ames dined with the candidate and his secre 
 tary; afterward he interviewed Mr. Carveth. His 
 story off his hands, he was lounging about the of 
 fice with only the night clerk for company, when 
 suddenly McPherson appeared; he was in his 
 shirt-sleeves, while his feet were thrust into 
 worsted bed-slippers; in his hand he carried a 
 pitcher. It was evident he did not see the two 
 men in the corner by the news-stand, for after 
 
178 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 glancing about to get his bearings he disappeared 
 down the corridor leading to the dining-room. 
 A moment later they heard him rattle a locked 
 door, then again the patter of his slippered feet 
 sounded on the tessellated pavement, and he re 
 appeared in the lobby. Ames heard him say 
 "Dang it!" but rather in disappointment than in 
 anger; and then the clerk emitted a shrill cackle 
 of mirth, and McPherson, being thus made aware 
 of the presence of the two men, faced them. 
 
 "Excuse me," he said. "But will you kindly 
 tell me where I ll find the pump?" 
 
 Gray shadows invaded the darkness of the 
 pines that clothed the slopes of Little Mountain, 
 and through the open, eastward looking window 
 of his room the morning sun shone in upon the 
 News man. Perhaps he missed the clang of the 
 trolley s gong, the early milk wagon s clatter on 
 the paved street; perhaps it was the silence, 
 scarce disturbed by the song of birds and the mur 
 mur of the wind in the pines, that roused him; 
 but Bentley Ames emerged from his slumber and 
 without changing his position, looked from his 
 window into the red eye of the sun. He dressed 
 and slipping out into the hall, tapped on McPher- 
 son s door. 
 
 "Come in," called the secretary, and Ames en 
 tered the room. McPherson was seated at his 
 table, writing. "Oh, Mr. Ames he said. He 
 seemed both pleased and embarrassed. 
 
WILLIE 179 
 
 "Don t get up ;" and Ames, establishing himself 
 on the edge of McPherson s bed, began to roll a 
 cigarette. "Suppose you tell me how Mr. Carveth 
 broke into politics," he suggested. 
 
 McPherson s face lighted instantly with enthu 
 siasm. 
 
 "There s a wonderful man, Mr. Ames; a splen 
 did type of the American business man! You 
 should go through his factory; you should see the 
 hundreds of busy operators. You would under 
 stand then what Mr. Carveth means to Marys- 
 ville. Marysville," added the secretary, "is pledged 
 to Mr. Carveth." 
 
 "I dare say." But Ames was not impressed by 
 the loyalty of Marysville. 
 
 "You don t think much of his chances?" ven 
 tured McPherson. 
 
 "What I think of them wouldn t be fit to print," 
 said Ames candidly. "Dick Pogue s rather a hot 
 proposition for your man to stack up against, and 
 back of Pogue is J. C. Smith." Ames slipped off 
 the edge of the bed and took a turn about the 
 room. 
 
 "You must admit, Mr. Ames, that nobody has 
 any confidence in either General Pogue or Mr. 
 Smith," said McPherson. 
 
 "They can get along without it," said Ames 
 with calm cynicism. 
 
 "I shouldn t like to think that any public man 
 could go far without the trust of his fellow citi 
 zens," observed McPherson. 
 
180 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "With those ideas you should keep clear of poli 
 tics. You and Mr. Carveth may as well retire to 
 the classic regions of Susansville." 
 
 "Marysville," corrected McPherson mildly. 
 
 "Marysville, then/ said Ames. He paused by 
 the corner of McPherson s desk. "Well, the oc 
 casion will be interesting as a souvenir of public 
 life, eh, McPherson?" and he smiled down pity 
 ingly on the top of the secretary s slightly bald 
 head, for McPherson was looking into the pic 
 tured face of a young girl whose photograph, 
 framed in red plush, decorated his desk. Ames 
 extended his hand and possessed himself of the 
 photograph, which he proceeded to examine. 
 "Your sister?" he asked, after a moment s silence. 
 
 "Miss Carveth," said W. C. B. McPherson, but 
 his voice had lost much of its agreeable quality. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Ames, flushing as 
 he hastily returned the photograph to its place on 
 the desk. McPherson quitted his chair. 
 
 "I think we had better go down-stairs," he ob 
 served stiffly. 
 
 They found Carveth waiting for them in the 
 office. 
 
 "I been lookin over the paper," he told Ames, 
 as they seated themselves at the breakfast table. 
 He turned to his secretary. "I can t see that we 
 occupy so darn much space, W r illie. The world 
 seems unaware of the fact that Jeremiah Carveth 
 and W. C. B. McPherson are willing to act as a 
 
WILLIE 181 
 
 kind providence in shaping the destiny of a free- 
 born people. I m getting a sickenin conscious 
 ness that there s tall timber growing for me." 
 He laughed in McPherson s face, which had gone 
 from white to red. "Cheer up, Willie, cheer up. 
 It s good to be alive, and the rest is dividends. 
 You mayn t land me in office, but what s the odds? 
 Crisp and bright, Willie, crisp and bright!" he 
 urged with kindly concern. 
 
 But the thought of defeat was a bitter thing 
 to McPherson, and presently he excused himself 
 and quitted the table. 
 
 "I want a meetin -house talk with you, Ames," 
 said Carveth, the moment the secretary was out 
 of hearing. "I was all for private life, the privater 
 the better, until Willie smoked me out. It s this 
 way, I got a daughter " Mr. Carveth paused; in 
 spite of his habitual frankness he was struggling 
 with a sudden sense of diffidence. "We got only 
 the one child, and naturally her mother and I 
 center everything on her; and we ve been fortu 
 nate, for we ve been able to give her a good many 
 advantages. Now Willie s interested in Nellie ; 
 and Nellie s interested in Willie. It s a match her 
 ma and I desire; but Willie s chuck-full of pride. 
 He s got nothing but a salary of fifteen dollars a 
 week, and he says he can t regard marriage as a 
 commercial asset; and there you are." Mr. Car 
 veth gave Ames an expressive smile. "I don t 
 say but what Willie s right. He says if he can 
 
182 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 get me elected governor he ll feel that he ain t 
 just an experiment. I guess you gather, from 
 what I say, that I m in politics to oblige Willie; 
 and that s the situation/ 
 
 The state convention met on the tenth of the 
 month, and when the morning of the tenth 
 dawned Ames was conscious of a feeling of dis 
 quietude. He rather took it out on Mr. Carveth s 
 secretary. 
 
 "You ll see what a gilt-edged snap does for a 
 man, Mr. McPherson," he observed. "Your little 
 delegation and all the other little delegations will 
 be given their little say, then Smith will quietly 
 proceed to nominate his bunch; and it will dawn 
 on a few enlightened minds that the business could 
 have been transacted by just getting him on the 
 phone in the first place." And having eased him 
 self of this depressing prophecy, Ames began a 
 perusal of the News. 
 
 Some two hours later the secretary hurried into 
 the hotel office. 
 
 "In strict confidence, Mr. Ames," he said, and 
 thrust a telegram into Ames hand. It proved to 
 be from James Cartwright Smith, and requested 
 an immediate interview with Mr. Carveth. 
 
 "He ll take the first train to town?" asked 
 Ames. 
 
 "I have just sent Mr. Carveth s answer. He 
 will see Mr. Smith here," said McPherson. 
 
WILLIE 183 
 
 The next morning, when Smith descended from 
 his car, Ames was on the platform, but as the 
 News man advanced toward him the party leader 
 shook his head. 
 
 "Nothing doing, Ames," he said. 
 
 "I didn t know but you d come down to see 
 Carveth," insinuated Ames. 
 
 "Carveth, Carveth? Oh, yes merely a coin 
 cidence;" and he turned away to enter the coach. 
 
 "Interesting, but not true," murmured Ames. 
 He let the coach drive off and then set out briskly 
 in pursuit. 
 
 Reaching the hotel, he hurried up-stairs to a 
 room on the second floor that immediately ad 
 joined the one occupied by Mr. Carveth. There 
 was a connecting door. Over this door was a 
 transom and below the transom Ames had placed 
 a table, on the table a rug, and on the rug a chair. 
 
 "I interpreted your wire as signifying your 
 willingness to accept the nomination at the hands 
 of the party organization," Smith was saying as 
 Ames mounted to his post. 
 
 "Well yes," answered the creator of the Ply 
 mouth Rock Dollar Shirt cautiously. 
 
 "We re going to read Dick Pogue out of meet 
 ing, Mr. Carveth; he s been fed from the public 
 crib about long enough. I suppose youVe seen 
 in the Washington despatches that Senator Burke 
 is ill? One of the first jobs the next governor 
 will have will be to appoint his successor." 
 
184 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "That s so; but you ain t told me where the 
 hitch comes in." 
 
 "Ain t I?" rasped out the boss. "It s just here: 
 Pogue s got his eye on his brother for the place, 
 yet when Burke was made senator it was agreed 
 I was to follow him. Isn t it plain to you why 
 I came down here? I want your word that I m 
 to succeed Burke; then I ll shake hands with the 
 next governor." 
 
 "When it s business I ll dicker for anything I 
 can swap, use myself, or give away; but I got a 
 different feeling about politics," remarked Mr. 
 Carveth. 
 
 This came with such a shock to Ames that he 
 almost fell off his seat. 
 
 "Quite right, Mr. Carveth," said Smith pleas 
 antly. "But a few pledges " 
 
 "I won t promise nothin ," said Jeremiah Car 
 veth with sudden stubbornness. "If I go to office 
 I m going there a free man. Otherwise Marys- 
 ville s good enough for me." 
 
 "Not pledged in any offensive sense, Mr. Car 
 veth," Smith urged. "We would never attempt 
 to dictate a course of action to you " 
 
 "I guess you wouldn t more than once," said 
 Carveth shortly. 
 
 Mr. Smith gasped audibly, and Ames surmised 
 he was hearing the distant roar of the convention, 
 the first rumble of that landslide he had prema 
 turely set going, which was to bury Slippery Dick 
 while it uncovered Jeremiah Carveth. 
 
WILLIE 185 
 
 "I m offering you the place at the head of the 
 ticket," began Smith quietly. "That s tantamount 
 to election; all I want is your promise that if 
 Burke dies you ll appoint me to fill out his 
 term " 
 
 "Ain t you read any of my speeches?" asked 
 Carveth. "Haven t you noticed that I take pretty 
 firm ground in the matter of boss rule? Mr. 
 Smith, you re the last man I d ever think of mak 
 ing senator. I don t want to seem rude, but, well, 
 I ve told you Marysville s good enough for me." 
 
 "Don t worry;" said Smith. "I had determined 
 to support you; I could not imagine that you 
 would be so blind to your own interests as not to 
 meet me half-way; but a dozen telegrams will 
 change the program you ll go back to Marysville 
 all right." 
 
 McPherson had slipped from the room, and 
 Ames abandoned his post and hurried in pursuit. 
 He was just in time to see the secretary s long 
 legs vanishing around a turn in the corridor. 
 Keeping them in sight he descended to the office 
 floor. McPherson was now speaking directly to the 
 clerk. 
 
 "Will you go personally to Mr. Carveth s room 
 and interrupt the conference there between him 
 and Mr. Smith? Mr. Smith wishes particularly to 
 catch the eleven-ten train." 
 
 Ames retired to the check-room. As the clerk s 
 footsteps died out in the hall overhead, he heard 
 a chair dragged across the tessellated floor, and 
 
186 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 peering out from his place of hiding, he saw Mc- 
 Pherson by the aid of this chair reach the office 
 clock and resolutely turn the hands back twenty 
 minutes. This accomplished, McPherson took 
 himself into the open air. He raced down the 
 road toward the telegraph office. Here Ames 
 found him fifteen minutes later scribbling away 
 at one corner of the operator s deal table. He 
 glanced up as Ames entered the room. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Ames," he said, "look from the win 
 dow and tell me when the coach from the hotel 
 arrives." Even as he spoke they heard the shriek 
 of the engine s whistle. McPherson sighed softly. 
 "I m afraid Mr. Smith has missed his train," he 
 said. "And I think he was quite anxious to 
 catch it." 
 
 Twenty minutes slipped by and there was a 
 hasty step upon the threshold, and James Cart- 
 wright Smith burst into the room. 
 
 "Here, rush these telegrams!" he roared, and 
 tossed a dozen sheets of paper in front of the 
 operator. 
 
 "The wire s busy, Mr. Smith," said McPherson 
 mildly, so mildly there was almost a touch of sad 
 ness in his tone. 
 
 The great man turned to the operator. 
 
 "Throw this stuff out of the window, or I will, 
 and send those wires." 
 
 McPherson measured the politician with a large 
 prominent eye, then he said in a tone that would 
 
WILLIE 187 
 
 have carried conviction to a less excited man 
 than Smith: 
 
 "If you do that, you ll go after it, and it s twenty 
 feet to the ground." 
 
 For answer Smith made a grab at the pile of 
 copy in front of the operator. McPherson shot 
 up to his full height of six feet, and extending a 
 long arm, seized him by the wrist. 
 
 "It s twenty feet to the ground, Mr. Smith," 
 he remonstrated. Smith swung about on his heel. 
 
 "How can I get away from here, Ames?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "You ll have to wait until eleven-ten to-mor 
 row," said Ames cheerfully. The leader groaned 
 aloud. "Come," Ames added, "you go to the 
 hotel with me, and we ll be back here after lunch." 
 But once he had coaxed Smith back to The Pines, 
 he abandoned him and hurried again to the tele 
 graph office. 
 
 "See here, McPherson," he expostulated, "it s 
 all right where Smith is concerned, but how about 
 me?" 
 
 "I d love to oblige you, Mr. Ames; later, per 
 haps." 
 
 "But that won t do any good," urged Ames im 
 patiently. 
 
 "No, I suppose not, since the News is an eve 
 ning paper." 
 
 "And what s the Clarion?" 
 
 "Semi-weekly," said the secretary pleasantly. 
 
188 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 The secretary wrote telegrams to the Clarion 
 until he wearied of that pastime; then he began 
 to tear pages out of his copy of Emerson. Inci 
 dentally he and Ames had passed to a state of 
 siege. It became necessary to spike the office 
 door fast to the jamb to keep out James Cart- 
 wright Smith, who, supported by a bell boy and 
 the night watchman from The Pines, had estab 
 lished himself in the narrow hall, where he kept 
 the air thick with threats and curses. 
 
 Six o clock came and McPherson was still flash 
 ing the Concord sage s wisdom into Marysville. 
 Mr. Smith was still on the stairs, but the boss no 
 longer swore nor threatened; his tone was one of 
 entreaty, his words abject. Two hours later and 
 he was offering McPherson any sum he chose to 
 name for five minutes use of the wire. At ten 
 o clock he was heard to descend the stairs and 
 pass up the road in the direction of The Pines; 
 whereupon Ames knocked the spikes out of the 
 jamb and opened the office door on a sleeping 
 world; then he turned to McPherson. 
 
 "I suppose you are going to hold on to your 
 end of the wire until the convention adjourns?" 
 he observed. The secretary nodded and flipped a 
 fresh page of Emerson across the table. 
 
 "Wait a bit, boss," said the operator. "I got to 
 take off a message for you." 
 
 The message was from the leader of the Car- 
 veth delegation. As McPherson slowly absorbed 
 
WILLIE 189 
 
 its meaning a smile of intense satisfaction over 
 spread his features. He passed it on to Ames, 
 who read: "Carveth nominated. Hip hip hur 
 rah!" 
 
 "This means a great deal to me, Mr. Ames," 
 said McPherson softly. "Indeed, it means every 
 thing." Quite unconsciously he had slipped his 
 hand into the breast pocket of his coat, and Ames 
 caught sight of the plush frame that held Miss 
 Carveth s picture. 
 
MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT 
 
 ON the street some one had handed Mike 
 Feeny an oblong of pasteboard. Mr. Feeny 
 stoked with the Gulf and Mexican Transportation 
 Line. 
 
 "Is it a ticket to a show?" he asked, removing 
 his pipe. 
 
 "It is; go on in and enjoy yourself." And the 
 donor laughed. He was a pleasant-looking young 
 fellow in evening dress, much like the young fel 
 lows Mr. Feeny sometimes saw on the awning- 
 covered promenade deck. 
 
 "I m beholden to you/ said he, being a person 
 of manners when sober. 
 
 And pocketing his blackened pipe, he strode into 
 the brilliant foyer of the Music Hall where the 
 many lights fully disclosed him as a stoop-shoul 
 dered man of large muscular development, clothed 
 in respectable shore-going garments recently pur 
 chased at a bargain of a Jewish gentleman on the 
 river-front. A great shock of violently red hair 
 formed an aureole about his long sad face, and 
 the drooping ends of a blond mustache reached 
 well back toward the freckled lobes of his ears. 
 Mr. Feeny was strictly Irish, with the large poten 
 tialities of his race. 
 
 190 
 
MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT 191 
 
 Now Mr. Feeny did not know that the Inter 
 national Congress of Economics had assembled 
 there to give expert testimony, and charting a 
 careful course in new shoes that pinched some 
 what, he followed the trickle of well-dressed hu 
 manity into the building, where an usher showed 
 him to an aisle seat in the last row of orchestra 
 chairs. The orchestra was finishing a classic 
 prelude. This first attracted Mr. Feeny s atten 
 tion. It was displeasing to his musical tastes, 
 and he remarked in a husky whisper to the gen 
 tleman on his left : 
 
 "Say, buddy, them fiddles is on the bum " 
 
 "Hush !" said the gentleman, raising a warning 
 finger. 
 
 "What for should I hush?" demanded Mr. 
 Feeny. "Cheese it yourself!" 
 
 Feeling the incident closed, Mr. Feeny s glance 
 shifted in the direction of the stage, where a num 
 ber of men and women were seated in a wide half 
 circle. 
 
 " Tis a white-faced minstrel show! But, oh, 
 heavens, ain t them girls the hard-featured huz 
 zies?" thought Mr. Feeny. 
 
 A gentleman had risen and was making a few 
 introductory remarks, the exact drift of which 
 was lost on Mr. Feeny, but as he subsided, his 
 place was taken by another gentleman who smil 
 ingly acknowledged the decorous ripple of ap 
 plause his name had evoked. He commenced to 
 
192 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 speak and Mr. Feeny gave him his undivided at 
 tention. 
 
 "He s a grand flow of words. I wonder he 
 don t choke," was his mental comment. 
 
 Eventually he became aware that he was lis 
 tening to an account of the decay of the cottage 
 industries of France. Laboriously following the 
 speaker he possessed himself of this concrete fact 
 in segments and was moved to instant contempt 
 of the speaker s conclusions. He had never no 
 ticed this decay in industry; his personal obser 
 vations led him to believe that while jobs were 
 sometimes hard to obtain, there was always plenty 
 of work after you got them. 
 
 He prepared to quit that spot with expedition, 
 since he felt that any more economics would con 
 stitute a surfeit. But as he slid from his chair, the 
 first gentleman advanced again to the center of 
 the stage, and Mr. Feeny caught a name he knew, 
 the magical name of MacCandlish. 
 
 "I ll see the next turn," he told himself, as amidst 
 a perfect storm of applause a cheerful little man 
 of a portly presence approached the footlights. 
 
 "It s him all right, I seen him onct through the 
 bull s-eye window of the smoking-room afore the 
 mate cussed me out forward, and him worth his 
 hundred millions!" Mr. Feeny breathed hard. 
 
 There was the hush of expectancy. The little 
 man smiled kindly, tolerantly, while the lights 
 seemed to cast a golden halo about him. 
 
MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT 193 
 
 "It is my privilege to appear before this con 
 gress to speak on the uses of wealth," he began 
 in a soft purring voice. "And I only regret that 
 I have not had the leisure in which to prepare a 
 paper on so interesting a theme. However a 
 
 few thoughts occur to me " Mr. MacCandlish 
 
 paused for a brief space, and then once more 
 that kindly voice flowed across the footlights. 
 "It has always been my conviction that those who 
 have lacked the opportunity to examine the op 
 erations of wealth are frequently led astray. In 
 the first place, riches are invariably the direct re 
 sult of great economic services undertaken for the 
 good of mankind!" and thus launched, Mr. Mac 
 Candlish began to deal not with the dead and dry 
 of theories and panaceas, but with the living 
 actualities of trade and production. 
 
 "Ain t it grand what the likes of him does for 
 the likes of me!" thought Mr. Feeny in a pause, 
 and then again that soft voice opened up fresh 
 regions for him. 
 
 He saw that what Mr. MacCandlish called the 
 law of supply and demand which he seemed to 
 hold in the very tenderest regard regulated 
 things. He saw, too, that millionaires were only 
 far-sighted individuals who had mastered the fact 
 that what the world tossed aside to-day it would 
 urgently need to-morrow, and garnered this waste, 
 exacting a small margin of profit for the service. 
 
 "It s great !" Mr. Feeny told himself in a spent 
 
194 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 whisper. "I go somewhere as far as I can get, 
 and raise things no matter what and then one 
 of these here capitalists comes along and says: 
 Feeny, me boy, how are your crops? I ve one 
 end of a thousand miles of railroad track at your 
 front gate for to haul em away with. No won 
 der they re well paid . . . tis right they should 
 be, I begrudge em nothing." 
 
 "And after all" it was Mr. MacCandlish speak 
 ing "let us see what actual advantages the mil 
 lionaire has, what does his money buy him in ex 
 cess of what another may have? A little better 
 shelter perhaps, more costly clothes, and his three 
 meals a day!" 
 
 "Tis true," thought Mr. Feeny. "They d bust 
 if they et oftener, the way they feed; and as for 
 clothes, I ve seen their lady friends with far less 
 on than a workin man s wife d think decent." 
 
 Mr. Feeny had entered that building a rather 
 heedless person who got drunk at every port of 
 call, and who knew the inside of every calaboose 
 in every flea-bitten center of civilization along the 
 Caribbean, but he was to quit it a groping intel- 
 lectualist with a germ lodged in his brain that 
 was to fructify. 
 
 Mr. Feeny boarded the Orinoco of the Gulf and 
 Mexican Transportation Line a chastened spirit. 
 His last hours ashore, and the last of his wages, 
 had been spent in a second-hand book-shop where 
 he had acquired three books that, under various 
 
MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT 195 
 
 titles, dealt with the burning question of why the 
 other fellow happens to have it all; a condition 
 that is much older than political economy, just as 
 language is older than grammar. Now the Ori 
 noco, newly scraped and painted as to staterooms 
 and gilded saloons where the eye and foot of Mr. 
 Feeny never penetrated, had been chartered for a 
 mid-winter cruise. Mr. Feeny heard this directly 
 from one of his mates, Tom Murphy, who had it 
 from an oiler, who had it from the second assist 
 ant engineer. 
 
 "It s a party of magnates," he explained. 
 "We re to have close on to a billion dollars aboard, 
 live weight, you understand. MacCandlish, the 
 big railroad man you ve heard of him in the 
 papers, Feeny is one of the bunch, and they ve 
 got a Protestant bishop along, but I don t think 
 much of the likes of him!" In theory, at least, 
 Mr. Murphy was an ardent churchman. 
 
 "For what are they usin this old hooker?" de 
 manded Feeny. 
 
 "They re goin down to have a look at mines in 
 Mexico," said Murphy. 
 
 Mr. Feeny s first keen lust for wisdom survived 
 the days of heavy toil that were his portion. 
 
 "But I ve read hotter stuff," he told himself 
 one black night when he had been at sea ten days. 
 He lay in his bunk and listened to the heavy seas 
 break under the Orinoco s quarter. This was va- 
 
196 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 ried by mighty shivers when the racing screw 
 fanned the air. And then suddenly it was as if 
 tons and tons of water with the weight of lead, 
 and driven by some vast power, had dropped on 
 the Orinoco. Mr. Feeny sprang from his bunk. 
 His first instinct was to rush for the deck, but 
 thoughts of his mates in the stoke-hole sent him 
 down the iron ladders that gave access to the 
 vitals of the ship. As he gained the engine-room, 
 the stokers burst out of their steel-walled pen, 
 and after them came a rush of steam. 
 
 "All out?" roared Feeny. 
 
 "All out," some one bellowed in return, and 
 they began swarming up the ladders, Feeny leap 
 ing from round to round in advance. At last, 
 spent and breathless, they issued into the black 
 night. 
 
 Then came a second shock. A mighty sea lifted 
 the Orinoco, three thousand tons of steel and 
 wood, and tossed her like a cork against some 
 thing that did not yield to the terrific impact. 
 Mr. Feeny picked himself up from among his fel 
 lows. 
 
 "She s aground, and no thanks to her!" he 
 bawled. 
 
 "The crew s gone with the boats!" said some 
 one in his ear. 
 
 "Is that you, Tom Murphy? Let s see what s 
 come of the millionaires!" 
 
 Mr. Feeny, chastely garmented in an under- 
 
MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT 197 
 
 shirt, and with a wind-blown halo of red hair, in 
 vaded the smoking-room. His mates, naked to 
 the waist and grimy from their toil, but showing 
 patches of white skin here and there where the 
 waves had touched them, slouched at his heels. 
 They found that Capital was just getting on its 
 feet. MacCandlish, his ruddy cheeks the color of 
 Carrara marble, was crawling out from under a 
 table where he had been thrown; the others of his 
 party were variously scattered about the room. 
 
 "Yer left," said Feeny dispassionately. "Like 
 us, yer left, for the captain s gone with his crew. 
 I d recommend you lifted the large armchair off 
 the stomach of the fat gentleman on the floor in 
 the corner, he s breathing hard and quite purple," 
 and Mr. Feeny having thus delivered himself, 
 withdrew with his mates. 
 
 ; "Twas a shame for the captain to leave em. 
 I hope he drowns ..." said Feeny. "For duty s 
 duty, which reminds me that I m the oldest man 
 in the stoke-hole with more tons of coal to my 
 credit than you ll equal even if you re given length 
 of days, so I ll serve notice on ye, one and all, 
 I m skipper!" 
 
 A wan light was lifting out of the east. It 
 spread over the tossing seas and under the low 
 ragged clouds that the gale sent hurrying into the 
 south. 
 
 "There s land !" cried Mr. Feeny. Peering 
 through the saline reek of the storm, they saw 
 
198 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 first a narrow spit of land, and here and there a 
 stunted palmetto. Then as the light spread, 
 higher ground, dense with a tropic growth; while 
 beyond was the sea again, a long restless line of 
 blue that backed against the horizon. 
 
 Mr. MacCandlish and his friends issued from 
 the saloon and worked their way along the bul 
 wark to the group of stokers. 
 
 "Well?" said the millionaire, and he addressed 
 himself to Feeny. 
 
 "I m thinking, sir, we d best leave the old hook 
 er when the sea ca ms down a bit. Yonder s one 
 of the life-boats hanging to its davits. Presently 
 we ll h ist it over the side and go ashore," said 
 Feeny. 
 
 "Then you don t think we are in any imminent 
 peril?" asked Mr. MacCandlish. 
 
 "That feelin you got comes mainly from an 
 empty stomach," said Mr. Feeny soothingly. 
 "Here, Tom Murphy ! you see if you can get 
 these gentlemen their breakfast." He himself 
 went below and accumulated a pair of trousers. 
 
 Then under his immediate direction breakfast 
 was served in the saloon, while the stokers brows 
 ed about the forward deck. With hot coffee life 
 took on a changed aspect; also Mr. Feeny s as 
 sured manner and the close proximity of the island 
 combined to contribute their measure of hope to 
 the minds and hearts of all. It was mid-morning, 
 however, before Mr. Feeny declared it was not 
 
MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT 199 
 
 too great a hazard to attempt a landing, and to 
 his "Easy, Murphy . . . easy, I say, Tom Mur 
 phy . . . Easy!" in a rising crescendo, the boat 
 dropped into the water. 
 
 "Hurroar!" cried Mr. Feeny. 
 
 "Well done, my men ! very well done, indeed !" 
 said Mr. MacCandlish. 
 
 "Splendid, true lads, all of them!" murmured 
 the bishop. 
 
 "If you ll step lively, sir, we ll have you dry 
 shod on terry-firmy in a jiffy!" said Feeny. 
 
 Within an hour after they had effected a land 
 ing it had been definitely ascertained that the is 
 land was not inhabited. 
 
 "That bein the case," said Mr. Feeny, "I think 
 I would best put the b ys to work fetchin* off sup 
 plies. What do you think, sir?" 
 
 "Oh, by all means." It was Mr. MacCandlish 
 who answered him. He and his friends were 
 peacefully resting in the shade of a group of 
 palms. "And will you have an eye to our personal 
 belongings? Our trunks and hand-bags, I mean?" 
 
 "I ll have them fetched off immediate," said Mr. 
 Feeny. 
 
 All that afternoon he and his mates tugged at 
 boxes and bales, or sweated at the oars. At dusk 
 they stopped for a bite to eat, and to rig up a 
 shelter of awnings for the millionaires. 
 
 "Fm doubtful about the weather," Mr. Feeny 
 explained as he came up from the boat, his shoul- 
 
200 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 ders piled high with mattresses. "And bein as 
 there s a full moon to-night, we ll just bring off 
 what more of the stores we can." 
 
 And at midnight when Mr. MacCandlish strolled 
 out under the tropic moon for a last look about 
 before turning in, he heard the voice of Feeny 
 and the voices of Feeny s mates as they raged at 
 their work. If the stokers slept that night, none 
 of the millionaires could have told the space of 
 time Mr. Feeny allotted to them for repose; for 
 in the rosy dawn, when they ran down to the 
 shore for a plunge in the surf, there midway be 
 tween the wreck and the island was the life-boat 
 piled high with stores. And all that day the work 
 went on without pause. Only Murphy, with fry 
 ing pan and coffee pot, snatched a few moments 
 from his toil to minister to the comfort of the 
 party under the awnings. 
 
 That night the wind slued round to the south 
 and blew a gale ; and when morning broke, the 
 Orinoco had vanished finally from the sight of 
 men. 
 
 " Tis organization I m teachin the b ys," ex 
 plained Mr. Feeny. 
 
 "Ah! . . . organization," said Mr. MacCandlish. 
 
 "I ve knowed about it since that night in New 
 York when I heard you give em the talk in the 
 theayter. It was great !" 
 
 "Were you there, Feeny?" asked MacCandlish. 
 
MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT 201 
 
 This was the most subtle flattery he had ever 
 known. 
 
 "Was I there? Drunk or sober, it was Mike 
 Feeny s best day ashore ! I been a understandin , 
 reasonin man ever since I listened to you. Sup 
 ply and demand, the problem of civilization, the 
 problem of distribution, bearin this in mind I ve 
 divided the work. Tom Murphy s something of a 
 cook, so I ve app inted him to the grub division, 
 with Sullivan and the Portuguese to help. Corri- 
 gan, and Pete, the Swede, will bring our supplies 
 up as we need em from the point where the sal 
 vage is stored. And I ve put O Hara to oysterin* 
 for the good of the community. The other lads 
 will work as comes handiest." 
 
 "You are showing excellent judgment, my 
 man," said MacCandlish warmly. 
 
 Just at dusk that night, Mr. Feeny, in the pres 
 ence of the stokers, hoisted a queer-looking flag 
 down by the camp where he and his mates lived. 
 Then standing with bared head beneath the flut 
 tering pennant, he said: 
 
 "I pronounce these here the United States of 
 Ireland! ... In conference with Mister Murphy, 
 I ve decided on a Declaration of Independence 
 and a Constitution which you can ask about if 
 you re at all curious. If you ain t I ll say this 
 much for it, we re opposed to anarchy, com 
 munism and socialism. We believe in the sacred 
 rights of property which is only another name 
 
202 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 for salvage. We believe, too, that the law of sup 
 ply and demand is a great law, and well adapted 
 for to take healthy root in this climate. We will 
 now proceed to vote for Mike Feeny for presi 
 dent ; Tom Murphy, police judge ; Jack Corrigan, 
 alderman; and Pete, the Swede, cop. Tis right 
 the foreigners we have should hold some of the 
 jobs. And now the elections bein happily over, 
 we ll just leave the public at large to discover 
 what s been done for to make life brighter and 
 easier for it." 
 
 Knowing nothing of those vicissitudes through 
 which the island was passing, the public slept 
 soundly, and after a refreshing plunge in the sea 
 was ready for breakfast. But no smiling Murphy 
 appeared. No Sullivan and no Portuguese came 
 to do its bidding. Presently Mr. Feeny hove in 
 sight swinging along the sands. 
 
 "Hurroar!" he cried. "We re organized, com 
 pletely organized ! The law of supply and demand 
 had adjusted herself to her surroundings, and 
 Mike Feeny s the student of political economy 
 what s done it !" 
 
 "Eh? What s all this, Feeny? And what s 
 become of that loafer Murphy?" demanded Mr. 
 MacCandlish. 
 
 "You go down with me to the new hotel tent, 
 the St. Murphy-Feeny we call it, to typify the 
 spiritual as well as the spirituous needs of man. 
 Cooks is scarce, they perform a necessary and 
 
MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT 203 
 
 useful function. So do waiters, pickin up food 
 in the kitchen and distributin it under the pa ms. 
 I hope you have your wads handy, for Mister 
 Murphy s now doin a cash business. Says he: 
 We re a prosperous people. Things is naturally 
 high; they ll be higher yet, by the grace of Heav 
 en! " 
 
 "What is this crazy drivel?" said MacCandlish 
 petulantly. 
 
 "Why hasn t breakfast been served us?" in 
 quired the bishop, with marked asperity of man 
 ner. Feeny had fallen in his esteem. 
 
 "I am telling you what Mister Murphy says 
 down at the Murphy-Feeny. Says he: Them 
 great staples, Scotch whisky and bottled beer, is 
 scarce, while such luxuries as bread and tinned 
 stuff is reasonably abundant but firm in price, 
 with every indication of a sharp advance. But/ 
 says he, the per capita wealth of this nation s 
 phenomenal, and it s evenly distributed or will 
 be in the near future/ 
 
 Mr. MacCandlish s brother-in-law laughed aloud 
 at this. Since his marriage to the millionaire s 
 sister, prices had not greatly troubled him; the 
 cost of living could soar or sink, it was all one, 
 and this cheerful optimism had packed the fat on 
 his ample frame. But Mr. MacCandlish s business 
 associates were built on more meager lines, and 
 were of sterner stuff. They had, when expedient, 
 ordered shut-downs and lock-outs with entire com- 
 
204 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 posure; and they had not scorned to profit by 
 short crops to boost the price of bread. But 
 MacCandlish shook his head. Feeny continued: 
 
 "I ve vaccinated this coal-heavin bunch with 
 this here political economy serum, and it s took 
 with every mother s son of em. They were ig 
 norant cusses five days back, but now they are 
 practical men of affairs." 
 
 "If this is a joke " began Mr. MacCandlish. 
 
 "Do I look like I d joke?" demanded Mr. Feeny. 
 "It s system I m telling you about, the elimina 
 tion of haphazard methods of distribution, for one 
 thing. Now there s Corrigan, a husky lad with 
 a good back and a strong pair of arms, him and 
 Pete, the Swede, has become common carriers 
 for the good of all, you ll find none commoner 
 anywhere. The Portuguese s buildin a fence 
 about the bananas and cocoanuts preparatory to 
 puttin a price on em. He s a taste for farmin 
 and is aimin to develop the natural resources of 
 this island. By the same token, Corrigan s gone 
 into the poultry business with them turtles, and 
 O Hara s adopted the oyster beds. He says 
 there s a future in oysters. He looks for a short 
 crop, as he s got no gum boots and is timid about 
 gettin his feet wet, but with prices fair, and 
 constantly tendin higher round the R in Feb 
 ruary." 
 
 They had reached what Mr. Feeny called the 
 hotel tent. The Orinoco s awnings had been used 
 
MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT 205 
 
 with admirable effect, and across the front of the 
 canvas edifice was displayed a sign with letters 
 two feet high, "St. Murphy-Feeny. European 
 Plan." The humor of the situation seemed lost 
 on Mr. MacCandlish and his party; only the stout 
 brother-in-law laughed, but a hostile glance from 
 the eye of a friend caused him to repress his 
 mirth. 
 
 "Mister Murphy s prepared to cater for you at 
 them prices that has the indorsement of the Hotel 
 Trust," said Mr. Feeny. 
 
 "I denounce this as an iniquitous outrage! It s 
 downright piracy!" sputtered Mr. MacCandlish, 
 very red in the face. 
 
 "Easy," said Mr. Feeny soothingly. "We 
 made a fair split with the salvage, but feelin that 
 you d prefer to have the whole of your personal 
 belongin s we let em offset the ship s stores. 
 Now do you be reasonable ! Mr. Murphy says 
 he ll have no rough-house for his. Any man that s 
 white and willin to behave himself can feed here. 
 For such as can t conform to these simple rules, 
 Pete, the Swede, will do the bouncin ; twill be 
 one, two, three and out ye go to the inquest. I 
 little thought, Mr. MacCandlish, sir, I d have to 
 p int out to you of all men the fairness of this 
 arrangement," continued Mr. Feeny severely. 
 "Ain t it highly necessary you should be fed and 
 looked after? You can t well do that for yourself, 
 havin outgrowed the habit; and you re too busy 
 
206 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 playing poker, when you ain t eatin and sleepin , 
 to rightly know what you do need 
 
 "Bridge!" snapped Mr. MacCandlish. 
 
 "It s cards, ain t it? Well, the b ys and me 
 have agreed to take the job of caring for you off 
 your hands. Having saved the salvage from the 
 sea, we are minded to turn an honest penny with 
 it, but owin to the scarcity of the necessities of 
 life and bein aware that none know better than 
 yourselves that the value of a thing depends on 
 how hard it is to get, the St. Murphy-Feeny will 
 adopt a scale of prices that will compare favor 
 ably with what you re used to in New York, at 
 them places that s run for the millionaire trade. 
 I ve heard in the papers of your eatin meals 
 costin twenty dollars a plate, and that sometimes 
 your lady friends dissolves pearls and di monds in 
 the apple vinegar for to take away that cheap 
 taste; we can t give you di monds and pearls, nor 
 yet lectric lights, but we can give you prices " 
 Mr. Feeny rested a long forefinger against the 
 side of his nose. "Maybe we can go em one 
 better Mister Murphy, how is it with ham and 
 eggs this day?" 
 
 "With two eggs?" asked Murphy. 
 
 "With two eggs," said Mr. Feeny. 
 
 "To be served one person?" 
 
 "To be served one person. I hope you d have 
 too much self-respect for to let a customer split 
 his order!" said Mr. Feeny. 
 
MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT 207 
 
 "I would, I d bust his crust," said Murphy. 
 "Twenty dollars if the eggs is fried on one side, 
 thirty dollars if they re fried on both sides. The 
 extra labor makes this slight difference in price. I 
 would mention, too, that the privilege of shakin 
 the pepper castor onced on your vittles is five 
 dollars. Rates for more extended service on ap 
 plication." 
 
 "Well, no one has to eat here unless he wants 
 to," said Mr. Feeny. 
 
 "You never said a truer word, Mike Feeny. 
 They can go hungry if they like." 
 
 Now finance is a big subject, but Mr. Feeny 
 and his mates attacked it with the same energy 
 they would have attacked a bunker of coal, con 
 sequently prices performed miracles in the way 
 of change; but as Mr. Feeny had prophesied, they 
 constantly tended higher; also their prevalence 
 was wide-spread; for that red-headed student of 
 political economy resolutely fixed a value to each 
 service and to every necessity. 
 
 At first MacCandlish had been disposed to ne 
 gotiate checks, with the disingenuous intention of 
 later stopping payment on them, but Feeny held 
 out firmly for cash. 
 
 "When that s all gone, we ll take over your 
 paper," he said. "I m thinkin of starting a bank 
 for to accommodate it; but as long as your money 
 lasts we ll just keep on doin* a nice cash business." 
 
208 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 And MacCandlish submitted, but with a very 
 bad grace, to what he regarded as the iniquitous 
 exactions of the stokers. Always before when 
 prices had been high, he had directly benefited; 
 indeed, high prices and good times had been syn 
 onymous terms with him. 
 
 It was an added strain that the castaways were 
 his guests. Under the circumstances it required 
 all that decision of character for which he was 
 rightly famous to suggest that they stop eating. 
 But he pointed out that if they did this, there 
 must come inevitable collapse to Feeny s elab 
 orate commercial system; it was merely a matter 
 of principle, he explained; and early one morning 
 he led his friends to the far end of the island, 
 where they would be remote from temptation 
 and the allurements of the St. Murphy-Feeny. 
 
 "We ll presently bring those scoundrels to their 
 senses," he said. "We ll freeze em out and dic 
 tate our own terms." 
 
 "I think you ve managed this all wrong!" said 
 his brother-in-law gloomily. 
 
 "How so?" snapped the great man. 
 
 "I d have started the boycott after breakfast. 
 If we must starve for a principle, I for one should 
 prefer not to do it on an empty stomach. I ve 
 always regarded breakfast as a most important 
 meal the keystone of the day, as it were. No, 
 certainly I should not think of beginning to go 
 hungry until after I had breakfasted, it s an 
 awful handicap!" 
 
MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT 209 
 
 The bishop spoke dreamily of lunch. He made 
 it clear that he rather sided with the brother-in- 
 law. He admitted that he had frequently gone 
 without lunch; it could be managed where one had 
 anticipated such a contingency but breakfast and 
 dinner the good man sighed deeply. 
 
 "You ll probably have an opportunity to try 
 going without both," said MacCandlish tartly. 
 
 The bishop groaned outright at this, and fell 
 to gathering wild flowers for his herbarium. He 
 wandered farther and farther afield in his quest. 
 After a time the brother-in-law observed that he 
 had disappeared along the sands. A gleam of 
 quiet intelligence flashed from his eyes. He rose 
 languidly from the fallen log on which he had 
 been sitting and sauntered off without so much as 
 a glance at MacCandlish. 
 
 "Where are you going?" demanded MacCand 
 lish sharply. 
 
 "I am going to look for the bishop," said his 
 brother-in-law with dignity, and he, too, vanished 
 along the sands. 
 
 The sun soared higher and higher above the 
 palms and burned splendidly in the blue western 
 arch of the heavens. MacCandlish, watching its 
 flight, reflected grimly but with satisfaction that 
 he had shepherded his little flock safely past the 
 luncheon hour. Presently one of the castaways 
 expressed great anxiety concerning the bishop, 
 and declared his purpose of going immediately in 
 search of him. Two others of the party were 
 
210 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 quickened to sympathetic interest in this project 
 and announced their willingness to share in it. 
 
 The sun sank toward the heaving restless blue 
 of the ocean. In distant peaceful centers of life, 
 happy millionaires were beginning to think of 
 dinner. Realizing this, Mr. MacCandlish experi 
 enced a poignant moment, and felt his Spartan 
 fortitude go from him. He turned to speak to one 
 of his friends, and discovered that he was entirely 
 alone. He glanced warily about him, and then 
 stole off through the jungle in the direction of 
 the St. Murphy-Feeny. 
 
 He was not wholly surprised when he found 
 that his friends had preceded him thither. They 
 were clustered sadly about Mr. Feeny, who was 
 explaining that the St. Murphy-Feeny was tem 
 porarily closed to the public. 
 
 "They ve gone on a strike, the b ys have. Cap 
 ital s in the kitchen and labor s out under the 
 pa ms, both full of principle and strong drink. It s 
 a private matter between the two, only it s my 
 belief you ll get no dinner this day. Compromise/ 
 says I to Murphy. Compromise nothin ! says 
 Murphy to me. Til teach them dogs they can t 
 run my business, it s me private affair. Think 
 of your public, says I. The public be damned ! 
 says he. And there you are! It s the conflict of 
 two opposin ideas, as they say in one of me 
 books. Just like it is when the trolley s tied up 
 and you have to walk five miles to get home." 
 
MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT 211 
 
 Mr. Feeny sighed. "I m thinkin Mister Murphy 
 will have to h ist his prices to make good this 
 day s loss. Tis wonderful how easy political 
 economy is to learn when you put your mind to 
 it ... but dinner s got a black eye." 
 
 "What s the row about, Feeny?" asked Mr. 
 MacCandlish. Hunger tempered the visible man 
 ifestations of his indignation, but a hard steely 
 glitter lurked in the corners of his eyes. It boded 
 ill for Mr. Feeny when they left that island. 
 
 "You upset the delicate balance holdin supply 
 and demand steady on their jobs, when you quit 
 eatin this mornin , Mr. MacCandlish. It imme- 
 jiately provoked hard feelin s between Mister 
 Murphy of the Hotel Trust and Mr. Sullivan and 
 the Portuguese of the Labor Combine. As I ve 
 just been explainin to your friends, I hate these 
 strikes, there s the loss in wages to labor, and 
 the cripplin effect on capital. The Portuguese 
 and Mister O Hara of the Oyster Trust are figur 
 ing up what it s cost them, and Mister Corrigan 
 of the Poultry Trust is hoppin mad. Eggs is a 
 natural breakfast food, he says, and he s the 
 heaviest loser. They tell me, too, that he so far 
 forgot himself as to put his foot in the Swede s 
 face, closin one eye and giving his nose a strong 
 list to starboard. Just why he done so I ain t 
 rightly learned, but it must have been along of 
 feelin peevish about the outlook for the poultry 
 business. You see, 7 can do nothing, and, any- 
 
212 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 how, I m thinkin of foundin a library where you 
 can go for to improve your minds. . . . The 
 Feeny Foundation, Established by Michael 
 Feeny, 1910. A University of the People, en 
 dowed by Michael Feeny/ Can you think where 
 the name could be introduced again without 
 seemin a mere repetition? Mister Murphy s de 
 cided to have a Ospital for his. What s a Cap 
 tain of Industry without his little fad? says he. 
 Vittles may cost a trifle more, but I ll have my 
 Ospital/ he says." 
 
 Mr. MacCandlish had forsaken the group that 
 clustered about Feeny, and stolen to the back 
 door of the St. Murphy-Feeny with burglarious 
 intent; but he heard the voices of men within and 
 the clink of glasses, and turned mournfully away. 
 As he hid so his glance fell on Mister Murphy s 
 garbage can. In that instant hunger overcame 
 him. He snatched up the can and fled with it. 
 He had almost reached a sheltering growth of 
 palms when Feeny caught sight of him and raised 
 the alarm. 
 
 Mr. MacCandlish s Marathon was soon run, for 
 as he bounded into the bush he heard Feeny close 
 at his heels, and a second later the stoker s mus 
 cular hand seized him by the collar of his coat. 
 
 "No violence!" panted the bishop, as, purple- 
 faced, he gained a place at Feeny s side. 
 
 Mr. Feeny surveyed the millionaire with a 
 glance of scornful pity. 
 
MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT 213 
 
 "I little thought that you d be the first to ig 
 nore the sacred rights of property, Mr. Mac- 
 Candlish, sir," he said. " Tis no excuse that 
 you re hungry. What s moral on a full stomach 
 remains moral on a empty stomach. The eternal 
 principles of right and wrong ain t made to fit 
 the shape of a man s belly, and the likes of you 
 . . . the friend of presidents and kings ... to 
 swipe a garbage can!" concluded Feeny, but 
 more in sorrow than in anger. 
 
 In the golden dawn a week later, a rapturous 
 shout from Mr. MacCandlish called his friends 
 from their tent. He was standing on the beach, 
 frozen into a tense and rigid attitude. 
 
 "Look!" he gasped, pointing. 
 
 There, anchored off the end of the island, was a 
 small and dingy-looking steamer, but the sight of 
 it gladdened the hearts of the castaways. Pajama 
 clad, they cavorted along the sands, whooping 
 gleefully. Then, as they rounded a wooded point, 
 they came on the stokers. Near at hand a ship s 
 boat was beached, and two barelegged sailors 
 were hunting turtle eggs; while a third stranger 
 was engaged in earnest conversation with Feeny. 
 Mr. MacCandlish swore. 
 
 "My dear friend . . .," admonished the bishop, 
 greatly shocked. 
 
 "It s an English tramp the Nairn" said Feeny 
 pleasantly, as he turned toward them. "We sight- 
 
214 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 ed her along afore day and h isted signals. This 
 gentleman s her skipper. He was bound for Para, 
 but he s taken a fresh charter and ll land us in 
 New York inside of two weeks, barring the risk 
 of the high seas and the acts of Providence 
 No, no, Mr. MacCandlish," as the millionaire 
 edged toward the Nairn s skipper, "a bargain s a 
 bargain, and the contract s signed. The ship s 
 already under charter. But you ll find Mike 
 Feeny always ready for to do business when he 
 sees a chance to turn an honest dollar. I m as 
 willin to speculate in transportation as in vittles. 
 The Nairn ain t a Cunarder, far from it, but 
 she ll land you in New York at two thousand a 
 head; which gives us a nice profit." 
 
 Two hours later the Nairn was steaming north, 
 and Feeny was watching the island as it merged 
 with the blue obscurity of sky and sea; while 
 from the after deck Mr. MacCandlish cast menac 
 ing glances in his direction. It was evident that 
 his feelings toward that self-taught political econo 
 mist were unbenevolent in the extreme. Some 
 where about him was concealed much cash, and 
 those many, many checks, which he intended to 
 recover when they reached New York and he 
 could invoke the aid of the law. 
 
 Now Mr. Feeny cherished no illusions on this 
 point; and one night, as the Nairn was steaming 
 up the Jersey coast, he called his mates about 
 him. 
 
MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT 215 
 
 "I misdoubt me philantrophic friend, Mr. Mao 
 Candlish. He s showin a peevish spirit, I m 
 thinkin . After all, he s no real political econo 
 mist, but just a cheap skate who s played a sure 
 thing so long he s got no sportin blood left. If 
 we put them bits of paper in at the bank for to 
 take our money out, we ll get pinched instead, 
 he told me as much." 
 
 "What might you have it in your mind to sug 
 gest, Mister Feeny?" asked Mr. Corrigan. 
 
 "Go to some tall buildin on Broadway, and 
 have a talk with one of them big lawyers." 
 
 Thus it came about that as Mr. Hargrew, whose 
 specialty was corporation law, was glancing over 
 his mail the next morning, a low-voiced clerk 
 informed him that one Feeny earnestly desired 
 speech with him. 
 
 "He s Irish, and has a couple of men with him. 
 It looks like the executive council of some labor 
 union," the clerk added. 
 
 "Show them in," said the lawyer. 
 
 "Mornin ," said Mr. Feeny. 
 
 "Good morning," said the lawyer. 
 
 "Feeny s me name, and I m a retired Captain 
 of Industry from the United States of Ireland. 
 If you ve read the mornin papers you ve seen 
 how that other great Captain of Industry, Mr. 
 MacCandlish, and a party of friends was picked 
 up off an island in the Gulf of Mexico." 
 
 The lawyer nodded. 
 
216 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Yes, I ve read about that," he said. 
 
 "We was the Orinoco s coal heavers. It s us 
 that saved the lives of them babes of millionaires. 
 We stood by them when the sailors had quit the 
 ship, we salvaged the wreck, and fed and tended 
 em. We done all the hard work, and organized 
 a government, and made that island so homelike 
 you couldn t have told it from New York. Every 
 thing was legal, and I ask you if the rise in the 
 price of staples wasn t a natural rise, owin to the 
 law of supply and demand?" 
 
 The lawyer laughed and shook his head. 
 
 Wait!" said Mr. Feeny. "I ll say nothin of 
 the trouble it was to care for em, nor the spirit 
 they showed, how Mr. MacCandlish was caught 
 escapin into the pa ms with a can from the back 
 door of the St. Murphy-Feeny, where Mister 
 Murphy of the Hotel Trust chucked his broken 
 vittles you might call it garbage and not mis 
 name it. When he was captured and fetched back 
 penitent, I said to him: Mr. MacCandlish, I 
 never thought you d be one of the first to ignore 
 the sacred rights of property, and what he an 
 swered would be a case for libel if I had the mind 
 to push it. Now, if stealin isn t stealin , what is it?" 
 
 The lawyer appeared to consider. 
 
 "I got a roll of their checks as big round as a 
 strong man s arm, and I m lookin for a way to 
 get em cashed without gettin pinched meself," 
 said Mr. Feeny. 
 
MR. FEENY S SOCIAL EXPERIMENT 217 
 
 "And you wish me to arrange this if possible?" 
 said the lawyer, smiling. "I am not sure I can, 
 but if you like you may leave those checks with 
 me and I ll see what I can do; wait a moment 
 until I run them over, and give you an acknowl 
 edgment." When he had done so, he looked up 
 into Mr. Feeny s long sad face and whistled softly. 
 Then he looked again at the bundle of checks 
 and again at Mr. Feeny, who seemed to under 
 stand. 
 
 "We was a prosperous people," he said. 
 
 "You were, indeed. Is this all, Mr. Feeny?" 
 
 "There was some cash ... all they had, I 
 remember to have heard them say," answered Mr. 
 Feeny. 
 
 "You may come this afternoon somewhere about 
 four/ 
 
 And that afternoon when Mr. Feeny, punctual 
 to the second, presented himself with Mr. Corri- 
 gan and Mr. Murphy, the first thing his sad eyes 
 saw was a neat pile of bills on the corner of Mr. 
 Hargrew s desk. 
 
 "The full amount is here, Mr. Feeny," said the 
 lawyer. "That incident of the garbage can was 
 an important point in the adjustment of your 
 claim. Yours must have been a profoundly inter 
 esting social experiment." 
 
 "I dunno as I should call it that," said Mr. 
 Feeny modestly. "For it s my opinion there s 
 nothin easier than political economy. The mis- 
 
218 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 take most people makes is in havin the demands 
 instead of the supply/ and Mr. Feeny permitted 
 himself to smile. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 
 
 THE pen slipped from Philip s fingers and 
 unheeded rolled across the table, while with 
 a sigh of weariness he abandoned himself to 
 idleness. Resting his elbows upon the table, he 
 sunk his chin into the palms of his hands and 
 gazed listlessly out of the window on the street 
 below. The cold gray light of the dull October 
 afternoon was almost at an end; already the street- 
 lamps were beginning to flare forth redly in bold 
 relief against the gathering gloom of the coming 
 night. 
 
 To Philip it was a dispiriting and cheerless pros 
 pect, heightened by the winter s first chill breath. 
 He had seen it all so often; if he could only see 
 the last of it. Each year brought back those same 
 dull days, with their leaden skies to fit into his 
 worst mood of despair and longing and unfulfil- 
 ment. He felt himself starved in mind and expe 
 rience. He was conscious always of a fierce desire 
 for something different that broader life to which 
 he could not go, and which would not come to 
 him. 
 
 Written at the age of twenty. 
 
 219 
 
220 THE HAND OF. THE MIGHTY 
 
 Slowly his eyes came back to the table and a 
 settled seriousness stole into them as he looked at 
 the manuscript lying upon it. 
 
 "I fancy it will be a go this time," he thought, 
 "but" a bit sadly "I have thought that so many 
 times, and somehow I am just where I was in the 
 start. No nearer success, no nearer anything 
 except perhaps the end of my hope and faith in 
 myself." 
 
 He had risen and now stood looking down at 
 the table with its litter of paper, pens and letters 
 . . . and rising from the midst of the disorder 
 a mountain of hope the pile of manuscript. It 
 had meant days and weeks of labor: days when 
 he had striven with enthusiasm for its comple 
 tion; days, too, that had been given up to the 
 savage denying of his mistrust and doubt. 
 Through these and his varying moods he had 
 toiled, and at last his task was approaching its 
 end. 
 
 Turning, Philip left the room and descended to 
 the narrow hall below. Here it was already quite 
 dark. He fumbled about until he found his hat 
 and overcoat, and after getting into them made 
 his way back through the parlor and sitting-room 
 to the dining-room where his mother was arrang 
 ing the supper table. 
 
 "Oh, it is you, Philip," she said, glancing up 
 from her work. "I heard you in the hall and 
 thought it must be the girls returning." 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 221 
 
 Mrs. Southard was a woman of fifty with a 
 strong placid face that had taken comparatively 
 few lines. Her dress was of the simplest black, 
 and severely plain. It had been black ever since 
 Philip could remember, for his father had died 
 when he was a baby. 
 
 While Philip was conscious that his small world 
 had changed much in the years that marked the 
 limits of his memory, his mother was still precisely 
 the same as he recalled her, returning to his first 
 vague impression of people and things. She was 
 not and had never been an intellectual woman 
 perhaps, but to him she stood for that which was 
 most steadfast and purposeful. Nor was she hard 
 with all her splendid strength. Her judgments 
 were infinitely more generous than those of most 
 women. 
 
 "You are not going out, Philip?" his mother 
 asked, observing that he was ready for the street. 
 "It s almost supper-time." 
 
 "I won t keep you waiting, mother; I am just 
 going down-town to post some letters." 
 
 "Yes, dear, but do be here for supper." 
 
 "I shall be." 
 
 He turned back into the sitting-room, intending 
 to leave the house by the side door. His mother 
 followed him, and on the threshold he faced her 
 again. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked, "anything you want 
 from down-town?" 
 
222 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 "No, dear, only I haven t told you, and I wish 
 to now. I expect Anson home to-night. He will 
 remain over Sunday. Do be nice to him." 
 
 She spoke appealingly, for Philip s face dark 
 ened at the news. 
 
 "Am I not always nice to him? I mean to be 
 for your sake." 
 
 "Yes, but you seem so far apart, and you are 
 brothers." 
 
 "Oh, it s all right, mother, and we get along 
 peaceably enough, considering how we hate each 
 other. There, dear, you can t reconcile the ut 
 terly unreconcilable, so don t spend your precious 
 strength in trying to." 
 
 And Philip, closing the door after him, went 
 down the steps and into the street. "So," he 
 muttered, "Anson will be here to-morrow and I 
 shall have to endure his presence for at least a 
 part of one penitential day." 
 
 The one cordial emotion that the brothers 
 shared in common was hatred one for the other. 
 As children they had eased this rancor by a fre 
 quent exchange of blows, but now, unhappily for 
 their peace of mind, they were past that sort of 
 thing. 
 
 The street Philip was following took him 
 straight to the center of the town and into the 
 midst of Saturday s crowd. It was such a gather 
 ing as one might see in almost any country town 
 on the last day of the week: self-conscious and 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 223 
 
 uncomfortable, in ugly ill-fitting "best clothes". 
 The business of the day was over, and the crowd 
 paraded up and down the main street, or back 
 and forth across the Square. Philip pushed his 
 way into it with assertive elbows. He crossed 
 the squalid Square with its soldier s monument 
 and its few stunted trees that stubbornly de 
 clined to grow and as stubbornly refused to die. 
 From the Square he turned into a side street that 
 led past the post-office. Here he posted his let 
 ters and paused in front of the building, undecided 
 where next to go. As he stood there a man who 
 had been leaning against an iron railing that sur 
 rounded an area way left his position and slouched 
 up to Philip s side. The latter scanned the shabby 
 figure with some uncertainty, then he said: "Oh, 
 it s you, Lester?" and held out his hand. His 
 greeting was so lacking in cordiality, however, 
 that Lester ignored the proffered hand. 
 
 "If you prefer to be alone," he growled, "why 
 don t you say so?" 
 
 Where they stood the lamplight fell upon his 
 face the face of a lad of twenty-two or three 
 stupid and sullen and debased. But Philip saw a 
 look of such abject loneliness in his eyes that he 
 placed his hand on the boy s shoulder: "Come 
 on, Lester," he said, and together they went down 
 the street and away from the town. "What are 
 you doing?" Philip asked presently. 
 
 "What I have always done nothing." 
 
224 THE HAND OF. THE MIGHTY 
 
 ".When one hasn t anything else to do it s about 
 the most agreeable of all occupations," Philip ob 
 served. He noticed that his companion s un 
 steady gait indicated a recent debauch, but this 
 did not prejudice him since he attributed all 
 moral delinquencies to a lack of sense, and so 
 readily condoned them on the grounds of inferior 
 judgment. 
 
 A boyish friendship, almost forgotten, was all 
 they had in common. Philip searched his mind 
 for some topic of conversation that might interest 
 his companion, but finally gave it up and they 
 trudged along in silence. 
 
 They reached the outskirts of the town in this 
 manner and Philip was about to turn back. 
 
 "Let s go on to the end of the road," said Les 
 ter with sudden interest. "It isn t far," he added, 
 for his companion hesitated. 
 
 "Oh, all right, only I hope you don t take this 
 walk often, Lester," Philip said with a laugh, for 
 the road ended at the graveyard. 
 
 Five minutes later and they were standing be 
 fore the cemetery gates. The pale light of the 
 October moon fell among the naked trees, while 
 the dead leaves rustled in the wind. There was 
 the ghostly white of tombstone and monument 
 and the dismal black of contrasting pine trees. 
 Philip leaned against the fence and surveyed it all 
 critically. He owned that he was grateful to 
 Lester for having brought him there. It gave 
 him a distinct sensation. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 225 
 
 "I am rather set against graveyards as a rule, 
 but this is nice and curious and lonely," he said. 
 Lester did not answer him and Philip continued: 
 "I haven t been out here in years. I guess not 
 since we buried Mr. Benedict. Do you remember 
 when we buried Mr. Benedict, Lester? I recall 
 it as one of the most gratifying events of my 
 childhood. I got a whole day from school in 
 honor of the affair." Philip raised himself on 
 tiptoe and peered over the fence. 
 
 Lester paid no heed to Philip nor to what he 
 was saying. He leaned silent and sullen against a 
 tree that stood by the path, and gazed off into 
 the frosty distance in the direction of the town. 
 Out of this distance there floated a confusion of 
 sounds harmonized and softened by time and 
 place; while through it all, clinging to the heavy 
 atmosphere, drifted the odor of burning leaves 
 and the musty scent of dying vegetation. There 
 was a touch of sad regret in the night as though 
 something that had been beautiful was ended. 
 The boy felt this in its kinship to the ruin he had 
 wrought in his own life. 
 
 "You are no doubt wondering why I spoke to 
 you," he said at last. 
 
 Philip nodded his head: "You know, Lester, 
 we haven t had much to do with each other in 
 some while." 
 
 "I want to talk with you." 
 
 "Well, go ahead, for it has just occurred to me 
 that I promised to be home in time for supper." 
 
226 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 Lester turned a pair of bloodshot eyes full on 
 Philip and asked: "You think I have been a fool, 
 don t you?" 
 
 Philip shifted his feet uneasily. He felt that 
 truth played such an insignificant part in the ex 
 ercise of civility. 
 
 "You think I have been a fool?" Lester re 
 peated. 
 
 "Before I answer that I d like to know why 
 you ask. You see the reason that prompts an 
 inquiry is more than apt to determine its answer 
 with me. I always wish to give satisfaction." 
 
 "I ask because I d like to know what you think 
 of me. I don t suppose you have any sort of use 
 for me. You don t know, Philip, how bad I have 
 wanted some one to talk to for days and days 
 some one who is not like myself. And when I 
 saw you to-night, I made up my mind that you 
 should hear what I have to say. I can t keep it 
 any longer my head will burst if I do can you 
 listen?" 
 
 "Go ahead, I m listening." 
 
 "For the most part it s nothing but what you 
 know. It s just about my being such a fool. Yes, 
 yes and it s more than that!" 
 
 Philip saw that he was powerfully excited, that 
 there were tears in the eyes of this boy, with a 
 man s heavy burden of sin on his shoulders. 
 
 "You know about the money I got when I 
 came of age; the money my father left me when 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 227 
 
 he died. I you know what a circus I made of 
 myself. How every last cent of it is gone?" 
 
 "Yes, it s the gossip and I hear it." 
 
 Lester paced back and forth in front of Philip 
 for a moment, and then leaned dejectedly against 
 a tree. 
 
 "When you talked about how it used to be 
 when we were boys, I could have choked you. I 
 wish I were back to it, with these last years to 
 live over!" He paused, trembling with excite 
 ment and sorrow. "When I got hold of my 
 money you shook me off and would have nothing 
 more to do with me/ 
 
 "I hadn t the time, Lester. I was busy and 
 you were not. Our tastes had ceased to be the 
 same, that was all. You should not bear me a 
 grudge on that score." 
 
 "I don t I like you the better for it you are 
 the only fellow I can talk to. I know if you have 
 any sympathy for me it rests on what I was when 
 we tramped around the country in vacation time. 
 How I wish I might go back to it and be a boy 
 once more once more!" 
 
 With a gesture of anguish he drew his hand 
 across his face. Perhaps he sought to hide some 
 part of the pain that was plainly stamped upon 
 his woebegone visage. He had been so proud of 
 his very misdeeds and now 
 
 "I have a lot of sympathy for you, Lester; just 
 a lot, and I am sorry for you, too." 
 
228 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Thank you, Philip; I suppose I deserve all I 
 get. I have been such a cad! such a cub! I 
 spent in two years and less what it took my 
 father all his life to save. It will be a long while 
 before I get hold of such a lump again, and if I 
 have to make it, probably never. You know 
 how, when I came of age, I was taken up by fel 
 lows much older than myself. My head was com 
 pletely turned by my popularity well, it lasted 
 for a while then quite suddenly I found myself 
 with empty pockets and no friends. People dis 
 covered all at once that I was shockingly im 
 moral. They might have known it all along if 
 they had cared to. I never made any bones about 
 it. I was no better and no worse than those I 
 went with. Now I am an outcast. The fellows 
 who helped me on to this don t see me any more. 
 I have the road to myself when I go down-town: 
 everybody gets out of my way, but this is noth 
 ing if it were no more than this I should not 
 mind." 
 
 "What else is it that s wrong?" said Philip, 
 beginning to find the boy s confession interesting. 
 
 He was feeling a certain solicitude for the har 
 vester of wild oats. They had been close friends 
 once, and at not so very long ago either. Lester s 
 plunge into folly had terminated their intimacy 
 the friendship had become irksome to both for 
 months they had scarcely exchanged more than 
 greetings when they chanced to meet, and all in 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 229 
 
 an instant Lester was sweeping him back to the 
 years when they had been inseparable. With a 
 palpable effort Lester continued: 
 
 "I ve got all sorts of habits that are ruining me, 
 as sure as I stand here they are and I can t 
 stop. If I can get the money I am going away. 
 Maybe it will be better then." 
 
 "Come, come brace up! There is no good in 
 running away. I doubt if it will improve mat 
 ters." 
 
 "No, I can t stay." 
 
 "I should if I were you. I should wait for a 
 fitting opportunity and get even with all my 
 former acquaintances in some dazzling fashion." 
 
 Philip spoke cheerfully enough, but the tone of 
 his voice was pleasantly suggestive of manslaugh 
 ter as the method he would recommend. 
 
 "What do I care for the damned Judases!" Les 
 ter burst out. "All I want is to see the last of 
 them." Then suddenly he relapsed into sullenness; 
 "I don t know that it s worth the trouble," he 
 said. "I might just as well finish it off and be 
 done with the whole thing one time as another. 
 I have thrown my money to the dogs and my 
 chances with it. I may as well let the rest fol 
 low." 
 
 "Nonsense! You don t mean what you re say 
 ing. Stop drinking and behave yourself and 
 you ll discover that you have plenty of friends left. 
 It won t benefit you to whine about it. That 
 
230 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 you have played the fool concerns you alone. You 
 can t make the town responsible for what you ve 
 done yourself." 
 
 Philip being the older, had always in a manner 
 dominated Lester. Even in the days of their 
 youth Lester had required a large amount of 
 encouragement to keep within the wide limits of 
 what Philip had marked off as the straight and 
 narrow path in the field of his moral percep 
 tions. For Philip had never aspired to any close 
 companionship with the sterner virtues and he 
 was consistent in advising no lines of conduct he 
 was not himself willing to follow. 
 
 "Damn the town and everybody in it! There 
 is not another such spot on the face of the earth." 
 
 Evidently Lester did not find being an outcast 
 agreeable, and he view r ed himself as an injured 
 individual, since his behavior had offended no 
 one, until his riches were gone. Philip passed 
 his hand through Lester s arm and led him down 
 the path. 
 
 "You go home and when morning comes, bring 
 ing with it a clear head, think it over and arrive 
 at the only sensible conclusion within your reach 
 . . . to go it straight and steady." 
 
 "Do you think I am soft to unburden myself 
 to you like this?" Lester asked. 
 
 "My dear boy, I regard you as the opposite of 
 soft." 
 
 On their entering the town, Lester reverted to 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 231 
 
 his former silence and Philip, commenting on the 
 change, thought: It was the enlivening associa 
 tions of the tomb that made him talkative." 
 
 Neither spoke until they separated in front of 
 Lester s home. Then Philip said: "Good night, 
 don t worry, it won t help you in the least." 
 
 "Good night." 
 
 "If you should happen to want some one to 
 discuss your affairs with, look me up. I shall 
 always be at your service." 
 
 "Thanks I will." 
 
 Lester turned from the gate by which he had 
 been standing and went toward the house. Philip 
 followed him with a sympathetic glance. 
 
 "Poor boy," he thought, "he s in hard luck, and 
 though there is no one to blame but himself, it 
 doesn t make it easier to bear." 
 
 Then he called aloud: "Good night. I ll ex 
 pect to see you soon." 
 
 Lester waved his hand as he paused in the sud 
 den burst of light from the opened door. Then the 
 door closed, and Philip stood alone, staring 
 thoughtfully at the darkness where but a mo 
 ment before the streaming light had been: "I 
 am sorry for him but, suppose he avails himself 
 of the proffer of companionship I was rash enough 
 to make and eats up hours and hours of my 
 precious time what s going to become of my 
 work? This won t do. A wretched creature who 
 has squandered his fortune in riotous living comes 
 
232 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 along, makes a brutal assault on my feelings, and 
 I weakly succumb amiable ass that I am!" 
 
 There never was a bridge Philip did not cross 
 in advance of his coming to it never a bridge he 
 did not go back to and recross after he was once 
 safely over. So he stood thinking of the hours 
 he was no doubt destined to waste on the un 
 happy Lester. At last he went his way reproach 
 ing himself with the unwisdom of having dis 
 played a tender and susceptible nature. 
 
 He reached home while still engaged in abusing 
 himself; with his hand upon the knob he halted 
 a moment before opening the door. He wished 
 to put his faculties in a state of repose so that 
 he could meet his brother pleasantly and with no 
 outward sign that he desired to kick him. This 
 generally demanded a previous arrangement with 
 himself. Assured that it was accomplished, he 
 pushed open the door. The sitting-room was 
 empty, but the noise coming from the dining-room 
 told him that the family was at supper. His 
 mother, hearing him enter, called: "Is it you, 
 Philip?" 
 
 "Yes, mother. I m late. I really meant to be 
 back long ago." Then to Anson as he passed 
 from one room to the other: "How are you, old 
 fellow?" 
 
 Their mother s eye was upon them and the 
 brothers exchanged greetings in a friendly enough 
 fashion. Anson even declared himself as delighted 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 233 
 
 to see Philip: a gratuitous bit of lying for which 
 the latter thanked him profusely as he took his 
 seat. About the table was grouped the entire 
 Southard family. Philip, his mother, Anson and 
 the two girls Katherine and Florence. The "in 
 harmonious whole" as Philip was wont to call 
 them. Anson was the eldest his brother s senior 
 by five or six years and verging close on thirty 
 handsome, to o, in his way, by all odds the most 
 prepossessing member of the family. But his 
 original advantages were somewhat marred by his 
 unfortunate mannerisms, the result in part of his 
 occupation that of confidential clerk in the of 
 fice of a manufacturing concern. His every act, 
 serious or the reverse, was performed with a 
 petty and aggravating secrecy. It was displayed 
 in everything he did. He even ate in a confi 
 dential manner, seeming to tell a business secret 
 to each mouthful he swallowed. Philip, stealing 
 covert glances at him, decided that he had never 
 seen him quite so abominable. Yet, it struck him 
 for the first time that Anson was a disappointed 
 man the world had not yielded him all that he 
 had been coached to think it would. He had 
 been brought up in the belief that he was a 
 marvel of human perfectibility. As a child, he had 
 been so precocious in pursuit of the virtues, great 
 and small, that much had been predicted of him. 
 Now when the glamour of youthful goodness was 
 changing into the fixity of a shining light, he was 
 
234 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 held to be a model worthy of prayerful emulation 
 by all right-minded people and so he was. If 
 he had been stuffed with straw, he could not have 
 been freer from flesh-begotten sin. 
 
 Despite this he was a disappointed man. He 
 had been such a remarkable boy that when he 
 reached maturity he was in much the same un 
 happy plight as a little Alexander with no more 
 worlds to conquer. That which had been so 
 astonishing in the child, that uncanny goodness 
 that caused elderly females to throw up their 
 hands at the mere mention of his name and 
 launch forth in praise of him, excited no especial 
 comment in the man. It never occurred to him 
 that he had been nourished on thin air. His 
 whole education was such a mistake such an 
 injustice How could any one thrive beneath the 
 load of useless rectitude he had set out to carry 
 like a fool, mainly because it placed him in the 
 ranks of other highly proper monstrosities. 
 
 Philip, slowly eating his supper, came to a re 
 alization of this and something not unlike pity 
 stole into his heart. 
 
 It was such a remote chance, so removed from 
 the realm of the possible that Anson would ever 
 succeed in distinguishing himself more than he 
 had done, and what would become of him? 
 
 As he speculated on the outcome, the two girls 
 and Anson talked back and forth across the table, 
 and he stopped thinking to listen. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 235 
 
 It was the usual discussion of ways and means 
 they carried on. This bill to be met its fellow 
 to be evaded until the end of the month. The 
 evidences of a not over-lovely existence, but hard 
 and precarious close to the ragged edge of want. 
 The much spent on the worthless shams the lit 
 tle on the solid comforts of a good living. 
 
 "As if any one is deceived or thinks us richer 
 than we are," Philip thought. "We are more or 
 less like our neighbors and they estimate our in 
 come to the last penny, just as we do theirs." 
 
 There was something so hopeless about the 
 aspect life took on, something so perilously near 
 to the perpetual grind of downright poverty, that 
 it made him revolt and he burst out angrily: 
 
 "Why, in heaven s name, don t you find some 
 more cheerful subject to discuss ! Must it forever 
 be debts and bills, as if there was only the one 
 purpose in living to squirm through somehow 
 until the end of the month!" 
 
 "I guess," Katherine, the elder of the girls, said, 
 her eyes snapping viciously, "that some one 
 has to think of such matters, though I am sure 
 no one wants to; and Anson is here so seldom 
 and he is the " 
 
 "Katherine !" Her mother spoke sharply, warn 
 ing her not to finish the sentence. 
 
 Philip looked down at his plate and bit his lips. 
 He knew what his sister would have said had 
 their mother not interfered that Anson was the 
 
236 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 family s mainstay but her mother s warning 
 stopped her. 
 
 It was by no means a loving family, nor was 
 there any special graciousness in their intercourse. 
 Philip barely tolerated his sisters. Katherine was 
 undeniably mean and spiteful. To her natural 
 tendencies she had added an exceedingly bigoted 
 habit of thought which she referred to as "her 
 faith". 
 
 Its acquirement, if she was to be credited with 
 telling the truth, had cost her many sleepless 
 nights and great self-sacrifice. It was exercised 
 chiefly in a rabid criticism of her species in which 
 she recently delighted. 
 
 Florence was rather better in sweetness of 
 temper and disposition, but to hear her talk was 
 maddening torture to him. She had all a woman s 
 misplaced and indiscriminate adjectives. Every 
 thing was "grand" to her, from hot pop-corn to 
 a clap of thunder. 
 
 The connecting link holding the four together 
 was Mrs. Southard, whose force of will kept them 
 united after love and affection had ceased to exist. 
 
 The first strong emotion they had known had 
 been hate, one for the other. They were so dif 
 ferent in every quality of soul and body; they 
 saw and were on the opposite side of every 
 conceivable question. But one thing they had in 
 common, an admirable tenacity, which rendered 
 them insensible to either courtesy or reason where 
 their prejudices were at stake. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 237 
 
 The home, such as it was, existed only by grace 
 of Mrs. Southard s strength of character. For 
 while their mutual dislike reached a degree of 
 bitterness hard to comprehend, they all loved her, 
 each in his or her own way. 
 
 "What detained you, Philip?" his mother asked 
 when Katherine was restored to composure. 
 
 "I took a walk with Lester Royal." 
 
 "I don t think him a very good person to be 
 seen with," Katherine interposed. She felt bound 
 to raise a disturbance on moral grounds. 
 
 "Don t you? why not?" Then as a happy 
 after thought: "There are certain people who 
 should be restrained from thinking." 
 
 Katherine ignored his remark and returned to 
 the charge. 
 
 "What sort of a reputation has he, I should 
 like to know! But of course you are superior to 
 a trifle like that." 
 
 "I fancy it s what it should be." 
 
 "You know very well he has no reputation at 
 all. But I suppose you don t mind you are so 
 liberal." 
 
 "Then I am sure there is nothing wrong with 
 it since it doesn t exist." 
 
 "It does exist and is most unsavory!" 
 
 "Well, even an unsavory reputation is a de 
 cided improvement on no reputation at all." 
 
 "I don t think " Katherine began. 
 
 "I am glad you don t, Kate; it was never in 
 tended you should," Philip made haste to say. 
 
238 THE HAND OK THE MIGHTY 
 
 At this point Florence took up the cudgels 
 against Philip: 
 
 "I should think you would have been ashamed 
 to let people see you with him he s simply hor 
 rid!" 
 
 "I wasn t seen with him, so don t distress your 
 conscience with the idea that I was." 
 
 "No thanks to you that you weren t," said 
 Katherine. 
 
 "Your penetration does you credit, Kate. I 
 don t happen to possess your inordinate respect 
 for appearances." He was waiting to make a 
 telling retort. This always stimulated him. 
 
 "I suppose you can t select men of good char 
 acter for your friends," Katherine snapped. 
 
 "Freedom from vice is more a question of ig 
 norance than anything else." Unconsciously he 
 glanced at Anson as he spoke. 
 
 "I should be ashamed to think it," said Kath 
 erine. 
 
 "Perhaps my spiritual insight has become 
 blunted by my unfavorable surroundings." 
 
 "I suppose that s a covert slur at me and my 
 religion," with heat. "The things you say are dis 
 graceful!" 
 
 "I don t see how mother can permit it," Flor 
 ence said, bent on being in the row. 
 
 "For pity s sake, girls, can t you let Philip fin 
 ish his supper in peace, without going out of your 
 way to complain of what is no affair of yours?" 
 It was Mrs. Southard who spoke. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 239 
 
 Philip pushed back his plate. "I am through 
 and will take myself off," he said. He kissed his 
 mother, and with an indifferent good night to the 
 rest, left the room. A moment later the street 
 door closed with a bang. 
 
 "I wish to gracious he was already married to 
 Barbara. I ll bet he d know pretty quick he 
 wasn t any better off," said Florence. 
 
 "There there," Mrs. Southard objected wear 
 ily. "Can t you find something else to talk 
 about?" 
 
 II 
 
 The Southard s belonged to that great divi 
 sion of the human family the eminently re 
 spectable. As far as they went they were above 
 reproach nor were they without a certain pres 
 tige. As Katherine was wont to remark: "They 
 knew the best." 
 
 Furthermore, it was tradition that once upon a 
 time they had been very rich, or rather their re 
 mote ancestors had been so blessed, and vouch 
 ing for this former grandeur, there remained to 
 them a considerable and distinguished connection. 
 
 These distinguished relatives, whom Philip 
 hated cordially, were much addicted to the habit 
 while on their periodic gyrations about the 
 country of stopping with his mother, when by 
 so doing they could break long and possibly 
 fatiguing trips. 
 
240 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 On these occasions the relatives spent most of 
 their time in curl-papers or smoking jackets. 
 Whenever Mrs. Southard ventured to suggest 
 some mild festivity in their honor they refused 
 to be entertained, with: "We beg you won t, 
 Cousin Jane. We are here simply for a nice quiet 
 visit with you and the children. Later on we 
 shall be forced to be so very gay, you know. 
 . . ." On these occasions when the guests 
 divided their time about equally between eating 
 and sleeping, their entertainers mode of living 
 was ordered on such a scale of magnificence and 
 reckless extravagance that they were almost in 
 variably brought to the verge of ruin, and they 
 generally atoned for the temporary burst of luxury 
 by months of close economy. Then when the 
 rich and distinguished relatives had taken their 
 leave, the Southards would cut down expenses 
 and try to convince themselves that the departed 
 guests were the most charming people imagina 
 ble. Some little fiction of the kind was positively 
 indispensable when the grocery bill came in. 
 
 One member of this contingent happening to 
 die the only disinterested action of a singularly 
 selfish career had bethought him of the South 
 ards in his last moments and had strangely enough 
 remembered them in his will with a legacy for 
 each of the children. It was a matter of some 
 hundreds apiece and the two girls and Anson had 
 straightway spent their portions. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 241 
 
 Philip, at the time of this windfall, was in busi 
 ness: it gave him the opportunity he had long 
 coveted. He planned three years of liberty in 
 which to follow up his inclination to write. 
 
 No one appreciated the courage this involved 
 and Philip went his course without help from 
 any one. He told himself that if he came to grief 
 there would be but scant loss a little money and 
 the waste of days. 
 
 He had been by no means a success in commer 
 cial pursuits, and if he failed with his pen, why, 
 it was no more than he was apt to do in other 
 things. For a year his labors in the field of 
 literature went unrewarded, and many times he 
 was tempted to give up the struggle in disgust. 
 Then at last, when his small legacy was all but 
 gone, the first meager returns filled him with 
 renewed hope and energy. 
 
 Slowly, very slowly, he saw his tiny bank bal 
 ance swell until it reached the grand total of a 
 thousand dollars. Upon that day there came to 
 him the satisfying though distant vision of suc 
 cess. 
 
 It was not to be a selfish success he told 
 himself: he would shirk no obligation when it 
 came all should profit by it. But he could do 
 so much with a different environment. The 
 appreciation his brother and sisters gave him 
 was so tainted by an indiscriminate disapproval 
 of his aims, and their recognition of his poor tri- 
 
242 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 umphs so niggardly, as though any reference to 
 them was an acknowledgment of superiority on 
 his part. In spite of this he would do what he 
 could for them when he could. Most of all 
 would he do for his mother. She should have 
 the thousand things, big and little, women loved 
 and wanted. She had done so much for him for 
 all of them. She had brought them up unaided, 
 through a struggle against poverty, the hardness 
 of which he could only dimly divine. He would 
 have counted it the blackest treachery not to 
 have thought of her. 
 
 Then when the girls were married and marry 
 they must he intended to get husbands for them, 
 even if they had to be bought she would come 
 and live with him. 
 
 They had talked it over a hundred times he 
 and Barbara and knew just how it was to be ar 
 ranged. 
 
 He never questioned his ability to do all this, 
 for his faith had become perfect and abiding. 
 
 In the kindly benevolence of his castle-building 
 he even wished well to Anson. After all, they 
 were brothers. Anson had a fondness for travel; 
 he would give him the means to indulge that 
 taste, he should travel more than this, he should 
 travel always the farther away the better. 
 
 When he left home, Philip betook himself into 
 the presence of his betrothed. As he entered 
 the parlor where Barbara sat idly turning the 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 243 
 
 leaves of a book, she looked up at him and 
 smiled. 
 
 "I am glad you came/ she said. "I was just 
 beginning to think I shouldn t see you to-night." 
 
 Philip drew a chair near to hers as he an 
 swered. "So am I, but I should be at work." 
 
 "Guess who has called this afternoon?" 
 
 "Why do you make me exert myself why 
 don t you tell me at once if I am to know?" 
 
 "Mr. Shelden." 
 
 "Well, and what had he to say? Do you know, 
 Barbara, I object, for it just occurs to me that he 
 is without a wife . . . having already disposed of 
 one. Truly I object to his calling on you." 
 
 "But he is papa s friend " 
 
 "Oh, is he? Well, he is a precious old fool 
 that s my opinion of him." 
 
 Philip, conscious of the slightness of the claim 
 he had upon her, dreaded a possible rival. He 
 knew the sanction to his suit was only passive 
 the least thing might bring about the most pro 
 nounced opposition. 
 
 "He is not so very old: he is only forty-five. 
 He regards himself as still youthful, for he as 
 sured me this was the age of the young man," 
 said Barbara. 
 
 "It s the age of the damn fool," Philip grunted 
 savagely, and then penitently: "That was a case 
 of justifiable damn: it was wrung from me, Bar 
 bara. It s so exasperating to hear such twaddle." 
 
244 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "I believe you re jealous, Philip. I really be 
 lieve you are!" 
 
 "Of course I am! I am no better than a pau 
 per and he " 
 
 "How inconsistent of you. The other eve 
 ning you said you should never care whom I saw. 
 Do be consistent." 
 
 "Consistency is the last refuge of an idiot. Be 
 cause I say or do a thing once, am I to be tied 
 to it for the rest of my days?" 
 
 "But it is quite impossible to keep track of 
 your beliefs." 
 
 "Pardon me, I have opinions, but no beliefs. 
 What else did he say?" 
 
 "You mean Mr. Shelclen?" 
 
 "Yes. What other shoddy nineteenth century- 
 ism did he repeat?" 
 
 "He said any number of things. He spoke 
 about you." 
 
 "Old gossip! What did he find to say about 
 me?" 
 
 "He asked what you were doing." 
 
 "I hope you had the courage to tell him it was 
 none of his business." 
 
 "I didn t do anything so rude. I told him you 
 were writing. He seemed deeply impressed and 
 said he had always liked you." 
 
 "Humph! He s a startling novelty." 
 
 "I thought it very lovely of him to be so sym 
 pathetic, for of course he knows. I have an idea 
 papa tells him everything." 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 245 
 
 "What else, Barbara? Can t you tell me all?" 
 
 "I told him about your book and then we dis 
 cussed books in general. He reads a great deal, 
 so he told me." 
 
 "Probably Thoughts for a Christian on Losing 
 his Hair for I have observed he is getting bald." 
 
 "How mean of you!" 
 
 "Oh, Barbara, what in heaven s name is going 
 to happen if some one comes between us some 
 one who has money and all that s worth while?" 
 
 "You know there is something that no one can 
 have but you." 
 
 She leaned forward, holding out her hand for 
 him to take. "I have given you so much love 
 that you must have it all, or I shall keep it for 
 you untouched forever." 
 
 And Philip, looking into the face so close to his, 
 saw that she meant the words she spoke. But 
 beyond the words he seemed to see that a cloud 
 could not rest long upon her. She was created 
 for love and brightness, and in his heart he 
 knew that they must be together soon or he 
 would lose her. 
 
 "What is it, Philip?" she asked after a short 
 silence. "What are you thinking?" 
 
 "That I am happy," he answered, smiling. 
 
 "Only that?" 
 
 "Could it be more? How glad I am that you 
 are as you are. I would not have you changed." 
 
 "It s not because I am so good, is it? For you 
 know I am not." 
 
246 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 Before he could answer a door opened and 
 closed in the adjoining room. The sound had an 
 instantaneous effect on Philip. 
 
 "Here is your father, Barbara; we ll speak of 
 the weather. It is a matter upon which I am 
 disposed to agree with any one always except 
 ing the pious Anson." 
 
 "Why do you pretend to dislike your brother? 
 I think him very nice, very fine-looking." 
 
 "Hate is as essential to certain natures as love 
 and much more satisfying." 
 
 "But you can t hate him. You are far from 
 honest." 
 
 "People form such queer notions of me. They 
 are eternally thinking I am not sincere, and yet, 
 Barbara, I mean all I say while I am saying 
 it. Could integrity carry me to greater lengths?" 
 
 She looked at him with knitted brows. He was 
 unlike any one she had ever known. 
 
 "Are you really afraid of him? of papa?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "The relations existing between us are strained; 
 he may at any moment send me from the house 
 for good and all." 
 
 Barbara laughed. "I am quite sure he is guilt 
 less of any such intention." 
 
 "I regret to say that I am not." 
 
 Philip regarded Mr. Gerard as a person of one 
 idea, and that invariably a wrong one. It w r as 
 neither safe nor agreeable to be so at his mercy, 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 247 
 
 for he held Philip s happiness in the hollow of 
 his hand, and that young gentleman was much 
 oppressed by the suspicion that he was not pop 
 ular with Barbara s parent. When he questioned 
 her she always assured him that her father re 
 spected him most thoroughly, but Philip doubted 
 this. 
 
 It must be admitted that now and then he de 
 tected a pugnacious quality in Mr. Gerard s man 
 ner toward him, which he stubbornly declined 
 to notice or take exception to, as every other 
 consideration was minor to the great one of gain 
 ing time in which to place himself beyond the 
 reach of interference, so he put his pride in his 
 pocket and strove to prevent a clash. 
 
 Mr. Gerard appeared suddenly in the doorway. 
 
 "I wish you would come with me into the li 
 brary, Philip," he said. "There is a little matter 
 I should like to discuss with you. Barbara will, 
 I am sure, excuse you for a few moments." 
 
 Philip came to his feet on the instant. The 
 parable of the spider and the fly presented itself 
 to him. 
 
 "How do you do," he said. He was not at his 
 best when Mr. Gerard was about. 
 
 "Just follow me into the library, if you please." 
 For Philip was gazing stupidly at him. 
 
 "Oh, certainly." From the door he glanced 
 back at Barbara, and she saw that his face was 
 clouded with apprehension. 
 
248 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 While she was wondering what it all meant, 
 and what her father could have to say to Philip, 
 there drifted in to her the murmur of their low 
 ered voices, coming from the room that had con 
 ferred upon it the name of library in recognition 
 of the fact that its furniture consisted in the main 
 of a desk, some leather-covered chairs given over 
 to decay, and a bookcase, containing an encyclo 
 pedia, a dictionary, and by actual count ninety-six 
 novels. The room was also adorned as the com 
 plete triumph of intellectuality by a bust of 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Here Mr. Gerard was supposed to do his think 
 ing. 
 
 Barbara s mother was an invalid and seldom 
 left her room. This was another tangle in the 
 snarled arrangement of Philip s hopes, for Bar 
 bara s father had severe Spartan ideas on the du 
 ties of children to their parents. And Mrs. Gerard 
 was so busy with her symptoms, real or imag 
 inary, that she never concerned herself in domes 
 tic matters. She left all that to her husband, who 
 ran things with a high and often heavy hand. 
 
 Barbara controlled her curiosity as best she 
 could. Finally the conference was at an end. 
 She heard her father remark in his ordinary stri 
 dent tones: 
 
 "You appreciate the justice of my course, 
 Philip." 
 
 A few minutes later, Philip reentered the par 
 lor. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 249 
 
 "What is it?" she asked quickly. 
 
 He crossed the room and stood leaning against 
 the mantel, looking down at her in silence. 
 
 "What is it, Philip?" she repeated. 
 
 "Your father says that I must be ready to 
 marry you within a year or else " he paused. 
 
 "Or else what?" she asked anxiously. 
 
 "The worst. I shall have to give you up." 
 
 Philip saw her face pale. She arose and stood 
 at his side, her hand upon his shoulder, her head 
 tilted so that she could look into his face. 
 
 "It shall be only you, Philip. If it is not you 
 it shall be no other." 
 
 He gazed at her in silence, trying to read the 
 depth of her faith in her eyes. The thought that 
 she was beautiful and that he loved her came 
 strongly to him. 
 
 "You believe in me, Philip; you trust me?" 
 
 "As I do no one else as I never shall another. 
 It is you and only you. Everything is centered 
 or ends forever in you." And then he laughed 
 lightly. "After all, it is not so bad. Perhaps this 
 will force our happiness upon us sooner than we 
 have dared anticipate." 
 
 "How long did he say?" 
 
 "Within a year, and it is so short a time," he 
 said, with a deep breath. 
 
 "Within a year," she repeated slowly. "But I 
 can t be forced away from you. He can t make 
 me give you up." And she shook her head in 
 defiance. 
 
250 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Can t he, Barbara? Can t he, dear?" And 
 Philip bent toward her, speaking softly. 
 
 "I belong to you." 
 
 Philip straightened up, saying somewhat grim 
 ly: "I must work. I shall be forced to see you 
 less often." 
 
 "Must you?" 
 
 "Yes. This admits of no delay. And no matter 
 how hard I work . . . even then it s all doubt and 
 uncertainty." 
 
 "Why do we have to wait?" with a sigh. "I 
 could help you so much if I were with you. I 
 know I could." 
 
 Philip ground out between his set teeth the one 
 word, "Money," and Barbara was silent. 
 
 "We are most unfortunate," he continued. 
 "We both belong to what are called pros 
 perous and well-to-do families and yet beyond a 
 well defined point there is not an extra penny, 
 every cent being swallowed up in the wretched 
 sham of appearances. I own frankly I am poor, 
 and as if this were not misfortune enough in it 
 self, my poverty is allied to a worthless sneaking 
 respectability that is maintained at the cost of 
 constant sacrifice. I have the added ignominy of 
 knowing that the very appearances on which is 
 squandered everything, deceive no one. How 
 destructive to self-respect to live a lie unbelieved 
 even by the most credulous! If it accomplished 
 its beneficent mission, there would be a worthy 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 251 
 
 excuse for it, but to run the risk of damnation 
 for the sake of a lot of unsuccessful deceits makes 
 my soul sick." 
 
 "What do we care for people? If we are happy 
 what does it matter?" She pressed close to his 
 side. "What do we care?" 
 
 "Do you mean you would marry me now, if 
 you could, and disregard the doubtfulness of the 
 future?" 
 
 "But you haven t asked me yet . . . how can 
 I tell?" 
 
 "W r ould you, dear?" . . . tenderly. 
 
 "Try me. It would be such fun to live just as 
 we could, and not have to make believe. I im 
 agine the worst of poverty is in the thought that 
 some one else knows. Tell me what father said." 
 
 "I have already told you, Barbara." 
 
 "But tell me how it came about. How he led 
 up to it and what you said." 
 
 Philip thought for a moment. When he spoke 
 his manner suggested weariness, as if the recent 
 ordeal had been too much for him. 
 
 "Really I am quite collapsed, quite annihilated. 
 What a stunning advantage a young woman s 
 father has over his daughter s young man. 
 
 "Won t you answer me? what was it papa 
 said?" 
 
 "Well, we kept clear of sentiment from the start 
 we canvassed the situation from a purely busi 
 ness basis." 
 
252 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 "But you know nothing about business." 
 
 "I talk intelligently enough on a good many 
 subjects of which I know nothing." 
 
 "What else did he say?" 
 
 "Oh, that I was a very proper young man, and 
 all that sort of thing." 
 
 "And then what?" 
 
 "After an exchange of compliments he gave me 
 to understand that business was business. Then, 
 Barbara, with startling brevity and great sol 
 emnity, tempered with severity, he informed me 
 that this waiting was unjust to you, that it unduly, 
 compromised you, to all of which I agreed. He 
 again alluded to my virtues; during their enum 
 eration, my feelings were of the ghastly jolly or 
 der, for I thought that this formed the prelude 
 to a blessing and dismissal but it didn t. He 
 wound up by asking me what my resources were. 
 Of course I shuffled about and tried to daze him 
 by a complicated explanation, filled with glitter 
 ing generalities, though I own they did not glitter, 
 for he held me to the subject in hand and I 
 marshaled up my prospects for his inspection. I 
 confess I was governed by no intention to be 
 honest. I lied outright wherever I could and 
 where I couldn t I maimed or strangled the facts. 
 If I had only had warning a little time for 
 preparation, and the memorizing of imaginary 
 statistics I should have made a better showing. 
 I simply could not stick to the truth; but it stuck 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 253 
 
 to me in fragments. I felt as though I were 
 pasted all over with it." 
 
 "But what did you say to papa?" 
 
 "I told him what my income was I had to 
 name a sum so small I am sure he believed me 
 at once. Lastly I told him of my expectations, 
 and there was where I lied. With the result that, 
 providing I shall increase my earnings sufficiently 
 to warrant such a course, I am to marry you 
 within a year, otherwise I don t." 
 
 And Philip dropped into a chair dejected in 
 body and mind. 
 
 "Now, what the dickens does he expect? I 
 can t become famous on twelve months notice. 
 However, I must work morning, noon and night 
 with no let-up whatever." 
 
 "And what s going to become of me then?" 
 asked Barbara. 
 
 "You know, dear, we can t sacrifice the future 
 for the present. It s a beastly short time in which 
 I am to make a substantial addition to my earn 
 ings, and your father most expressly stipulates that 
 I bring them up to some appropriate figure. In the 
 event of my being able to do this he will entrust 
 your happiness to my care, feeling assured I am 
 and will continue to be worthy of the trust he re 
 poses in me and so on and so forth through the 
 easy let-down that he gave me. On the whole 
 he was fair . . . most fair." 
 
 Philip was silent for a moment, then he said: 
 
254 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "That I have a thousand dollars and better in 
 the bank was a point in my favor if it had not 
 been for that the chances for a respectful hearing 
 would have been slim. * 
 
 "It is quite a sum," Barbara said. "Lots of 
 people here, nice people, too, live on small sal 
 aries and never get anything ahead. Of course 
 there are others, like the Perkinses, who are rich." 
 
 "It s pitifully small!" said Philip, and looked 
 his disgust. 
 
 "I don t know one can do lots with a thousand 
 dollars. You can buy a very pretty little home 
 here for that," said Barbara practically. 
 
 "Of course your father knows the money was 
 left me and that I didn t make it. He hinted that 
 it was about time that I got into something cer 
 tain. He even said that as soon as I did we 
 might marry. It s awfully lucky about that 
 money. I hope to goodness nothing will hap 
 pen to the bank, for if there should, I might just 
 as well quit." 
 
 Both laughed at the idea. 
 
 "Isn t it absurd!" said Barbara dolefully. 
 
 "No, it s very serious, dear. Let s think what 
 I can do to get a salary out of the town. I wish 
 I could go away, but I simply can t do that. I 
 must stay and help out at home. I suppose I d 
 better try and bone the papers for more work. 
 That s the only sure thing in sight. I can always 
 get that in small doses, because it helps the sale. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 255 
 
 My friends are willing to pay something for the 
 opportunity to criticize the drivel it s about the 
 only opportunity they have had yet. It s a great 
 thing to be a literary man in a small town, Bar 
 bara!" 
 
 "I hate to think I am to be bought," Barbara 
 said angrily. "That it all rests on money, as 
 though love were valueless." 
 
 "It s a commercial age." 
 
 "You seem to believe in nothing." There was 
 marked disfavor in her glance. 
 
 Philip raised his eyes to hers. "I believe in 
 your happiness and mine if I succeed. I have 
 every confidence in myself." 
 
 "But not in me you never speak of that!" 
 
 "Yes, dear, in you, too!" 
 
 "You don t say it as if you meant it!" 
 
 "I am not accustomed to saying things I mean 
 seriously." 
 
 "I wish you would pay me the compliment of 
 being serious." 
 
 "I do." 
 
 And truly beneath all the flippancy his heart 
 was heavy and as lead. 
 
 Ill 
 
 It was Sunday morning. Philip pushed into 
 the church as the congregation streamed out 
 through the wide doors. He made his way up 
 
256 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 to the choir loft where a man had just risen 
 from his seat before the organ. This was Franz 
 Becker. 
 
 "You are late, Franz," he observed. 
 
 "It is Communion Sunday," Becker said in a 
 deep beautiful voice. "That makes it late." 
 
 "See here," said Philip, "I wish you would ask 
 me to dinner with you. Anson s home and I 
 want to avoid him if possible." 
 
 "Certainly," answered Becker, "by all means 
 come with me." 
 
 They went down and out of the church : Philip, 
 light and active in all his movements; Becker, 
 ponderous and slow but masterful always, a man 
 for the big things of his art. A warm friendship 
 existed between the two. Philip had an intense ad 
 miration for the musician, who seemed to dwell in 
 a state pretty evenly divided between abject de 
 spondency and settled rage. He respected this 
 temperamental constancy. They were both friend 
 less in a marked degree, neither of them being 
 calculated to invite an extensive or varied ac 
 quaintance. Few people enjoyed Philip s conver 
 sation. Indeed, it was a special point with him 
 that they should not. Nor did Becker rejoice in 
 any great popularity. He was wholly repellent 
 in his attitude toward the small world in which he 
 moved with a savage pride that w r as ever on the 
 alert. He might have been in a primitive sort of 
 way something of a social lion, but his taming was 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 257 
 
 too imperfect to admit of it. His rudeness and 
 barbarities comprised the most interesting anec 
 dotes the town could furnish. Becker came of a 
 class where poverty was the unvarying rule 
 meanness and commonness had been his earliest 
 companions and in a moderated form these two 
 kept their place at his side, chaining and crippling 
 him, running him to the earth where he would 
 have soared a clog upon his steps forever. 
 
 Just how he had acquired his mastery of music 
 none could tell. It was part instinct part study 
 that in its feverish intensity was all but incom 
 prehensible. His father had been a musician of 
 more than passing note in the little German cap 
 ital where he had lived, hoped and died, leaving 
 the promise of his genius unfulfilled. There, 
 his mother, after a brief widowhood, had mar 
 ried again, a man much beneath her in every 
 respect. The marriage was followed by a speedy 
 emigration to America, where a brother of her 
 second husband had settled. Franz s stepfather 
 was a shoemaker and had wished Franz to follow 
 his trade; but as the boy grew and as inclination 
 became purpose, and purpose in turn work, that 
 which was locked up within him found expression. 
 He could think and feel and dream. Best of all, 
 perhaps, he discovered that his rare talent had a 
 moneyed value that he was quick to profit by 
 then came the rush of ambition that was to carry 
 him on and place him with the masters. It spent 
 
258 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 itself and he was left where it had found him 
 exhausted and wearied by the fruitless effort he 
 had made. He could only go so far and no far 
 ther circumstances drew in like a narrow circle 
 about him. He was a giant set to do a dwarf s 
 labor. From the start his mother and stepfather 
 had strenuously opposed him on every hand. 
 
 However, when he had proved that music pos 
 sessed a money value that he turned readily to 
 account, they ceased to object for money, like 
 religion, is sacred, and not to be made light of. 
 
 But his determination to rise above the depend 
 ent and precarious position of an instructor they 
 persistently combated. Enough to live on com 
 fortably to them represented enough for soul and 
 body alike. That his art meant to him expression 
 and development, they never guessed and he never 
 sought to explain. He was very patient with them 
 and forgiving. 
 
 So, silently and without complaint, he drudged 
 away as teacher and organist, his burden made 
 heavy by innumerable younger brothers and sis 
 ters whom he was pushing with him into humble 
 respectability. 
 
 Going back into the past he could recall the 
 hard bitter season that came in his childhood and 
 youth : there were things done then, want endured 
 and privation, that even in the comparative luxury 
 of his success made his heart sick with a deadly 
 sense of shame and humiliation. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 259 
 
 He could remember the death of a little baby 
 sister that happened shortly after the family s ar 
 rival in the town. The memory of that event 
 stood forth distinct and minute down to the 
 least particular. It was one of those hopelessly 
 miserable experiences he would have liked to for 
 get, but could not. 
 
 There were many little ones then and they were 
 very poor, indeed. His stepfather had not been 
 able to pay for the assistance which is customary at 
 such times, but had shaped a coffin with his own 
 hands for the little body, and when all was ready, 
 borrowing a horse and wagon from a neighbor, 
 had driven to the graveyard, holding the pine box 
 across his knees. As his mother was ill, and 
 could not go, Franz had ridden alone with the 
 shoemaker, who, even then, to all appearances was 
 an old man bent and gray from much confinement 
 to his bench. The small boy rode crouching in 
 the bottom of the wagon, for there was not room 
 for him upon the seat. He was long haunted by 
 the vision, ineffaceable and clear, of his father, 
 as he drove along, bending sadly over the burden 
 in his lap, gray and somber, with the poor dignity 
 of grief. 
 
 Their way took them past his uncle s store, for 
 in a squalid fashion the brother was well-to-do. 
 As they passed his place the child who huddled 
 drearily in the bed of the cart, oppressed by an 
 indefinite sense of sorrow, saw his uncle standing 
 
260 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 beside his open door in his shirt-sleeves the cen 
 ter of a lounging group of idlers and when the 
 man became conscious of the nearness of the 
 two, the wide-eyed child and the father, driving 
 the horse, the coffin in his lap, he laughed aloud. 
 
 It was years afterward, when his uncle had 
 quitted the town for a larger field somewhere in 
 the West that the brooding solitary boy compre 
 hended the full meaning of that day s ride, and it 
 gave him an insight into the quality of human 
 sympathy that one can safely rely upon receiving 
 in the hour of need, far beyond his age. It served 
 to augment a peculiar harshness of belief a 
 wish to keep to himself and from contact with 
 others. 
 
 The family s poverty, which was beyond denial 
 or subterfuge, only intensified this characteristic. 
 His pride was like a raw sore; the kindest touch 
 was positive pain for him. Anything that savored 
 of patronage or of condescension met with an 
 instant and rude rebuff. 
 
 The Beckers for the family was known by this 
 name a tacit recognition of Franz s importance 
 and the family s unimportance that offended no 
 one more than it did Franz were extremely im 
 posing as to numbers, with a majority in favor of 
 the sterner sex, and the old shoemaker s patriot 
 ism had been evinced in the naming of his numer 
 ous offspring. 
 
 On the particular Sunday in .question the mid- 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 261 
 
 day meal was rendered more cheerful than other 
 wise by Bismarck and Von Molke, the two most 
 youthful of Franz s half-brothers, who upset divers 
 mugs of milk as well as pretty thoroughly smear 
 ing their small features with chicken gravy. Bis 
 marck was finally ordered from the table by his 
 father in very broken English because of some 
 flagrant breach of good manners. 
 
 His exodus was shortly followed by that of his 
 brothers and sisters who were in transit through 
 that state of physical incompleteness, the sign of 
 which is seen in the combining of long legs with 
 diffidence. 
 
 These had eaten as though on a wager and one 
 by one as they finished their meal slipped from 
 their seats and took themselves off, the last 
 mouthful in process of mastication. 
 
 Soon there remained only the old shoemaker, 
 his wife, Franz, Philip and Von Molke who still 
 toiled manfully, albeit wearily, with a spoon tight- 
 clutched in his chubby fist at whatever came with 
 in reach. 
 
 Bismarck had reappeared upon the scene. Into 
 his small soul neither modesty nor diffidence had 
 ever seeped even in microscopic quantities and he 
 skirmished noiselessly about the room, always 
 heedful of his father s guttural command to "go 
 away" promptly exiting at one door to appear 
 as promptly at another with recriminations hoarse 
 upon his lips against Von Molke, whose appetite, 
 
262 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 generated with a nice knowledge of its capacity, 
 bade fair to outlast the pudding. 
 
 With cold malignancy the latter s periodic cry 
 of, "More, please," would sound, and up would 
 go his plate in spite of his brother s muffled en 
 treaties that he should desist. In this manner 
 Bismarck saw the last fragment of the pudding 
 disposed of, which sight so maddened him that he 
 forgot all caution and darted at Von Molke intent 
 upon wresting the coveted prize from his posses 
 sion. 
 
 In the moment of victory the strong arm of 
 paternal law was interposed between the com 
 batants and the assailant, hotly pursued by the 
 assailed, was borne from the room in his father s 
 arms to meet his punishment in the back yard. 
 
 "Come," Franz said, rising. "Come, let us go 
 to my room." 
 
 And Philip followed him, hearing him mutter 
 as he went: "Can he not wait when my friend is 
 here?" 
 
 It was a large bare apartment they entered, 
 carpetless and curtainless, with an iron bedstead 
 at one side and a hideously ornate stove at the 
 other. 
 
 Philip lounged down into a chair, searching in 
 his pocket for pipe and tobacco. 
 
 Without for the room overlooked the back 
 yard they could hear Bismarck and his father. 
 The former was crying, while his parent was ex- 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 263 
 
 postulating with him in mixed German and Eng 
 lish, but the sounds of grief continued with no 
 show of abatement. 
 
 "He has a vile temper," Franz said, "when he is 
 angry. The little boys are not bad as such little 
 beasts go." 
 
 "I think them amusing," Philip responded. 
 "The way in which a child profits by the pres 
 ence of guests to gorge himself on dainties is a 
 fair example of uncontrolled human nature." 
 
 Just then they heard the patter of small feet be 
 yond the door and a faint voice saying: "I want 
 in!" 
 
 It was Bismarck, and he waited for no an 
 swer, but inserted himself ingratiatingly into the 
 room, presenting a countenance whereon grief 
 and gravy had combined with disastrous results. 
 
 He was still sobbing but managed to gasp: 
 
 "I ain t hurt. It ain t that but I do hate to 
 have a darned old foreigner bang me about it 
 hurts my feelings!" 
 
 And he made a dive into Franz s lap, burying 
 his head against his breast where for exactly three 
 minutes he remained with wriggling legs a victim 
 of keen despair. 
 
 "There is Americanism for you with a ven 
 geance, Franz," said Philip. 
 
 The three minutes having expired and native 
 depravity having usurped the place of anguish, 
 Bismarck was forcibly expelled from the room 
 
264 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 and withdrew to more congenial fellowship with 
 his brothers. 
 
 Philip broke the silence that succeeded Bis 
 marck s expulsion in which they had both been 
 actively engaged. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I haven t seen you for a whole 
 week, Franz. However, I don t suppose you 
 have anything good to tell me." Franz made a 
 savage gesture that fully expressed a large dis 
 gust. 
 
 "Do you know, Franz," Philip continued, "we 
 haven t originated much over here except the 
 Declaration of Independence and a beastly bar 
 gain-counter spirit in relation to the arts." He 
 paused a moment, then added laughingly: "One 
 knows so much at twenty-four. I am frequently 
 astonished at the scope of my critical capacity. 
 It must be hereditary with me, you know my 
 father was a minister. They are the only class 
 of men who enjoy the delightful privilege of un 
 restricted judgment. In that profession simple 
 ignorance is not a hindrance, but rather a help." 
 
 Franz was in no mood for frivolity. "You are 
 more than apt to offend people by what you say. 
 Of course with me it makes no difference. You 
 should be more thoughtful." 
 
 "I offend people, my dear fellow; that s what 
 I am living for." 
 
 Becker voiced the thought that was uppermost 
 in his mind: "My father and mother think I am 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 265 
 
 as successful as any man need be. They do not 
 comprehend that what I am doing now is drudg 
 ery, a present makeshift only that my career 
 is all before me. The only opportunity I have had, 
 and I should scarcely call it that, was five years 
 ago when I went to New York, thinking, for I 
 knew no better, that I might accomplish some 
 thing there. I tramped the streets for days in my 
 effort to get a hearing. I offered my manuscripts 
 to any one who would print them, as a gift. 
 Bah! it was the same always native work 
 had no value. If I could only get to Europe 
 there they know what is music and what is rub 
 bish. My father and mother do not wish to be 
 unkind but they are not informed in these mat 
 ters, and when I came back beaten and more 
 humiliated than I can say, I saw they were 
 glad of my failure. Their thought was that I 
 should have been satisfied, and their one regret 
 was for the money I had expended in so vain 
 an undertaking." 
 
 His strong face showed plainly the pain that 
 was his the hunger and the longing. 
 
 Philip thought of those innumerable younger 
 brothers. It would be years before any of them 
 could come to the front and ease the load that kept 
 Franz s shoulder to the wheel; meanwhile he was 
 chained to a spot that could only give him suffer 
 ing. There was danger, too, in the waiting. He 
 might lose the very power to utilize his liberty 
 
266 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 when it did come. Men sometimes survive their 
 inspiration and their genius. 
 
 Becker threw himself back in his chair: "We 
 spend years in toiling for a little money that we 
 may purchase opportunity and then then, we 
 die. Bah! what a fool one is to hope when the 
 chances are all against him." 
 
 "Did you ever speculate on the final adjust 
 ment? God s apology to man?" 
 
 Franz shook his head : "What presumption, to 
 suppose God keeps any record of us such atoms 
 as we are!" 
 
 " 
 
 Not at all. My religion holds the splendid 
 comfort of conceit and is based on the thought 
 that man and by man I mean primarily myself 
 is all, that my work, my good resolutions 
 which are a source of constant annoyance and dis 
 tress to me entitle me to certain favors in this 
 world and the world to come. To be sure, opposi 
 tion to the divine will is rather useless at best 
 we can but squirm like very small fish over a 
 hot fire. Still, I shall make reparation for the 
 absurdity of my beliefs by the dignity and per 
 sistency of my revolt, on much the same prin 
 ciple that prompts me to swear when I hurt my 
 self by a foolish attempt to walk through an ob 
 structed doorway in the dark, not that it does any 
 good, but just to express my contempt for the 
 inexorable." 
 
 Franz smoked his pipe thoughtfully. Philip 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 267 
 
 occasionally shocked even his liberal ideas of pro 
 priety. They sat looking at the hideous little 
 stove for a space and neither spoke. At last 
 Philip said : 
 
 "Why, I say, haven t you a sort of a half-uncle 
 in the West who could help you if he would? 
 Can t you bone him for a start?" 
 
 Franz s brow darkened instantly : "You mean 
 my step-father s brother? Don t speak of him." 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon," Philip made haste to 
 say. "The fact is, I can stand almost anything 
 in the shape of misfortune myself, except my rela 
 tives, but I thought it might be different with 
 you." 
 
 "You do not comprehend. This person I loathe. 
 It is nothing to him, of course. He is a rich man. 
 I wonder what good money can do a brute like 
 that?" 
 
 He looked out of the window, watching the 
 dead leaves the wind was blowing into drifts 
 against the fence in the yard below, and added 
 almost sadly: "I think hate has been a more 
 potent factor in my growth than love at least 
 it has stirred my heart the deepest." 
 
 "So your uncle is out of the question even 
 though he should be willing to aid you?" 
 
 Becker struck the ashes from his pipe, remark 
 ing as he did so: "What can I do that will give 
 me the longed-for opportunity? You are usually 
 prolific in good advice." 
 
268 THE HAND OF, THE MIGHTY 
 
 "You might marry money." 
 
 "Never!" Franz interposed quickly. His friend s 
 love-affair met with his strongest disapproval. 
 
 Philip ignored the interruption: "Now there is 
 Mrs. Monroe. I have young Perkins word for 
 it that she admires you immensely. I am credit 
 ably informed she enjoys a fair income and she is 
 still handsome and shapely thanks to God and 
 her tailor! Even the tooth of time has been 
 dulled on her hardy anatomy. Franz, there is 
 your chance." 
 
 "Don t be a fool! Do you think I " 
 
 Franz was interrupted by the sound of an ex 
 ceedingly pleasant voice that arose from the hall 
 below. The voice was assuring some one that 
 its owner was perfectly familiar with the way to 
 Franz s room and was declining all proffers of as 
 sistance in finding it, with profuse thanks. 
 
 Becker and Philip had paused to listen, and 
 now the latter said : "I rather fancy it s Perkins." 
 
 A moment after a gentle tap sounded on the 
 door, accompanied by, "May I come in?" 
 
 In response to Becker s bidding the door opened 
 and Perkins stood before them. 
 
 Now there are awful depths of oblivion that 
 may be sounded in a small town, and not to know 
 the Perkinses was one of these depths, for that was 
 to argue yourself unknown. Yet, to his credit 
 be it said that Perkins was a modest youth, de 
 spite his temptation to gloat in the fact that his 
 family represented two generations of riches; 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 269 
 
 which was by far the most splendid incident in 
 their history. 
 
 Young Perkins was not adapted to gloating. 
 He was a youth with a supersensitive conscience 
 and sandy side-whiskers, which grew out stubbily 
 from an equally sandy complexion, and he would 
 be polite to everybody, which was a sheer weak 
 ness on his part and not to be excused on any 
 plea whatever. 
 
 What Perkins did not do his mother in nowise 
 remedied, for she quarreled with her kind on a 
 footing of perfect equality charming to behold, 
 setting herself up for no better than the rest. 
 
 Perkins stood before his friends, breathless from 
 his run up the stairs, his whole appearance indi 
 cating unusual excitement. He dropped down into 
 the chair Franz pushed toward him, saying: 
 
 "Wait a minute till I get my wind. I am quite 
 floored because of several things that have taken 
 place to-day." 
 
 He wiped his florid face vigorously with his 
 handkerchief. 
 
 "I you see that is, my mother received word 
 yesterday from Madame Dennee, of Paris Paris, 
 France, you know that she is in America. In 
 New York, I think. Madame Dennee is the wi 
 dow of Gabrielle Honore Dennee, who was a very 
 distinguished man in France, prior to his death. 
 I am sure I don t know what he did and my 
 mother has never told me, but whatever it was 
 
270 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 I am certain he did it and it was uncommon. 
 There was a stack of money in it. He was a 
 banker, you know." 
 
 "Look here, Perkins/ Philip remonstrated. 
 "What is this all about?" 
 
 "But, you don t catch what I am driving at," 
 Perkins cried eagerly; "he married my mother s 
 cousin." 
 
 "Who did?" Philip asked. 
 
 "Monsieur Dennee." 
 
 "Oh well, go ahead." 
 
 "That s exactly what I am trying to do. He 
 married Miss Ballard, my mother s cousin. That 
 was before he died, of course. My mother was a 
 Ballard and as you are both aware, that s my 
 first name, and they were very celebrated people." 
 
 Perkins was still polishing his freckled features 
 till they fairly glistened. He finally tucked his 
 handkerchief resolutely into his pocket and folded 
 his hands. 
 
 "I must get this straight, I am quite excited. 
 Permit me to get my breath." 
 
 And he gazed benignantly at his friends from 
 under his white lashes, a beaming smile playing 
 over his countenance and dying away in the stub 
 by growth of his side-whiskers. 
 
 "You fellows must have mercy upon me a mo 
 ment longer. What I wish to tell you is this: 
 On Saturday Madame Dennee is supposed to have 
 left New York for this place. I assure you we 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 271 
 
 were completely overwhelmed by the news, for 
 while we my mother that is is her only living 
 relative in America, the family connection has 
 been allowed to languish. Heretofore my mother 
 has made it a point to fight industriously with 
 every Ballard with whom she came in contact. 
 That s a distinctly Ballard trait, and in addition 
 to the inherited and warlike instincts of her race, 
 my mother s element is hot water. Very hot, you 
 know, and I must admit it is seldom you find a 
 person who spends less time out of her element 
 than my mother. However, she has told me 
 it will be the proudest moment of her life when 
 Madame Dennee enters her house, so I am hope 
 ful the hatchet will be buried blade down." With 
 a stifled gasp, Perkins came to a pause. 
 
 "See here, Perkins," Philip said, "what is it you 
 are trying to tell us? Come, don t keep it all to 
 yourself. Let us into the secret. That s a good 
 fellow." 
 
 "My dear Philip, I pledge you my sacred word 
 of honor my one wish is to enlighten you, but I 
 appear little better than a candle whose light is 
 placed under a bushel." He looked pathetically 
 from one to the other of his auditors. "Allow 
 me to get started right. I trust I have made 
 it clear to you that I have a cousin, Madame 
 Dennee and she is a widow lady." 
 
 "Widow alone is sufficient. It establishes her 
 sex beyond dispute. Don t use the word lady 
 
272 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 when you can possibly avoid doing so. It s a 
 hard worked word these days/ Philip advised. 
 
 "Oh, pardon me. Well, Madame Dennee, who 
 is a widow, has announced her intention of com 
 ing to us and we are overwhelmed by the honor, 
 for of course my cousin is a woman of the great 
 est elegance and culture. Must be, you know. 
 But what" and his voice rose in a quaver of 
 nervous objection "but what have we to offer 
 her either in our mode of living or in a social way 
 that will please her? It will all seem so stupid 
 here after what she has been accustomed to." 
 
 "Don t abuse the town," Franz said. "It will 
 be a liberal education to her." 
 
 "Along a very illiberal line," Philip added. 
 
 "Oh, hang the town! It s how we are going 
 to entertain her that gets me." 
 
 "You are a host in yourself, Perkins, and very 
 funny," Becker remarked laughingly. 
 
 "When is she coming?" Philip asked. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I didn t tell you that, did I?" Per 
 kins shook off his dejection. "The letter was re 
 ceived yesterday. In it she simply said she would 
 like to visit us if convenient and be our guest for 
 a little while. We were to wire our answer and 
 our answer was, Come/ What the dickens else 
 could we have said even if we had wanted to? 
 All this that I have told you took place yesterday 
 and since then consternation has reigned supreme. 
 My mother s hair has been done up in curl-papers 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 273 
 
 for the last thirty-six hours, tight twisted, and has 
 given her a raging headache. The house is no 
 better than a howling wilderness. I pledge you my 
 sacred word of honor that I ate my supper last 
 night on the back-stairs off a sewing-board held 
 in my lap and I was mighty thankful to get 
 it then. This morning I went without breakfast. 
 Dinner I ate from a shelf in the back pantry with 
 a soup ladle and all because Madame Dennee is 
 somewhere between here and New York contem 
 plating a descent upon us. I have taken curl 
 papers out of the water pitcher, and as I hope for 
 mercy hereafter there was one in the cold soup 
 forming the bulk of my dinner to-day." 
 
 Perkins became pensive for just the briefest 
 space possible and a rather melancholy smile over 
 spread his face. 
 
 "I say, did you fellows ever eat soup cold 
 soup with curl-papers? Because if you never did 
 don t. It s about the most thoroughly revolu 
 tionary thing a man can do." 
 
 "You haven t told us yet when she is coming," 
 Philip remarked. "When will it be, to-morrow?" 
 
 "That s what we are looking forward to." 
 
 "How old is she, anyhow?" And Philip pro 
 pounded one of the inquiries a young man is al 
 most sure to make sooner or later concerning a 
 woman. 
 
 "Oh, dear me, I can t tell. Forty or fifty 
 though, I should say at a guess." 
 
274 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 Philip yawned. Madame s age made the whole 
 affair seem very tame and unattractive to him. 
 Perkins rambled on: 
 
 "That s the deuce of it. She will be old enough 
 to take an interest in me. Women are forever 
 taking an interest in me a controlling interest you 
 know forever thinking I should be at work at 
 something or other, just to keep me out of 
 scrapes. And that s all bosh ! I don t think there s 
 any use for me to work, except perhaps to kill 
 time, and I really couldn t do that, for in the end 
 time will kill me and I shall be laid out stiff you 
 know, quite dead, with tuberoses " 
 
 "Limp you mean," growled Franz correctively. 
 "Where the devil did you ever get the notion that 
 you could be stiff?" 
 
 "I hope I didn t seem vain when I said women 
 were interested in me, you know I mean those 
 who are old enough to know better," Perkins 
 ventured w r ith much meekness, folding his hands 
 over a stomach of which Philip was wont to re 
 mark, much to its owner s agony, that it was 
 coming rapidly to the front. 
 
 "Of course you will invite us up to the house 
 when your cousin comes," the latter said. "Franz 
 and I shall be immensely happy to call." 
 
 Perkins brightened visibly. "I thought you 
 rather slumped when I told you her age. To be 
 sure you are to call. Did I ever speak of her 
 brother to you Geoffrey Ballard? I know a good 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 275 
 
 deal more about him than I do about her. He 
 has been in America frequently. In fact, as far 
 as France goes, he is an exile : got into some diffi 
 culty and was forced to leave the country." 
 
 This was said with studied carelessness; never 
 theless it was plainly discernible that Perkins 
 was accessible to the mild glow of pride which a 
 perfectly respectable and well conducted youth 
 usually feels in those of his family who have won 
 their laurels in the shaded realms of the disre 
 putable. 
 
 "I guess he is a very bad lot. Once my father 
 chanced to meet him in New York. My father 
 was fascinated by him and on the strength of the 
 good impression he had made, Ballard borrowed 
 several hundred dollars. He told a very plausible 
 tale about a remittance from home that he was 
 expecting. No sooner had he obtained an ad 
 vance on what was coming than he got out of 
 the way and it was the last father ever saw of 
 him. He must have been very clever though, be 
 cause you know my father was never a very great 
 hand to lend money." 
 
 His friends were too courteous to inform him 
 of their perfect acquaintance with his father s 
 posthumous reputation for close-fistedness, but 
 Philip could not resist saying casually: 
 
 "I can readily believe that Ballard must be a 
 very remarkable fellow." 
 
 "Oh, no," Perkins responded innocently, de- 
 
276 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 lighted that he was commanding Philip s atten 
 tion ; "we heard afterward he was a wild one 
 that he gambled and did all sorts of dishonorable 
 things. Of course I wouldn t like to have either 
 of you mention it, but once he pretty nearly killed 
 a man in a duel. It was over a woman, you 
 know." 
 
 And he looked highly scandalized proud and 
 happy, too, for it s not every day one can tell of 
 a cousin who fights duels. 
 
 It was getting dark; the afternoon was drawing 
 to an end and while Perkins was still giving the 
 details of which he was master, that related to 
 Geoffrey Ballard s career, Philip had arisen from 
 his chair. 
 
 "I shall say good night," he remarked. "It is 
 time I was on my way home." 
 
 IV 
 
 That afternoon while Perkins was busy dis 
 cussing with his two friends the expected ar 
 rival of his mother s cousin, the Perkins home, 
 some six blocks distant, was the scene of vio 
 lent Sabbath-breaking. It is but fair to state 
 that the house-cleaning was done with a careful 
 regard for the moral sentiment of the community, 
 being of a secretive nature. In the house, in the 
 midst of the disorder she had created, moved Mrs. 
 Perkins, appareled in a gown decidedly the worse 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 277 
 
 for wear and whose frayed train was momentarily 
 collecting deposits of dust on its under edge. 
 
 Mrs. Perkins had been a beauty of the magnifi 
 cent order. Perkins sandy hair, complexion and 
 freckles, were the gift of his father. The curl 
 papers to which her son had made honorable ref 
 erence were conspicuous objects in her disordered 
 costume, while her face was embellished with sun 
 dry dabs of dirt. 
 
 The Perkins home was the finest in the town, 
 but now it was in a state of wild confusion. The 
 furnishings from the numerous rooms had been 
 dragged into the halls where they accumulated 
 in defiant heaps. Mrs. Perkins surveyed the 
 ruin. "Where, where did it all come from?" she 
 asked tragically. 
 
 At that moment had Mrs. Perkins lent a listen 
 ing ear she might have heard, disturbing the Sun 
 day quiet that filled the broad street outside with 
 its peaceful repose, the distant rumble of wheels, 
 foretelling the approach of some heavy vehicle. 
 
 "I think, Anna," and she addressed herself to 
 her principal assistant, "I think, Anna, this will 
 be a lesson to me ! a lesson I shall not soon for 
 get. What are you looking at?" For Anna was 
 staring fixedly out of the window paying no heed 
 to her mistress remarks. 
 
 Even as she spoke Mrs. Perkins caught the 
 sound of wheels as they rolled over the hard 
 gravel of the carriageway below the window. 
 
278 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "I believe they have come," Anna said, her nose 
 against the glass. "I declare it looks like them. 
 There are two of them and both are in black." 
 
 At the news Mrs. Perkins sank down upon a 
 chair completely overcome. "No, you can t mean 
 it, Anna! For heaven s sake, look again!" 
 
 "There s two of them," Anna answered tri 
 umphantly. "They re both getting out. It s 
 them." 
 
 Whereat Mrs. Perkins let fall two tears which 
 plowed their way through the dust upon her 
 cheek and fell with a muddy splash to the folded 
 hands in her lap. 
 
 "That I should have lived to see this day !" 
 she moaned. 
 
 "Shan t I go down and let them in?" asked 
 Anna. 
 
 "No. I shall go myself." 
 
 Mrs. Perkins arose, summoning up all the maj 
 esty of bearing at her command, and surveyed 
 the faded silk wrapper that hung limply and dust 
 ily to her figure with profound disgust. 
 
 "I suppose I must but, what an impression I 
 shall give her. Run to her room and make 
 sure all is right there. Thank heaven! I had the 
 wisdom to see to that, and there is a quiet spot 
 to which she can retire." 
 
 So speaking Mrs. Perkins hurried down-stairs 
 in response to the bell that was sounding for the 
 second time. With a final desperate clutch at the 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 279 
 
 curl-papers, a hasty adjusting of her skirts to 
 gether with a last shake to free them from dust 
 and lint, she opened the door. Mrs. Perkins after 
 ward described her sensations as startling. 
 
 In common with her son she had anticipated 
 welcoming a woman of mature years : instead she 
 saw two women. Both were in black, but one 
 wore the especial garments custom has made the 
 sign of widowhood. The heavy veil was thrown 
 back, revealing a face at once youthful and beau 
 tiful but of an extremely pallid coloring though it 
 was touched with just the faintest glow, born 
 perhaps of expectancy and excitement. 
 
 This was all Mrs. Perkins bewildered faculties 
 had time to grasp for the stranger said with a 
 sweet little dignity that became her well, advanc 
 ing a step as she did so: "I am Margaret Dennee." 
 
 Her voice was beautifully soft, and in its enun 
 ciation suggestive of her foreign birth and edu 
 cation. 
 
 "I was expecting some one twice your age," 
 Mrs. Perkins said, laughing in sheer surprise. Her 
 astonishment had so much the better of any re 
 serve she had decided to show in the company of 
 her distinguished kinswoman, that she simply 
 used the words that came most readily to her 
 tongue. 
 
 "Why, you are nothing but a child, a mere 
 child, and you are Madame Dennee?" As she 
 spoke she held out her hand. "But do come in; 
 
280 THE HAND OF. THE MIGHTY 
 
 the man wants to get by with your baggage." 
 And she drew her into the hall, the maid follow 
 ing, leaving the steps to the driver and the trunks. 
 
 That evening was destined to remain forever 
 more or less of a blank in Madame Dennee s mem 
 ory. She was conscious only of the warmth of 
 her welcome and an overpowering sense of fa 
 tigue. 
 
 Her real comprehension of events commenced 
 on Monday morning when she was aroused from 
 her sleep by the pelting of rain against the west 
 windows of her room, accompanied by the steady 
 and persistent drip, drip, of the water-spout s over 
 flow beneath the eaves to the sodden ground 
 below. 
 
 She had been in America ten days and in all 
 that time had seen but one streak of murky sun 
 shine stealing from behind the masses of vapor 
 that drifted above the wet earth. Wind and rain 
 had seemed to pursue her with absolute ill will as 
 though the weather itself was determined to drive 
 her out of the country and compel her to seek 
 her usual winter s asylum in the south of France. 
 
 Raising her head from the pillows, she surveyed 
 the room. A fire was burning brightly upon the 
 hearth, the curtains at the windows were drawn, 
 shutting out all evidences of the season s inclem 
 ency, save the steady and unceasing sound made 
 by the storm. 
 
 Staying in bed offered superior advantages to 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 281 
 
 getting up. [With a sigh of contentment she 
 nestled down drawing the covering about her, 
 then closing her eyes and soothed by the contrast 
 between the storm from without and the cheerful 
 crackling of the fire upon the hearth, she gave 
 herself up to thought. 
 
 The look upon the small face resting pallid and 
 white against the whiteness of the pillows was 
 far from happy, for madame dwelt much upon 
 the unprofitableness of her past. 
 
 There were many reasons that might have in 
 duced the young girl to marry a man fifty years 
 her senior many reasons and yet all of them 
 were far removed from the realm of the affec 
 tions. This Margaret Dennee knew well, and to 
 her sorrow. 
 
 She would have liked to forget it all indeed, 
 the wish had extended over the last three years 
 and resulted only in the positive knowledge that 
 one can forget anything provided one wishes to 
 remember it, or it is useful. Bitterness alone is 
 defiant in the presence of forget fulness. 
 
 She had at nineteen married Monsieur Dennee 
 and had endured two years as his wife, then, 
 mercifully for her, he had died. 
 
 A woman differently constituted would have 
 thanked God for the release and set about enjoy 
 ing herself, making merry with her late lord s 
 wealth. In her case, however, three years had 
 been spent in a vain effort to rid herself of some 
 
282 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 portion of the horror begotten in her soul by the 
 sacrifice she had made. There had been but one 
 governing motive in the ill-omened marriage 
 to get money for her brother. 
 
 Monsieur Dennee had promised to pay well for 
 her charms and had kept his word with the result 
 that Goeffrey Ballard had been freed from his 
 pressing debts and given a new start and another 
 chance to wreck himself a chance of which he 
 had availed himself most speedily, so that six 
 months after the marriage no mortal could have 
 said wherein lay the profits or where his condition 
 was any better than before the crime had been 
 consummated. 
 
 Margaret wondered often how she had survived 
 those years of misery, not that Monsieur Dennee 
 was unkind; he had simply never succeeded in 
 inspiring his young wife with one single spark of 
 love. It had resolved itself from the first into 
 dumb and uncomplaining sufferance on her part. 
 
 Nearness to him had caused her but one feeling 
 a dreadful repulsion a horrible desire almost 
 exceeding her control to cry out as if in pain, 
 whenever he had touched her. 
 
 Under this strain she had lived for two long 
 years, then came freedom; but the iron had en 
 tered her soul. Her whole nature was saddened 
 and embittered beyond forgetfulness. 
 
 A morbid dread that she had confided to no 
 one had taken possession of her; she was com- 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 283 
 
 pletely at the mercy of her own distressing fan 
 cies and had come to regard her marriage as a 
 sin unpardonable, as something unforgivable in 
 the eyes of God. 
 
 At best, marriage is an ordeal for any woman, 
 and a loveless marriage is an abominable in 
 stitution of torture. Not content with what 
 could not be banished, try as she might to live 
 away from it, she had some vague idea of a recom 
 pense to be made, an indefinite conception of 
 earthly punishment which she was to inflict upon 
 herself. 
 
 It was this conviction that prompted her to 
 wear the deepest mourning as a matter of pen 
 ance, for it reminded her of the awfulness of 
 those years, accenting and keeping the recollection 
 always before her as a sin she must not condone. 
 
 This was what drifted through her mind while 
 she was in the drowsy state that is neither sleep 
 ing nor waking. With something like a sob she 
 came to herself at last. 
 
 "Russell!" she called. 
 
 Her maid came from the adjoining apartment 
 where for the last hour she had been busy un 
 packing trunks and arranging her mistress ward 
 robe. She was a plain featured English woman 
 who had served Margaret faithfully in the two 
 capacities of nurse and maid. 
 
 "Will Madame dress?" she asked. 
 
 "Is it late?" 
 
284 THE HAND OK THE MIGHTY 
 
 "The family has breakfasted." 
 
 "I hope you told them I did not care for any 
 thing before luncheon?" 
 
 "Yes, Madame." 
 
 "And it is raining again. It has done nothing 
 but rain since we landed." 
 
 While they were speaking Margaret had got 
 into a long loose gown and moved to the fire, 
 where Russell had already placed an easy chair 
 for her. Wrapped in the voluminous folds of the 
 garment she had donned she seemed quite small 
 and very slight. Her face was wholly lacking in 
 color except for a faint flush that at times burned 
 on either cheek. Her hair, in two massive braids 
 that fell below her waist, was a rich warm brown 
 in the shadow, and golden where the light touched 
 it. Her hands were small and beautifully shaped. 
 
 Most apparent was a fragile quality of face and 
 form as if a breath might wither her. 
 
 Sitting in the great armchair and shrinking 
 down toward the fire for warmth, shivering too, 
 in unison with every gust of wind or rain that 
 spent its force against the window, one could but 
 marvel that she had known so much of life. 
 
 Russell brushed her hair gently, taking care the 
 strain should not rest upon the dainty little head. 
 
 Margaret gazed thoughtfully into the fire. A 
 certain sad aloofness was expressed in her man 
 ner as though all her sorrows had been borne 
 without friend or confidante. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 285 
 
 "I wonder if it s like this every day without 
 sunshine or clear skies," she murmured. 
 
 Russell did not respond to the direct question, 
 but finished dressing her hair and stepped to the 
 door, saying: 
 
 "There is some one knocking. Perhaps ma- 
 dame s cousin." 
 
 As she spoke, she opened it and Mrs. Perkins 
 asked from the threshold: "May I come in?" 
 
 For answer Margaret, turning in her chair, ex 
 tended her hand, a smile upon her lips: "If you 
 don t mind my dressing. I fear you will think 
 me lazy. It must be late." 
 
 Mrs. Perkins bustled to her side. A very be 
 coming morning toilet contributed its due propor 
 tion to that lady s ease and comfort. "Really, my 
 dear, I never felt so strongly drawn to any one as 
 I am to you." As she spoke she bent and kissed 
 Margaret with great stateliness and ceremony. 
 "You are not at all like the Ballards who were 
 military people and much given to combativeness. 
 Your poor dear mother and I used to hold most 
 violent controversies. We had such a capacity 
 for differences; it always came to the surface 
 when we were thrown much together. But then 
 it was a family trait and I suppose I should revere 
 it accordingly. To be sure, your mother was a 
 Ballard only by marriage, but she was an active 
 partaker in the traditional characteristics. Dear! 
 dear! how antagonistic we were, and yet, a real 
 
286 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 affection existed between us. Now, can t you 
 tell me something about yourself?" 
 
 Mrs. Perkins drew up a chair and Margaret 
 took one of her hands caressingly in her own: 
 "But what shall I tell you?" 
 
 "About yourself, my dear. About yourself, by 
 all means." 
 
 "Ah !" and she made a little depreciative ges 
 ture "I am such an ordinary person. There 
 is nothing more to tell." 
 
 Mrs. Perkins shifted her position: "You can t 
 fancy how amazed I was when I saw you. I had 
 understood always that Monsieur Dennee, your 
 late husband, was a man of very what shall I 
 say?" she paused looking into Margaret s eyes, 
 seeking earnestly for the right word, but the 
 allusion to Monsieur Dennee did not stimulate any 
 great burst of animation on the part of his widow, 
 and she was forced to finish her incomplete sen 
 tence with, "a man of very advanced age." 
 
 "He was seventy years old when we were mar 
 ried," Margaret said quietly. 
 
 Mrs. Perkins elevated her eyebrows. "Why, 
 you are young enough to be his granddaughter!" 
 
 "I was nineteen." Her face had hardened per 
 ceptibly when Mrs. Perkins spoke her husband s 
 name, and at the mention of her marriage this 
 changed to a look of the keenest distress. Mrs. 
 Perkins surmised that it had not been an occur 
 rence of the utmost happiness to the girl-wife. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 287 
 
 Intent upon getting away from what she con 
 ceived to be a disagreeable subject, though still 
 with subdued inquisitiveness, she said: 
 
 "You have not been a widow then so very 
 long?" 
 
 "Three years." With unmistakable relief "I 
 have lived in the south of France during that time, 
 but my home is in Paris. Since Monsieur Den- 
 neVs death I have not cared to return to it." A 
 pause followed. 
 
 Mrs. Perkins tapped the floor with her foot. She 
 knew that any more questions would be in very 
 bad form, as Margaret had shown that she was 
 adverse to constituting herself the sole center of 
 interest. Truth to tell, Mrs. Perkins was rather 
 abashed. As a rule she had no compunctions 
 when it came to catechising newcomers in the 
 town as to their past and possible future. Her 
 position, which was unassailable, made it quite 
 safe to seek to put at rest all uncertainty under 
 which she might be laboring. But Madame Den- 
 nee was distinctly of another world. Suddenly 
 she bethought herself of her son. He was, as she 
 knew, in the library engaged in stroking his im 
 mature side-whiskers and wondering if, "she 
 would like him, anyhow." 
 
 Sunday evening had been spent in the society 
 of his friend Becker and when he had presented 
 himself at his own door shortly after ten, he found 
 his mother waiting for him, with a glowing ac- 
 
288 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 count of the splendor, beauty and culture of their 
 young relative who had just withdrawn for the 
 night. 
 
 "I think I have not told you of Ballard, my son, 
 you know," said Mrs. Perkins. "May I?" 
 
 Madame Dennee inclined her head by way of 
 response, and Mrs. Perkins continued: "He is wild 
 to meet you. For of course when he came in last 
 evening, I had so much to tell him about you. 
 He so regrets that he should have been absent. 
 If we had only known when to look for you he 
 would have been waiting for you at the train." 
 Margaret entreated her to make no excuses. The 
 kindness she had met with all but overwhelmed 
 her as it was, she said, but Mrs. Perkins was not 
 to be turned aside now that she had got a fresh 
 start with plain sailing ahead of her. 
 
 "My dear, he so regrets he did not know of 
 your coming in season to meet you. Not to have 
 done so seems to us so very inhospitable." 
 
 Margaret pressed her hand gently. "You are 
 most kind. I am sure I shall love you dearly and 
 perhaps/ wistfully, "perhaps, you will grow to 
 like me." 
 
 "My dear, I do that already. I am drawn to 
 you as I never was before to a " 
 
 "A stranger you would say?" 
 
 "Yes, and no for, after all, you are my cousin s 
 child and that means much to me." 
 
 Madame Dennee appeared a trifle helpless and 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 289 
 
 as though she was incapable of meeting these 
 advances. A repellent feeling a wish to keep 
 from close friendships had grown up in her heart 
 springing from the sure consciousness that she 
 stood in need of sympathy and love and would be 
 weakly dependent upon it once it was hers; but 
 fearing always that she might tell those things 
 her mind most fed upon, she shrank from intima 
 cies. 
 
 Mrs. Perkins vacated her chair, and said with 
 a trace of self-denial in her voice: "I shall let 
 you dress now." 
 
 With this she quitted the room and joined 
 young Perkins in the library. She found him 
 standing on a corner of the hearth-rug, lost in 
 meditation. 
 
 "I hope she is all right, mother," he said. 
 
 "Oh, yes she will be down presently." 
 
 "Is she much of a stunner by daylight?" he 
 inquired. 
 
 "I wish you would be more select in your ex 
 pressions, Ballard. She is a woman of the great 
 est elegance." 
 
 "You like her, don t you, a lot?" 
 
 "I confess I do. There is something indescrib 
 ably winning in her manner. I think her mar 
 riage was not at all a happy one." 
 
 Perkins shook his head wisely: "He must have 
 been too old for her, you know." 
 
 "He was fifty years her senior, she has told me." 
 
290 THE HAND OK THE MIGHTY 
 
 Perkins was expressing his amazement at such 
 a marriage, when the door opened and Margaret 
 appeared on the scene. An embarrassed silence 
 fell upon him at once. He barely managed to 
 answer the greeting she gave him. 
 
 Long before that Monday was ended Ballard s 
 interest in his cousin had become tremendous. 
 When night came he was her abject slave, her 
 worshipful admirer who demanded but one priv 
 ilege, that he might still be allowed to worship 
 yet no one could have asked for less than she. 
 She was almost timidly sensitive about being a 
 care or burden to him or to his mother. De 
 spite her habitual shrinking from nearer contact 
 or sympathy, Perkins sat for the most of the 
 day on a small corner of his chair, his knees 
 tight together and his toes turned most reso 
 lutely in, like a plump little saffron-headed Tro 
 jan, heroically resolved on her amusement. The 
 tension under which he put himself, was so 
 stupendous that he absent-mindedly twisted every 
 available button from his coat. He talked on in 
 numerable topics: told her all about himself, "Not 
 because I think myself at all unusual," he had 
 been careful to explain, "but because I am so 
 perfectly acquainted with the subject." 
 
 He racked his brain for fluent descriptions con 
 cerning his loftier emotions told her his most 
 cherished ambitions "things I should never 
 dream of telling any one else," he said very truth- 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 291 
 
 fully. "But don t you know, I guess you call for 
 the best that is in me." 
 
 He launched forth in quest of miscellaneous 
 data and was soon telling her of Franz Becker 
 and Philip Southard. When he told her Becker 
 was a musician and Margaret told him that 
 music was the one thing she loved above all 
 else, he felt as happy as though he had discov 
 ered a gold mine in the coal scuttle. So fasci 
 nated was he that during the ensuing half-hour 
 he talked a good deal more music than he knew, 
 and at last, in answer to a question she asked, he 
 found himself manfully seeking to formulate a 
 concise history of the United States. 
 
 In short, Perkins did much that day that a 
 Solomon would have feared to undertake. Late 
 in the afternoon the wind died down and the rain 
 ceased. The clouds drifted from before the slowly 
 sinking sun, and his crimson flames burned in the 
 red west. 
 
 Together they went into the yard. It had be 
 come quite warm with the approach of the even 
 ing, but Margaret was folded in a great fur 
 wrap. "I am always cold," she had said. 
 
 For a time they had strolled about the grounds, 
 which were very extensive, and Ballard had taken 
 her into the conservatory where the gardener 
 who with the rest fell immediately under her gentle 
 sway picked for her a bunch of lilies-of-the-val- 
 ley. Then they had gone into the house again 
 
292 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 where she shared her bouquet with Ballard giv 
 ing him a spray of white for his buttonhole. Much 
 to his sorrow Perkins found it necessary to leave 
 her and go down-town. With his departure Mar 
 garet was left quite to herself. The repairing of 
 the preceding days havoc demanding Mrs. Per 
 kins supervision, and tempted by the outer bright 
 ness, she summoned Russell and wandered into 
 the grounds about the house and from the grounds 
 into the street. Both found much to wonder at 
 in the little western city. It was so different 
 from anything they had either of them ever known. 
 As they passed down the street they came to a 
 church the door stood open and there came from 
 within a burst of melody. Perhaps some service 
 was in progress. Margaret turned, and followed 
 by Russell, entered the building. They found it 
 empty save for one man who was just visible as 
 he sat with bowed head before the organ, his 
 hands upon the keys. 
 
 Madame Dennee was no mean judge of music. 
 She had heard the greatest masters of the world 
 and she knew that this player, whoever he might 
 be, was not one of the least. He was improvising 
 and from his own fancies drifted into Bach s first 
 prelude. While his fingers were wandering 
 through the opening bars, a sound stole out of 
 the vacancy behind him. 
 
 The player turned and saw her standing in the 
 aisle the little gloved hands folded in uncon- 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 293 
 
 scious devotion the head thrown back with its 
 delicate halo of golden hair, while through a 
 stained glass window, high up beneath the arched 
 roof, a single beam of light came to touch and 
 transform the upturned face that stood forth bold 
 ly outlined against the surrounding shadows and 
 the darkness that was gathering swiftly. 
 
 The final note was dying away, lingering out 
 its sweetness lovingly upon the silence and the 
 expression of rapt intenseness was fading from 
 her face, when for the first time her eyes met his 
 to be withdrawn instantly. A moment later and 
 Margaret with her companion stole noiselessly 
 from the church. Within the organ was sounding 
 again, throbbing like a great heart that had awak 
 ened from its sleep to life and love. 
 
 Madame Dennee had expressed the hope of 
 avoiding all social obligations. And Perkins had 
 barely ventured to ask her meekly if he might 
 not invite his two most intimate friends to the 
 house he was "morally certain" she would like 
 them immensely, they were such charming fel 
 lows. So in due season he had presented Franz 
 and Philip, and to them Margaret was most 
 gracious. 
 
 After their first meeting with Madame Dennee, 
 
294 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 the young men had walked home in a subdued 
 frame of mind. They stopped at the Beckers to 
 smoke a farewell pipe and while under the stim 
 ulating influence of the weed Philip proceeded to 
 analyze his emotions and indulge in critical com 
 ment. 
 
 "Didn t it strike you that Perkins was just a bit 
 sappy to-night? How his tongue did rattle along 
 and always about himself." Philip meditated for 
 a moment. "Perhaps I am uncharitable. I think 
 my main grudge against him rests on this I 
 wanted to talk about myself." 
 
 Franz was smoking his pipe. There was a far 
 away look in his eyes and he was paying little 
 attention to what his companion said. 
 
 Philip continued: "How did you like Madame 
 Dennee? She is very beautiful, don t you think? 
 A woman of culture and great spirituality." 
 Franz was still silent. "There is something about 
 her that impressed me as being touchingly sad 
 and pathetic I can t describe it, but it s there. I 
 should say though she had an infinite capacity 
 for happiness." 
 
 Becker removed the pipe from his mouth. "I 
 have seen her before," he said simply. 
 
 "Oh!" Philip regarded him curiously. 
 
 "It was at church. In the evening while I was 
 at my practise." He paused abruptly. 
 
 "I am afraid Perkins is in a fair way to make 
 a precious ass of himself," Philip observed. "He 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 295 
 
 is at the beginning of a bad -business and ought 
 to saw off. Perkins is all right, you know, but 
 even his own mother would have to admit that 
 he is freckled and fat. If he goes to falling in 
 love with his cousin " 
 
 By a sharp decisive blow Franz knocked the 
 ashes from his pipe: "I shall have to say good 
 night, Philip. I don t propose to send you home 
 but" 
 
 "Oh, that s all right. What s wrong? Have I 
 said anything I shouldn t?" 
 
 "Shall I go down or will you be able to find 
 your way out by yourself?" Franz asked. 
 
 He held open the door and Philip passed from 
 the room. At the foot of the stairs he turned and 
 called back his good night Becker answered him 
 cordially enough. When he found himself in the 
 street Philip came to a stand. 
 
 "I declare he fairly put me out. As I live," he 
 finally cried, "as I live he is in love with her 
 himself." 
 
 During the succeeding weeks they both saw 
 much of Madame Dennee. 
 
 Usually Philip prided himself on his ability to 
 shock people, but with her he carefully eschewed 
 all levity. Nothing could have induced him to 
 advance the sacrilegious theories with which he 
 delighted to offend. Such was his unblushing 
 apostasy that Mrs. Perkins, who had long viewed 
 him as one of the lost sheep, (chiefly by reason 
 
296 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 of the fact that for some years her son had at 
 intervals favored her with scattered gems from 
 his friend s remarks as well as with his scanda 
 lously unorthodox criticisms of vital questions) 
 presented him with a volume of sermons. 
 
 Philip accepted this token of unexpectedly kin 
 dled solicitude with a stately gravity far surpassing 
 the donor s, while Ballard went off into a series 
 of convulsions that brought with them unworthy 
 prominence and attendant disgrace. Furthermore, 
 he was detected by his mother in the shameless 
 act of winking at Becker. 
 
 Philip derived great good from those sermons. 
 They gave him a convenient supply of paper for 
 the lighting of fires in his room. 
 
 Those were delightful evenings they spent 
 together when Philip would drop in on his way 
 home from Barbara, for the Perkinses were noth 
 ing if not fashionable and kept later hours than 
 any other family in the town. 
 
 The young men would form a half-circle about 
 Madame Dennee, where she nestled in an easy 
 chair beside the fire for the warmth she loved and 
 needed, and they would stand, looking down at 
 the slight black-robed figure and sweet pure face, 
 talking the while very boyishly of their hopes and 
 their aims. Philip and Perkins especially had 
 much to say of themselves. Indeed, there existed 
 at first a very pronounced rivalry as to who 
 should say the more. 
 
ALU THAT A MAN HATH 297 
 
 They told her their desires, their ambitions 
 everything, and to their confessions she listened 
 with a certain quaint little display of friendliness 
 and affection that completely captivated them. 
 
 There was this peculiar feature noticeable in 
 the devotion she inspired, it was unselfish always 
 for it was possible to love her in a manner that 
 exacted nothing in return; possible to lay all at 
 her feet, and ask but the joy of giving. 
 
 The fall and early winter were unusually incle 
 ment and a troublesome cough kept Margaret con 
 fined within doors. Perhaps resulting from this 
 and the anxious care Russell took of her, they di 
 vined that she was not strong. It was solely by 
 indirection they came to know that the frail little 
 body had worn itself out to the verge of exhaus 
 tion. But the undisturbed quietness in which her 
 days were spent pleased her fancy vastly better 
 than any gaiety could have done. The latter 
 she had known to the point of surfeiting while 
 her husband lived and she recalled it as some 
 thing to be avoided. 
 
 Thus it came that the weeks covering her stay 
 in the small western city were the happiest she 
 had ever known. 
 
 She enjoyed her companionship with Perkins 
 and Philip, she could like them unreservedly and 
 in return be treated to a sincere admiration not 
 without its gratification to the starved little heart. 
 
 She stood more in awe of Franz, and he kept 
 
298 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 his thoughts of her a secret. She could not guess 
 that they lay too close against his very soul for 
 utterance; but there was a remarkable gentleness 
 in his bearing when in her presence a reverent 
 quality far removed from his customary brusk- 
 ness. 
 
 Cling as she would to the past, Margaret was 
 slowly growing away from it. She was almost 
 happy. In course of time she might have been 
 entirely so, but for the existence of her brother 
 Geoff, who skulked on the outskirts of decency 
 and who only indicated that he thought of her 
 when he showered her with begging letters. 
 
 In all the mad indulgence of his worthless ca 
 reer he had done no generous deed. He had 
 burdened some one always, taking to himself the 
 lion s share of the fruits and shirking all the toil. 
 
 It was to pay his debts, to give him a fresh 
 start, that Margaret had been coerced by her 
 mother into marrying Monsieur Dennee. That 
 sin occurred at a day when Geoffrey had squan 
 dered the last of his patrimony and had embar 
 rassed his mother s and sister s fortune besides. 
 
 Then it was that Margaret, but little more than 
 a child, was taken from the school near Brussels 
 and brought to Paris that Geoff might play her 
 as his last card in the losing game of chance that 
 was swallowing up their possessions. 
 
 He had cast about that he might effect a suit 
 able alliance (to him a suitable alliance meant 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 299 
 
 one that should not be scant of profit to himself) 
 and had fastened upon Monsieur Dennee, who 
 yielded up the price of purchase with the utmost 
 readiness. More than this, while he lived, Geoff 
 was well provided for and if he had not been a 
 chronic spendthrift could have thrived exceed 
 ingly. Unfortunately, he had no intention to be 
 on easy terms with his good luck, but was for 
 ever making unreasonable demands upon his elder 
 ly brother-in-law for money, and for yet more 
 money. The result was that when the old banker 
 came to die he put his property in such shape that 
 by no scheming could Geoff get his hands upon it. 
 
 Monsieur Dennee s methodical bestowing of his 
 worldly belongings did not stop there. He ar 
 ranged that an annuity should be paid Geoffrey 
 and his mother. It was further stipulated that in 
 the event of the latter s death Geoff should also 
 have her portion. 
 
 Mrs. Ballard had not long survived her son-in- 
 law, and though Geoff had availed himself of the 
 addition to his means her death gave him, the 
 doubled amount was as insufficient as had been 
 his previous lesser allowance. 
 
 After her husband s death Margaret was left 
 to live her lonely life without interference from her 
 brother. He went his course and she hers, though 
 it was his habit to appear from time to time a 
 seedy, shabby beggar and take from her every 
 cent she could get together. Then he would van- 
 
300 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 ish, no one knew where, until he again needed 
 money. Nor was this all. He had married much 
 as he did everything else to gratify some vac 
 illating whim, and when the novelty of the rela 
 tion wore off he had forsaken his family with 
 never a regret, leaving the broken home for his 
 sister to maintain. 
 
 For years Margaret had cared for his wife and 
 children "Kate and the three boys" were always 
 in difficulties, more or less pressing, difficulties 
 of the sort only money blessed balm that it is 
 could alleviate. In short, there were more drains, 
 more attacks made upon the wealth of Monsieur 
 Dennee, deceased, than one could enumerate in a 
 long talk. These just referred to were of the un 
 ceasing, never-ending variety, that came clamor 
 ously with each month, came again until they 
 were satisfied. 
 
 But of all, Geoffrey Ballard was much the 
 worst. He was seldom stationary or confined to 
 any place by tie or occupation. He came and 
 went at will; there was never any getting away 
 from him. 
 
 Had it not been for Russell, Margaret would 
 have been utterly defenseless, but the maid was 
 a strong and reliable character, who strenuously 
 resisted the wholesale absorption of her mistress 
 property. When madame s bankers remitted her 
 income, Russell would take into her keeping the 
 sum she deemed adequate for their proper sup 
 port, and no one could take this from her. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 301 
 
 With the bulk of what remained Geoff gener 
 ally made off. 
 
 One evening while Margaret was alone in the 
 library at early dusk, the room unlighted by other 
 flame than the glowing of coals upon the hearth, 
 there came a tapping at a long French window 
 opening upon the porch. She looked up quickly, 
 startled by the sound, and saw a man standing 
 in the half shadow. 
 
 One glance sufficed, it was Geoff. 
 
 Frightened and trembling, she arose and went 
 to the window, pushing it aside that he might 
 enter. Without a word, he stepped into the 
 room. 
 
 "How damnably cold it is," he grumbled. 
 "Throw another lump of coal on the fire, will 
 you? What a beastly climate rough on a man 
 who does not boast an overcoat. Thanks." For 
 Margaret mutely complied with his bidding. 
 
 The flames leaped up, disclosing a man of near 
 ly forty, shabbily dressed in garments once of the 
 greatest elegance, but which from hard usage 
 were now nearly ragged. 
 
 He was of fine physique with a handsome coun 
 tenance that, like his clothes, showed unmistak 
 able symptoms of wear, for a record of the de 
 grading course he had pursued so assiduously 
 was stamped upon it. 
 
 He glanced around the room, taking in its ap 
 pointments. They met with his approval, for 
 he said: 
 
302 THE HAND OK THE MIGHTY 
 
 "This is not at all bad. You do get your share 
 of the good gifts of this world while I spend most 
 of my time standing in the rain waiting to gather 
 up the crumbs you scatter. Here I traveled from 
 New Orleans to New York, thinking of course 
 I should find you there. Imagine my predica 
 ment. All I had went to the pawn-shops, and I 
 just managed to scrape through." 
 
 This was said with an aggrieved air as though 
 the fault was hers. "Now, what can you do for 
 me?" he continued; "I want money. I think my 
 dress bears out the statement " And he took a 
 disgusted survey of himself in a small mirror 
 hanging above the chimneypiece. 
 
 On her death-bed, at the close of a very foolish 
 life, Mrs. Ballard had wrung from her daughter 
 the promise that she would never abandon her 
 brother, and Margaret, who was the victim of 
 sentimentality where her mother s last wish was 
 concerned, had carried it out blindly without 
 stopping to consider its injustice. The profligate 
 brother now spread out his hands behind his back 
 to catch the heat from the fire, and ensconced him 
 self contentedly on the hearth-rug. 
 
 As his sister had vouchsafed him no response 
 he returned to the charge. "I don t wish to force 
 my needs upon you," he said. "You must know 
 it s hard for a man of my age to get down on 
 his knees for the money to keep himself going." 
 
 Margaret raised her eyes to his, and stared at 
 him, silent and miserable for a moment. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 303 
 
 "Well?" Geoff asked impatiently, "what are 
 you going to do for me what may I count on?" 
 
 "When I saw you in New York, I told you dis 
 tinctly what you were to expect, Geoff." 
 
 Her tone while not unkind was positive. Gentle 
 as she was and tender in all her dealings and judg 
 ments, a show of firmness had to be maintained 
 in her relationship with this spendthrift, and too, 
 she felt as bitter a sense of injury as her forgiv 
 ing nature could harbor for the wreck he had 
 made of her girlhood. She added almost hesitat 
 ingly : 
 
 "I I am so sorry you have followed me here." 
 
 To him this seemed to denote such outrageous 
 treachery that he was really hurt and showed it. 
 She went to his side, and placing an arm caress 
 ingly about his neck, said, "Forgive me, Geoff. I 
 did not mean quite that, but I have been so happy 
 here. If you could only be as I am then you 
 would like it too, but you know you are so rest 
 less. That is what I meant." 
 
 He shook off her arm rudely. "I understand, 
 this sort of thing is useless I m not deceived." 
 
 She looked at him pityingly. How mistaken 
 he was in every impulse and ideal. 
 
 "I have not tried to deceive you, Geoff. Why 
 should I attempt to? But it is so sad that we 
 should waste our lives, when there are such 
 possibilities within us if we would only consent 
 to make the most of them. We have both lived 
 so untrue to what is best." 
 
304 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 This elicited only a contemptuous shrug from 
 Geoff. 
 
 Margaret clasped her hands, while a spot of red 
 burned in each cheek. "Why can t we go back? 
 back into the past so far we shall forget the 
 wretched years we have wasted so wickedly?" 
 
 Geoff was excessively bored. 
 
 "I presume you are referring to your marriage." 
 He retorted angrily: "The utter thanklessness 
 in which you hold that piece of luck amazes me. 
 I should like to know what the devil would be 
 come of us if it wasn t for Dennee s money. Of 
 course the old fool tied it up with such nasty 
 restrictions one can just get at the income, but 
 I am pleased to be able to assert that I am not 
 ungrateful. I regard your marriage as the very 
 best thing that could have fallen to your lot, 
 and I consider that I did what was honorable. 
 Therefore your evident dissatisfaction rather 
 astonishes me. Under the circumstances, I 
 scarcely anticipated it." 
 
 He settled himself in a chair, stretching out his 
 feet toward the fender. His handsome head, fine 
 as to shape and size, was thrown back and the 
 firelight fell upon the beautiful evil face. About 
 the eyes were heavy circles. These were the 
 visible traces dissipation had left. A few gray 
 hairs showed among the profusion of dark curls. 
 
 "I don t intend to reproach you," Margaret said. 
 
 "I should think not, when you reflect what I 
 Have done for you," he answered coldly. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 305 
 
 "But at what a cost at what a dreadful cost!" 
 she cried quickly, and her voice vibrated with the 
 intensity of her grief. 
 
 Geoff was deeply resentful, but offered no fur 
 ther interruption. She would be more pliable with 
 such treatment. He centered his rather sleepy 
 vision earnestly upon the carpet and endeavored 
 to gain relief in partial abstraction. 
 
 Margaret crouched on the floor beside his chair, 
 watching the warm glow turn to ashes as in her 
 own heart the gold had turned to gray. There was 
 nothing left. 
 
 "I don t mean to reproach you, Geoff," she said 
 at last. "I have never even told you how hard 
 and unbearable it has been for me the horror or 
 the haunting sense of sin and shame. Perhaps 
 you did mean it for the best. I hope you did for 
 your own sake, not for mine ; I hope you did ! 
 but I have suffered so. 
 
 "There has been such a stain upon my soul 
 since the days of my loveless marriage, it would 
 not wear away, it has only grown less since I 
 came here. I wish to forget I wish to begin 
 again and there is no one who should be so near 
 as you, no one to whom I can so justly look 
 for protection. Shall we not begin again, Geoff? 
 I am so sure we may be happy if we only will, 
 and the life you lead, dear, is such an awful mis 
 take it can bring you nothing but pain, and to 
 have you come to me worn and jaded, drags me 
 
306 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 down more than I can tell. I am constantly fear 
 ing that serious trouble may overtake you, I live 
 in continual apprehension about you. Is it right 
 that I, who have so much to make amends for, 
 should support this load, too? Can I not grow 
 back into some measure of innocence, without 
 having sin and evil brought forever to me 
 Geoff Geoff!" 
 
 She looked up appealingly. 
 
 His eyes were closed and his breathing pro 
 claimed him to be half asleep. 
 
 With a sudden uncontrollable feeling of repul 
 sion she shrank away from his side ; then she stood 
 erect. 
 
 Her movement aroused him. With a yawn he 
 opened his eyes and glanced about stupidly as 
 though he could not quite remember where he 
 was. 
 
 "Really, I beg your pardon/ he said with lazy 
 politeness. "But the heat made me drowsy. Pos 
 itively I could not keep my eyes open." 
 
 He thought it about time to bring matters 
 to a crisis. He drew himself together and made 
 ready to terminate the interview. 
 
 "How much can you let me have? I am aware 
 that your bankers won t remit for a while yet, but 
 can t you do something for me temporarily? As 
 you see, I am abominably shabby and it s no way 
 for a gentleman to appear." 
 
 "How much do you need?" Margaret asked. 
 
 Geoff promptly dropped the whine in which 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 307 
 
 he had previously spoken, becoming suddenly and 
 wonderfully buoyant. 
 
 "Oh! a few hundreds. I ll spend them well, 
 and I ll agree not to bother you again until 
 your money gets here. Til hang about quietly 
 until it comes, then you can fix me up and I will 
 bolt the place. Now I call that fair and you 
 would better" he grew strangely sinister "you 
 would better do as I ask or you may get let in 
 for more than the mere loss of cash." 
 
 "I will go to Russell and learn what can be 
 spared." 
 
 "The old cat !" 
 
 Margaret left the room. In the hall she en 
 countered Perkins. 
 
 "I was coming to find you," he said. "It s 
 nearly dinner-time and dark as the deuce. I say," 
 in surprise, "is anything the matter?" 
 
 For Madame Dennee s face was more than un 
 usually pale more than unusually sad. 
 
 "Where are you going, Ballard?" 
 
 "Into the library. That is I was going there, 
 but if you don t mind, I ll just go along with you." 
 
 "Instead will you do me a service?" 
 
 Perkins instantly made a gesture of assent. 
 
 "Whatever you ask," he said eagerly. 
 
 "It s very little. Please don t be curious, and 
 don t allow your mother or the servants to enter 
 the library while I am up-stairs." Perkins seemed 
 mystified and she added : "Some one is there, some 
 one I would rather not have you see." 
 
308 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 At this his face cleared. He made haste to 
 say, "I shall do exactly as you ask. Nobody shall 
 enter the library until you are willing that they 
 should." 
 
 "Thank you so very much/ And she vanished 
 up the stairs. 
 
 Perkins glared fixedly at the library door, his 
 freckled features assuming a belligerent expres 
 sion. 
 
 Margaret returned immediately and came down 
 the stairs quite breathless. 
 
 "Shall I stay here and keep the rest away until 
 he goes, you know?" he asked. 
 
 She gave him a thankful glance, and he added: 
 
 "There, don t you worry. No one shall disturb 
 you." 
 
 He held open the door as he spoke and shut it 
 carefully after her, so that no portion of a con 
 versation clearly not for him should find its way 
 to his ears. 
 
 Ten minutes later when Geoff had taken his 
 leave Margaret found Perkins still at his post, pac 
 ing the hall with dignified step. Something akin 
 to intuition informed him it would be well not 
 to allude to recent happenings, so he remarked: 
 
 "I think dinner is waiting for us. Suppose we 
 go see." 
 
 It was after dinner when Margaret was alone 
 with Perkins and his mother that she crept close 
 to the latter saying: "I think I shall have to go 
 away." 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 309 
 
 Mrs. Perkins let fall her sewing and gazed at 
 Margaret in blank astonishment. 
 
 "My dear, you surely don t mean it!" she cried 
 at last. 
 
 Whatever traits Mrs. Perkins had inherited from 
 her military ancestors, to Margaret she had been 
 womanly and loving, and the friendless little wan 
 derer had received from her more motherly care 
 than she had ever before known. 
 
 "I think," she began again timidly, and her voice 
 was perilously near to the point of breaking, "I 
 think it is much better for me to go at once." 
 
 "But do you wish to go that is must you?" 
 Mrs. Perkins insisted: "Dear! dear! I had never 
 even thought of your leaving us, and yet it is 
 scarcely probable you will be content to remain 
 here always." 
 
 "I fear it is better for me to leave you, but I 
 ido not wish to go it s not that believe me it s 
 not!" 
 
 "Then, my dear, Ballard and I will never hear 
 to it." 
 
 It was then Margaret broke down entirely, and 
 not knowing what else to do sought refuge in 
 Mrs. Perkins arms and from that safe vantage 
 told of her brother. 
 
 "And he is coming back. I I had hoped he 
 would not, unkind and ungenerous as it may 
 seem!" 
 
 "Very well. He shall come here," Mrs. Per 
 kins said. 
 
310 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Oh, no! oh, no! you must know I must tell 
 you that his actions may be hard to explain. 
 They are often reckless in the extreme. I can 
 not make my burden yours. You would grow 
 to hate me if I did." 
 
 "Indeed we shan t," Perkins burst out. "I ll 
 look after him when he comes. I can handle him. 
 You have no idea how clever I am. You just 
 turn him over to me I ll manage him." And he 
 shook his head knowingly, while under his breath 
 he whispered: "If he cuts up and annoys her I ll 
 punch his damned nose !" which was very vio 
 lent language for him. 
 
 "I so regret " Margaret began again, but Mrs. 
 Perkins would hear no more. 
 
 "There, my dear, we understand perfectly, so 
 don t distress yourself at all about it. You are 
 going to remain here, whatever happens." 
 
 "Of course you are!" Perkins chimed in. "We 
 want you to feel that this is your home and that 
 you are to stay here as long as ever you wish to. 
 The idea ! the very idea " 
 
 "You are so good," Madame Dennee murmured 
 gratefully. "So kind! It is beautiful to be so 
 loved." 
 
 "It is more beautiful to have you with us, you 
 know," Perkins remarked, "and to be permitted 
 to love you." 
 
 "If I remain you must grant me one favor in 
 advance." And she looked at Perkins, seeing in 
 him a victim for the wily Geoff. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 311 
 
 "A million if you like," he answered rashly. 
 
 "You are not to lend my brother money. You 
 must promise me this." 
 
 "I shall be guided wholly by you," Perkins 
 assured her. 
 
 This ended all mention of Geoff, but late in the 
 night when they had all retired, Mrs. Perkins was 
 aroused by Russell rapping on her door and en 
 treating her to come at once to Madame Dennee ; 
 who was very ill. 
 
 Mrs. Perkins found the poor persecuted one 
 crouching down in her bed frightened and shiver 
 ing, though her head burned as with a fever. 
 
 She had had a dreadful dream, and she could 
 not free herself from the nameless fear. 
 
 While his mother was soothing Margaret, 
 young Perkins in a disordered state as to cos 
 tume, but even more so as to mind, skirmished 
 about the hall demanding half-minute bulletins 
 through the keyhole. He was eventually induced 
 to withdraw when it was announced that his 
 cousin was resting easily, and reluctantly sought 
 his room, while his mother and Russell, sitting 
 by Margaret s bedside, discussed the situation in 
 muffled tones. 
 
 "It is nervousness," the maid said. "When you 
 know her brother you will not wonder in the least 
 why seeing him should so work upon madame." 
 And needing sympathy herself she proceeded to 
 give Geoff a character that made Mrs. Perkins 
 shudder. 
 
312 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 Russell was as sure as her mistress had been 
 that he would come back, arguing that the remit 
 tance from Paris would prevent his removing him 
 self to any distance until he had his grasp, "his 
 greedy and rapacious grasp," as she termed it melo 
 dramatically, on the money. She also, warming 
 up to her theme, repeated every disreputable anec 
 dote, every questionable transaction with which 
 his name had ever been associated. These, if 
 properly compiled and edited, would have filled a 
 large book and the contents would have been ex 
 tremely spicy. 
 
 So startling was the narrative that Mrs. Perkins 
 reproached herself because of the fatal prompti 
 tude with which she had undertaken his lodg 
 ment. 
 
 At such times, however, she had but to look at 
 the slight figure tossing restlessly upon the bed 
 to feel that for Margaret s sake she would gladly 
 assume any risk. 
 
 VI 
 
 Philip had the street to himself as he walked 
 up-town from the Perkins , where he had been 
 spending the evening, but as he came to his own 
 gate, he saw a man lounging beside it. 
 
 It was Lester Royal. 
 
 Since the night when they had met for the first 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 313 
 
 time in months, Philip had not seen him, and he 
 had ceased to command any portion of his 
 thoughts in the pressure of work and newer inter 
 ests, but the sight of the boy leaning dejectedly 
 against the fence revived the memory of their 
 former interview. 
 
 "Why, Lester, it s you, is it?" he said with a 
 marked display of cordiality for he was not averse 
 to a little human intercourse at that particular 
 moment. "Beastly cold, isn t it?" he added. 
 
 "I am frozen," Lester said, and he shivered. 
 "I have been waiting to see you for an hour or 
 more. Take me indoors, will you, where it s 
 warm?" 
 
 Philip took his hand. It was like ice. "I should 
 say you are frozen. Come along with me!" 
 
 They turned into the yard and Philip with his 
 night-key unlocked the house door and led the 
 way up to his room where a bright fire burned 
 in the grate his one luxury. He pushed Lester 
 down into a chair before it and said: 
 
 "Now What s up?" 
 
 He saw that his visitor was pale and worn, 
 with dark haggard lines about his eyes, and the 
 hands he held out toward the blaze were thin and 
 tremulous. 
 
 "Have you been ill?" he questioned. 
 
 The younger boy shook his head. 
 
 "What s wrong then?" 
 
 For answer Lester cried hoarsely in a voice 
 
314 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 choked with emotion and grief, "I am done for, 
 Philip done for! I am dying by inches I! and 
 a year ago I thought I should live forever." 
 
 He buried his face in his hands, sobbing like 
 a child. 
 
 The spectacle of a man in tears was not at all 
 soothing to Philip. Perhaps there might have been 
 times when he would have done the same thing, 
 but that was no excuse for Lester. 
 
 He had done and probably would continue to 
 do a great many things that he could not pardon 
 in another. 
 
 "Come ! come ! this won t do. Be a man," he 
 said coldly. 
 
 He was really very sorry for the boy, but Les 
 ter had no earthly right to make such a violent 
 assault upon his feelings; besides he had a lurk 
 ing suspicion that he was harrowing up his sen 
 sibilities with the sole object of asking for a 
 loan. Whatever his object, Lester paid no heed 
 to him, and Philip, after taking a turn about the 
 room, halted at his side. 
 
 "I say what s the matter, anyhow?" 
 
 "You think I am a baby as well as a fool !" 
 came in stifled accents from the sufferer. 
 
 "Oh, no!" Philip remarked politely, "only it s 
 rather unconventional, you know. Just a bit sur 
 prising not to say startling. I am hardly pre 
 pared for it. If you could manage to slow up a 
 little I should be very grateful." 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 315 
 
 Lester raised his head and looked up into his 
 friend s face. 
 
 The suffering that Philip saw in the face be 
 fore him caused him to push a chair close to the 
 boy s and seat himself. Then with one hand half 
 clasping Lester s, half resting on the arm of the 
 chair, he said kindly: "Tell me, old fellow, what 
 it is?" 
 
 "I can t! I can t! You will know some day. 
 You will find out for yourself when " He broke 
 off abruptly, leaving the sentence unfinished. 
 
 "Very well, don t say more than you wish," 
 Philip answered. It was too serious for any dis 
 play of curiosity on his part he felt. He gazed 
 pityingly at Lester who looked pale and wan. 
 Thus for a time they sat, neither speaking. At 
 last Lester said: 
 
 "I ve got to talk with some one my brain 
 swims with it for the one idea whirls and whirls 
 till I am dizzy and blind. I am wretched, Philip, 
 wretched; and there is no help for it. I ve 
 brought it all on myself. Do you think it very 
 hard to die?" 
 
 "Easy, but not agreeable. Why do you ask 
 such infernally gruesome questions?" 
 
 "I ve got to die." 
 
 "I can t see where you are an exception to the 
 rule. It s expected of everybody the nasty act 
 of termination. What a vulgar thing death is !" 
 
 Lester stood erect the firelight flashing over 
 
316 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 his worn countenance. "It s different with me. 
 I ve got to die now now!" With a groan of 
 anguish he flung himself back into the chair 
 while Philip looked at him in astonishment. 
 
 "See here. What morbid fancy has hold of 
 you?" he asked. "I must admit I don t like this 
 sort of talk." 
 
 But Lester s face was buried in his hands, only 
 his dry hard gaspings were audible. He gained 
 a degree of control over himself and again faced 
 his companion, saying: "Don t you know what I 
 mean?" 
 
 "No, I don t, and that s a fact." 
 
 Lester was silent. Some sentiment of reserve 
 stood between him and the confession he was 
 seeking to make. 
 
 "Have you been drinking lately?" Philip ques 
 tioned gravely. 
 
 "Yes but not to-day." 
 
 "You shouldn t do it. It s anything but good 
 for you." 
 
 "Do you think I am fool enough not to know 
 that?" Lester replied with almost savage earnest 
 ness. 
 
 "Then why in the name of sense don t you 
 keep straight?" 
 
 "I resolve to, and then go and get drunk against 
 my will. You don t know what it s like." 
 
 Philip regarded him sadly. There was a heavy 
 melancholy in the boy s whole attitude that dis- 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 317 
 
 tressed him a spirit as of dumb submission to 
 the inevitable. It was only lifted when he in 
 dulged in his wild bursts of grief. 
 
 "What s the good!" Lester continued. "I can 
 keep up for a day or two, but I go back to it 
 every time." 
 
 Philip shrugged his shoulders, saying with a 
 poor attempt at lightness: "I suppose one should 
 not resist the flesh. Our most virtuous moments 
 are those which come when we have tired the 
 devil out within us and are basking in the splendor 
 of the good resolutions that tread upon the heels 
 of satiety." He would have given anything to 
 recall the words once they were spoken, for Lester 
 shrank from him. 
 
 "I didn t think you would talk to me so not 
 now," he said. 
 
 There was the dull glint of anger in his lack-lus 
 ter eyes, but it faded away almost immediately. 
 Once more he became stupidly quiet. 
 
 "Forgive me," Philip ventured penitently. "I 
 didn t mean to wound you." 
 
 "It s all right," Lester said indifferently. "It s 
 all right. I presume you are thoroughly sick of 
 
 me." 
 
 "No, I am not. I d like to help you if I knew 
 how, but you don t tell me what your trouble is. 
 It s blind guessing with me. I don t know how 
 to give you a lift." 
 
 "It s too late, I tell you. I m done for." 
 
318 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Do you mind explaining just what you mean?" 
 
 "I ve squandered what should have lasted me a 
 lifetime. I am a bankrupt in brain, body and 
 purse. My God!" with a gesture eloquent of 
 despair and misery "I ve ruined myself! There 
 is nothing left for me but death." 
 
 And Philip, understanding something of the 
 other s need, said: "It s not so bad as that. You 
 can pull yourself around, but if it s as you declare 
 it to be, you can t be too quick about it." 
 
 "The doctors say not. It s all up with me 
 according to them." 
 
 "Damn the doctors! What do they know?" 
 
 "They say it s too late." 
 
 "Siuff. They lie! It s never too late." 
 
 "There, Philip, don t don t let s discuss it. I 
 am not afraid, but it s terrible. I have thought 
 I had years and years before me, and they were 
 all wasted in a day." 
 
 To his horror Philip saw that his friend was in 
 a measure reconciled to death. This to a pagan 
 like Philip, was incomprehensible. 
 
 Now that he had talked more freely, Lester 
 was calmer and his dejection was not so pro 
 nounced as at first. Silence had fallen on them 
 and they sat looking into the fire, each busy with 
 his own thoughts. 
 
 "Let s talk about when we were boys," Lester 
 finally said. "You do the talking just as you did 
 when I saw you last. Do you know if I can t 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 319 
 
 sleep nights and I can t most of the time I 
 like to think about it: the past that stops where 
 my folly began. In all the years since I came of 
 age, there is nothing I want to remember it s 
 all agony to me. Talk about when we were 
 boys, Philip about what we did in vacation. You 
 were always such a good old chap!" 
 
 He put his hand on Philip s arm and let it rest 
 there affectionately while Philip in a low voice 
 began to speak of the past, and at the telling 
 much that was hard in his own nature grew soft. 
 A strange gentleness came into the hearts of both, 
 as Philip talked of their boyhood. When the 
 winding country roads knew the marks of their 
 bare feet in the dust; when, stripped of clothing 
 and shame, they lay lazily upon the hot sand by 
 the river s brim, and afterward took the long 
 walk for home through the scented dusk. Back 
 to the days when they were dirty and happy 
 when respectability knew them not at all Philip 
 carried them. And Lester saw in the fire, the red 
 of the sunshine; in the smoke, the darkness of 
 night, the warm summer nights that were filled 
 with peace and sleep. 
 
 Surely, it was better then and as he listened 
 his head fell over on his shoulder, his eyes closed, 
 while still as in a dream he heard the murmur of 
 Philip s voice, saw the pictures he drew, and then 
 he slept. 
 
 Philip moved noiselessly to the table where the 
 
320 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 lamp burned. This he blew out so that only the 
 firelight filled the room, the firelight and the 
 colder brightness the moon sent stealing in 
 through the windows. 
 
 As the hours wore on, he kept his watch at the 
 sleeper s side, thinking and wondering what it all 
 meant and what the end would be. 
 
 It was almost day when Lester woke. 
 
 "Better, Lester? he asked. 
 
 "Yes. I wish I were back to it. I wish I were 
 a boy again. I am sick of the present, and the 
 future has nothing for me. You know I can t 
 keep from the very things that are killing me. 
 I try and try and then I fail." 
 
 "You must keep from them if you are ever to 
 be all you were, all you promised to be." 
 
 Lester shook his head. 
 
 "It will never be, Philip. It is too late I am 
 done for." 
 
 "That s absurd, Lester. There! I can tolerate 
 any one except the man who differs from me in 
 his opinions. For him I have the heartiest con 
 tempt." 
 
 "It s not all cowardice with me," Lester said 
 miserably. "Now that the time has gone forever, 
 I want what I have never had. I am desperately 
 sick of myself." 
 
 He looked at Philip wistfully, and the remem 
 brance was torture to Philip long afterward. "Did 
 you ever want to be good? Can you imagine 
 what this desire is in a fellow like me?" 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 321 
 
 "Why do you stir me up on these lines of 
 sloppy sentiment?" Philip retorted. "No, I never 
 want to be good. My digestion is perfect. Piety 
 does very well for children and invalids." 
 
 Lester made no response to this and his friend 
 added in an injured but more temperate tone: 
 "You talk like a man on his death-bed. I can 
 only give you temporal consolation. I can only 
 tell you what seems to me the wisest course to 
 pursue." 
 
 "Perhaps I am nearer that than you think for 
 nearer my death-bed," the boy answered, helplessly, 
 drearily. 
 
 "Stuff!" Philip cried hotly. 
 
 Lester seemed to take small comfort from his 
 words, but Philip made a last attempt to cheer 
 him up. "As to the doctors," he said, "you can t 
 depend on them; and that about your dying is rank 
 nonsense. If folly and sin were so fatal, our race 
 would have become extinct long ago. You may 
 be in a very bad way I don t say you are not, 
 but anything is possible in this world. You are 
 more apt to get well than to die. You made a 
 mistake, though, when you consulted a doctor. 
 As long as a man can remain in ignorance of 
 those operations that are going on inside of him, 
 he is in the enjoyment of a very considerable 
 blessing." 
 
 Lester turned away. 
 
 "Well, I shall go home now if you will let me 
 out," he said drearily. 
 
322 THE HAND OK THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Are you going to keep clear of those indul 
 gences that are, as you think, killing you?" 
 
 "If I can I shall."" 
 
 "If you can you must !" Lester s glance 
 checked him : "I ll walk home with you," he said 
 gently, and as he saw Lester was going to pro 
 test, he made haste to add: 
 
 "It s no odds to me that it s late." 
 
 And together they left the house. 
 
 A week later it occurred to Philip that Lester 
 had not lived up to the assurance he had given 
 him at parting, that he would come around soon 
 and report upon his troubles. 
 
 "Now I suppose I should go look him up," he 
 thought, "and find out why he has dodged the 
 agreement in this fashion. It s just my misfor 
 tune to be of an abominably conscientious temper 
 ament which causes me to feel morally responsi 
 ble for his well-being. I really am conscientious, 
 even stupidity can not be urged in extenuation. 
 In the present instance I know perfectly well 
 what I should do : I should dismiss Lester from 
 my mind. But I am too much of a conscientious 
 ass." 
 
 In support of the truth of this Philip started 
 at once in search of Lester. 
 
 First he visited his home, and found that he 
 had not been there in several days, but it occa 
 sioned no alarm, as the boy s habits were decid- 
 .edly those of a vagabond. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 323 
 
 This was in the morning. At noon Philip was 
 in such a state of preoccupation that he got 
 through his dinner without an exchange of hos 
 tilities with either of his sisters. 
 
 In his search that morning he had encountered 
 no one who seemed to remember having seen 
 Lester recently. 
 
 He could not free himself from the belief that 
 his disappearance was a serious matter. The rec 
 ollection of their last meeting oppressed him with 
 an unpleasant distinctness all at once. He roused 
 himself from his abstraction to say to his mother: 
 "Do you know, I am worried about poor Lester 
 Royal." 
 
 Katherine sniffed aloud at this: "Lester Royal, 
 indeed!" 
 
 "I ve been looking for him all the morning and 
 I can t get track of him," he continued. 
 
 "Perhaps he is too drunk to be seen. It would 
 be no new thing if he were," said Katherine. 
 
 Philip was using such a character as his sister 
 in some work he was doing, and he was in 
 terested in examining her capacity for abusive 
 speech when spurred by anger. Here was an 
 opportunity: "Well, if he wants to get drunk 
 it s his privilege." 
 
 "He should be locked up instead of being al 
 lowed to disgrace himself and everybody else." 
 
 "Oh, no, Kate you would be too severe. What 
 you foolishly take to be a religious conviction is 
 
324 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 simply a woman s prejudice at seeing a man en 
 joy himself." 
 
 "Of course you call intoxication enjoyment. 
 Your views are so broad." 
 
 "Are they?" 
 
 "You think they are, but if I were in your place 
 I should exercise some selection in the choosing 
 of my associates." 
 
 "Would you really? How nice!" 
 
 "My friends should be my equals. Neither low 
 Germans nor drunkards." 
 
 "But men are only equal when they are drunk." 
 
 From her seat at the head of the table, Mrs. 
 Southard sent him a look of mute entreaty, and 
 it struck him for the thousandth time that the 
 wrangling in which he and Katherine indulged 
 was hard for his mother to bear. He promptly 
 abandoned the attack, finished his dinner in grim 
 silence, and started out again, bent on finding 
 Lester, but grumbling as he went that he should 
 be so weak as to care about the boy. 
 
 He devoted an hour or so to investigating the 
 various resorts Lester was known to frequent, 
 and eventually learned that he had been seen 
 very much the worse for drink on the day fol 
 lowing the night they had spent together. Since 
 then no one knew what had become of him. 
 The opinion of the loafer who furnished the infor 
 mation was that he had gone off somewhere to sober 
 up. 
 
 "The ass !" thought Philip bitterly. "The brain- 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 325 
 
 less ass! Here I get into a pretty state over his 
 woes and this is the extent of his reformation. 
 He goes and gets drunk, which is a good reason 
 for his not going home or caring to see me." 
 
 It was a bright fall afternoon brisk and brac 
 ing with touches of winter in the air. Philip 
 turned his back on the town. It was just the sea 
 son for a tramp into the country, and since the 
 greater part of the day had been wasted as far as 
 writing was concerned he proposed to amuse him 
 self. 
 
 As he strode along thoughts of Lester would 
 come to him, and in the end pity had replaced his 
 momentary bitterness toward him. 
 
 "Poor fellow!" he muttered. "Maybe he can t 
 help it, after all. Unless one has ambition or hope 
 there isn t much to keep one up. I wish I knew 
 where he has hidden himself. If I just knew that, 
 I wouldn t bother." 
 
 He crossed from the road he had followed since 
 leaving the town and kept his way by the river s 
 bank. In the gaunt leafless weeds and bushes 
 choking the narrow path he seemed to see flitting 
 on before him Lester s tragic face. 
 
 Soon the town was far in the distance behind 
 him, only the smoke rolling up from the factory 
 chimneys could be seen, and still he tramped on 
 and on, going to the many favorite haunts where 
 he fished or swam as a boy. Each turn in the 
 road marked some event especially prominent in 
 his memory. 
 
326 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 In spite of the chilliness in the air he strolled 
 slowly forward for a mile or two, when the yelp 
 ing of a dog attracted his attention, suggesting 
 possibilities of companionship. He went in the 
 direction from which the sound came. The pass 
 ing of a bend in the river brought the dog into 
 view, a small yellow creature crouching on its 
 haunches on the bank and howling dismally. 
 When it saw Philip this was changed to short 
 jerky barks and it bounded down the bank and 
 began to tug at a dark object that lay in a thin 
 scum of ice formed about it in the still water 
 near the shore. 
 
 From where Philip stood, a little farther down 
 the stream, a curve in the line of its flow placed 
 him almost opposite the object. 
 
 "It s a bit of old clothing," he told himself. And 
 he called aloud: "Bring it out, sir! Fetch it 
 here !" 
 
 The dog, stimulated by his voice and presence, 
 barked more furiously than ever, while Philip fell 
 to throwing stones at the thing in the water with 
 the double idea of encouraging the dog and cut 
 ting the ice that held it. 
 
 All at once the dog, as though frightened, put 
 its tail between its legs and ran up the bank, 
 where it squatted on its haunches and resumed 
 its yelping. 
 
 "I wonder," thought Philip, "if it s my duty to 
 go tear the thing loose, for my esteemed ac 
 quaintance, the yellow dog." 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 327 
 
 He armed himself with a stick. Thus prepared 
 he made a circuit of the shore. The dog testified 
 to its appreciation of his evident intention in a 
 most unmistakable manner. 
 
 "Glad of a little help, are you?" said Philip 
 aloud to the yellow dog as he went toward the 
 object in the water. 
 
 "It has a funny look," he thought, "a very 
 funny look." 
 
 With his stick he poked at it. 
 
 The object with a light silly motion bobbed up 
 and down in the water. Philip poked more vig 
 orously. "Come loose!" he insisted. "Come 
 loose!" 
 
 Then all in an instant the stick slid from his 
 grasp into the water and glided away beyond his 
 reach. 
 
 The thing had turned turned with a ghastly 
 sickening semblance of life, disclosing a blue dis 
 colored hand so poised that it was outstretched 
 straight and stiff. As it swept past it touched 
 Philip. 
 
 "It s a man !" he cried, shrinking away. "As I 
 live it s a man!" 
 
 The object, turning farther, floated free upon 
 its back and lay so, and he saw the bloated, hid 
 eously swollen face of Lester Royal. There was no 
 mistaking it. 
 
 Philip uncovered his head and leaned back upon 
 the shelving bank. The dog crept to his side, and 
 he caressed it silently. 
 
328 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 There was no sound save that of the river 
 where it fretted against its gravelly bed and the 
 call of crows from the deserted corn-fields. 
 
 "It s all up with him now," unconsciously Philip 
 spoke aloud. 
 
 He paused and gazed down upon the body of 
 his friend. The dog crept closer and would have 
 licked his face. This roused Philip from his 
 reverie. 
 
 There yet remained for him to summon aid, 
 men and a wagon, and accompanied by the idle 
 throng that gathers at such times, to go back into 
 the town. 
 
 VII 
 
 Geoff spent exactly a week in the East, where 
 the money Margaret gave to him was judiciously 
 used as the basis for certain operations of a 
 shady nature, and he took to himself several large 
 sums on which he had no shadow of a claim, 
 viewed even from the broad latitudes of sport. 
 
 With this influx of wealth he had proceeded 
 to enjoy himself, which duty discharged, he 
 did what his sister had feared he would do, he 
 came and overran the Perkins household. He 
 brought with him a valet, an accomplished rascal 
 meagerly patterned on his master s more splen 
 did dimensions. This, coupled to the many airs 
 he gave himself, sufficed for a local sensation and 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 329 
 
 Geoff s vanity was pleased in the supremest de 
 gree. To be stared at and to excite wide-eyed 
 admiration and envy was one of the pinnacles 
 of bliss he liked to scale when luck was with 
 him. When it was not, he was more than con 
 tent to slink through several grades of shabby 
 genteel ruffianism, attracting just as little notice 
 as possible. There were four people, however, 
 who refused to accept him at the current valua 
 tion, and Perkins led the list Perkins, who 
 watched him as a cat does a mouse, and who 
 fell foul of him innumerable times each day: 
 while Mrs. Perkins, mindful of Russell s revela 
 tions, tried hard, but failed miserably, to be hos 
 pitable. 
 
 Nor did Philip and the prodigal prove congenial. 
 They amused themselves by a frequent inter 
 change of scantily veiled insults, staying perpetu 
 ally and perilously near downright trouble of the 
 head-breaking sort. 
 
 But the most pronounced ill will was felt by 
 Franz. 
 
 No man fancies seeing the woman he loves con 
 trolled and commanded, with scant appreciation 
 of her rights, by another, even when that other 
 is her brother. This Franz had to witness, and 
 his soul was not particularly prolific in patience 
 either. 
 
 Just how often in the course of an evening he 
 would have liked to take Geoff by the throat rose 
 
330 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 nightly into a handsome aggregate, for the im 
 pulse flourished mightily. 
 
 As for Geoff, his selfishness was on the alert. 
 His sister had never known young men and here 
 were three, and of the three, one was unmistak 
 ably in love with her, and supposing she should 
 marry again. The thought was like a chilly devil. 
 It gave him the shivers. Clearly Margaret must 
 be removed from the Perkins home and the Per 
 kins influence. 
 
 Fortunately, at this juncture, Madame Dennee s 
 bankers in Paris forwarded a considerable sum of 
 money, and notwithstanding his many resolutions 
 to the contrary he permitted his habits to get the 
 better of his purpose and with the major portion 
 of the remittance in his possession, vanished from 
 the quiet he had threatened to disturb. 
 
 Then was experienced a sense of relief by all. 
 They had been happy until he came. Margaret 
 had imparted to their intercourse the charm of 
 refinement the gentlest of companionship, and 
 this is the best of friendship and the best of love. 
 
 It was a night or so after Geoff s departure. 
 Perkins and Franz were in the library waiting for 
 Margaret to join them. The former was worthily 
 engaged in an attempt to improve the passing 
 moments by vitriolic comments upon the morals 
 of the profligate, a singularly congenial theme 
 with him. He had aired his grievance against 
 Geoff, and was basking in the agreeable glow of 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 331 
 
 Franz s approval, when the door opened and Mar 
 garet entered the room. On seeing her he cried 
 as if in astonishment : 
 
 "Why! What 
 
 For Margaret was gowned entirely in some soft 
 white fabric. He had never seen her in anything 
 but black. 
 
 "Why! I say " It was Perkins who spoke, 
 surveying her with the greatest admiration. "I 
 say, you never looked half so clear or beautiful!" 
 
 Perkins was a privileged character, and said a 
 good deal the rest could not but wish they might. 
 
 "Now," he began again plaintively, "I call this 
 rough very rough, indeed. I ve got to go to 
 the Monroes and say good-by to Bessie s sister 
 and her two young ones . . . but, I ll be back in 
 three-quarters of an hour. You see, to-night her 
 sister and the two young ones go home and I 
 have rashly agreed to see that they get safely 
 started on their journey. I don t and didn t want 
 to do this, but Bessie s mother said it would be 
 a nice thing for me to do, and she is a woman 
 you can t say no to. One of these days I must 
 tell you about Bessie s mother, as she is the most 
 remarkable lady of my acquaintance. She is al 
 ways wanting a franchise. When it isn t a fran 
 chise it s an amendment and that s something you 
 add to something else to make it different. She 
 is interested in abolishing whatever she disap 
 proves of, which I think myself would be a fine 
 
332 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 way to get rid of what you don t like. She is a 
 member of more societies than I can recall, and 
 she won t wear song-birds in her hat you simply 
 couldn t induce her to. I think if she could she 
 would manage everybody s business except her 
 own, which doesn t interest her. It is currently 
 reported that she talked Mr. Monroe, who was a 
 very superior man with a cork leg, straight into 
 his coffin from all accounts the place for him, 
 because he drank like a fish. I assure you it s 
 with the utmost difficulty that I keep her from 
 calling on you. I don t think I ever mentioned 
 it, but where Bessie and her mother are con 
 cerned I am but little better than ripened fruit. 
 Now I must go." 
 
 And before Margaret could reply to his out 
 burst, Perkins was gone. 
 
 Franz had seated himself at the piano, idly 
 fingering the keys. Margaret had taken her place 
 beside the fire. She was rather wishing that Mrs. 
 Perkins, who had slipped out an hour before, "to 
 be gone five minutes," would return. 
 
 All at once, Franz turning from the piano, 
 looked at her as if trying to solve some problem. 
 
 Was she still absorbed by thoughts of the past, 
 or did the present speak louder to her? Did her 
 change of dress bear any significance . . . could 
 she possibly forget the social barriers that stood 
 between them? What a fool he was not to know 
 more of woman s ways. All the locked secrets 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 333 
 
 of her heart were hidden from him, he could but 
 guess and wonder. 
 
 "Won t you play for me?" Margaret asked. 
 
 It was a new experience, that of being left alone 
 with Becker; she was not quite easy in it. Franz 
 turned to the keyboard. "What would you like 
 to have me play?" he asked. 
 
 "Whatever you are in the mood for." 
 
 Franz s fingers rested caressingly upon the keys. 
 "I shall improvise for you." 
 
 Then low and soft, as though each note was a 
 love word, he began his fingers shaping into 
 sound his thoughts. As he played these changed 
 from doubt to certainty and the blood rushed 1 
 tingling through his veins. 
 
 The all but imperceptible rustle of Margaret s 
 dress caused him to look up. The song of doubt, 
 entreaty and of triumph stopped abruptly. She 
 was standing at his side, pale and breathless, as 
 though drawn there by a spell. 
 
 Then the red burned upon her cheeks she 
 would have turned away. 
 
 "Don t go! Don t leave me you must not! 
 Not until I know!" 
 
 He caught one of her hands into his own and 
 held it firmly, but she offered no resistance. 
 
 "You must tell me now now," he said. "I 
 can wait no longer, Margaret! Margaret!" 
 
 "What shall I tell you?" she asked in tones so 
 low he could scarcely hear. It gave him courage 
 
334 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 as hers seemed to ebb, for she was pale and 
 trembling. 
 
 "That you love me!" he cried, "that you love 
 me, Margaret ! That you love me and will be 
 my wife." And he drew her into his arms. 
 "Margaret! Margaret!" repeating her name in an 
 ecstacy of delight. "Is it so? Do you love me, 
 dear?" 
 
 She put up her hand appealingly as if she en 
 treated him to say no more. 
 
 Slowly he loosed his arms from about her and 
 she sank down into a chair, while Franz regarded 
 her with a troubled brow. 
 
 "Let me think!" she gasped. "Oh! let me 
 think!" Then sadly: "I have lost my friend. I 
 am so sorry so sorry." 
 
 "Yes," Franz answered steadily, "you must 
 choose now and forever between your friend and 
 your lover." 
 
 On the table beside Margaret s chair lay the 
 book she had been reading that afternoon. A 
 black bordered handkerchief was visible where it 
 rested in the leaves of the half-opened volume 
 marking her place. In their nervous wanderings 
 her eyes fell upon it and their roving glance was 
 instantly arrested. 
 
 The memory of what had been fell like a cloud, 
 blotting out the present. 
 
 Franz saw the handkerchief, too, saw that she 
 shrank from it. He stretched forth his hand and 
 took up the bit of black and white. He held it 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 335 
 
 in his tightened grasp until it was a crushed and 
 crumpled heap in his broad palm, then it was 
 dropped to be whirled up in momentary bright 
 ness by the fire. 
 
 Margaret gave a little cry. What it meant he 
 knew, for it was glad, free and bouyant, as if a 
 load had been lifted from her by the single act. 
 
 She put out her arms and Franz sank down on 
 his knees before her. A new feeling surged into 
 his heart. He had felt a man s desire for posses 
 sion now, when the victory was won, this was 
 changed to infinite tenderness. He looked up into 
 her face and saw what a woman s love was like, 
 and he was well content. 
 
 "Margaret," he said, "Margaret, has it all 
 ended the past? Has the new day dawned for 
 us for both of us?" 
 
 And Margaret, her hand resting on his shoul 
 der, answered, "Yes." 
 
 How long they were together after that neither 
 of them knew. The happy moments are those 
 that are never counted. Only misery has time to 
 note the flight of time and to curse its slowness, 
 grumbling at the lagging seconds. 
 
 But she had space to tell him of the life she 
 had lived, the life that took its place that night 
 with the things to be forgotten. 
 
 Perkins, returning from seeing his friends 
 started on their journey, chanced to open the 
 library door quietly and saw something which he 
 subsequently described to Philip as "paralyzing." 
 
336 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 His face grew very red so red, that the 
 freckles on it looked white and sickly by com 
 parison. 
 
 He closed the door softly and tiptoed to the 
 opposite side of the hall where he stood for a long 
 time lost in profound thought. He might have 
 stood there for an indefinite period had he not 
 heard some one come up the steps and fumble 
 around in the outer darkness for the bell. 
 
 It was Philip, and before he succeeded in find 
 ing what he was searching for, the door was 
 opened by young Perkins who, seizing him by 
 the neck, whispered hoarsely in his ear: 
 
 "Don t utter a sound! Don t! or I shall 
 strangle you on the spot." 
 
 With no further explanation Philip was dragged 
 back through the hall Perkins executing a wild 
 dance the while and up to Perkins apartments. 
 Here he was relinquished from his friend s force 
 ful grasp, becoming once more a free agent. 
 
 "What s got into you, Perkins?" he asked, ad 
 justing his collar and cravat. 
 
 "It s settled!" Perkins said excitedly; "they have 
 arranged it and here I figured all along that I 
 should have to do it for them, which just shows 
 what a billy-goat I am. Aren t you glad, old 
 fellow?" 
 
 "Look here, Perkins," Philip remonstrated re 
 proachfully, "why don t you tell me what you are 
 talking about?" 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 337 
 
 "You fool! Haven t you got any sense? 
 Franz has gone and done it!" 
 
 Whereat, instead of being offended at such un 
 usual language as applied to himself, Philip 
 clutched Perkins much as Perkins had previously 
 clutched him and they danced madly back and 
 forth across the room. 
 
 "I pledge you my sacred word of honor," Per 
 kins managed to gasp in the midst of their career 
 ing, "I pledge you my sacred word of honor I 
 felt as though I should faint actually faint. I 
 was paralyzed." 
 
 "Why, see here!" and Philip came to a stand, 
 struck by an idea he had long cherished but had 
 lost sight of for the moment "I thought you 
 were in love with her yourself." 
 
 "So I am. I adore her! positively adore her, 
 you know, but what s a fellow to do when he feels 
 himself thoroughly unworthy, like the dust be 
 neath her feet?" 
 
 He folded his fat hands resignedly over the 
 central region of his plump person their favorite 
 resting-place. 
 
 "You see, Philip, I could never satisfy her as 
 Franz can and will; besides it s the most mon 
 strous presumption to imagine even that she could 
 care for a badly freckled specimen like myself. 
 Dear old Franz! he will have his opportunity now, 
 for you know she is very rich, has something 
 tremendous a year, and she will gain a defender 
 
338 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 who will protect her from that blackguard of a 
 brother of hers. Altogether, it is too lovely for 
 words quite ideal, you know." 
 
 Philip looked at him admiringly. "I declare 
 you are a good little beggar!" 
 
 Perkins winced at the adjective "little". He 
 did not like it applied to himself. He shook his 
 head reflectively. 
 
 "My dear fellow, it could never have been me 
 and, too, there is Bessie. It has become solely a 
 question of ripened fruit between us. Besides" 
 manfully "I have from the first considered Mar 
 garet as so far above me that I have never 
 wearied in my affection for Bessie or her moth 
 er," he made haste to add. 
 
 Philip laughed. 
 
 "Particularly her mother." 
 
 "I simply include Mrs. Monroe, because it is im 
 possible to leave her out. She is so accustomed to 
 mixing in things." 
 
 "I suppose they will live abroad pretty much," 
 Philip said. "It s the place for Franz." 
 
 "I say," Perkins burst out blankly, "that s so, 
 isn t it? You know she thinks him a great com 
 poser." 
 
 "And so he is," Philip replied. 
 
 Perkins gazed at him mournfully, blinking his 
 eyes, and when he spoke it was in gloomy accents. 
 
 "He will take her away, won t he? Having 
 her here forever is all up. Do you know I hadn t 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 339 
 
 thought of that not till this minute. Really, it 
 very much distresses me, just the mere thought." 
 
 Vouching for the truth of what he said, a tear 
 trickled languidly down his nose, and after hang 
 ing reluctant upon its very tip as though unde 
 cided as to its ultimate course, fell to his clasped 
 hands where it glistened like a dewdrop in May. 
 
 "I this is very overpowering. I had lost sight 
 of the future entirely in my great pleasure at what 
 has taken place. Bless me! I never speculated on 
 the results never once." 
 
 He raised his glance pathetically to his friend s 
 face. "It s a damn poor showing for cousins, 
 isn t it?" 
 
 The round face with its stubby fringe and 
 blinking eyes shaded by their colorless lashes 
 destroyed Philip s gravity. 
 
 "Why don t you get them to adopt you?" he 
 said. 
 
 "Do you fancy they would?" with a gleam of 
 hope. Then as he saw the smile playing about 
 the corners of Philip s mouth: "You are jolly 
 ing. Please don t, old fellow not now." 
 
 "We shall have to get our comfort from the 
 belief that this is for their great good," Philip 
 said. 
 
 "So we must," Perkins acquiesced cheerfully. 
 "What a disgusting pig I am to think of myself 
 when they are so happy." 
 
 Later, on going down-stairs, they encountered 
 
340 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 Franz and Margaret in the hall, and Philip, glanc 
 ing at Margaret as she stood just beneath the 
 tempered light falling from the chandelier, de 
 cided he had never seen any one so beautiful 
 except Barbara, who was incomparable. He di 
 vined that now to her, life seemed to hold much 
 to be so fine a gift. 
 
 The two young men left the house together. 
 Philip at first tried to talk, but Becker made his 
 replies with such indifference that he soon aban 
 doned the trial as useless. 
 
 Franz s elation was scarcely concealed by his si 
 lence or his reserve. It spoke in the exultant 
 heaving of his breast, in his quick elastic step, in 
 his every movement. As they came to his door 
 he broke the silence with : 
 
 "I shall go on with you, Philip, and see you 
 home." 
 
 "As you like, old fellow," Philip answered. 
 
 No more was said until they bade each other 
 good night. 
 
 Franz turned back alone but not to retrace 
 his steps. Instead he rambled through the streets 
 of the sleeping town to find himself he knew 
 not how, a dozen times beneath her window. So 
 he wore out the night, and when at last the day 
 broke, it found him going in the direction of his 
 home. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 341 
 
 VIII 
 
 Philip was looking from his window out upon 
 the street where the first snows of winter lay 
 slowly melting in the sunshine, when a cab rat 
 tled up through the mud and slush. It stopped 
 before the house and his interest became active. 
 
 "It s the saintly Anson! This is, indeed, pen 
 ance for my sins." 
 
 Almost with the thought Anson stepped from 
 the cab and was followed by a gentleman who 
 had no small trouble in wriggling through the 
 narrow door. 
 
 Philip, with a groan of disgust, recognized the 
 junior member of the firm employing his brother. 
 
 "As if Anson were not affliction enough," he 
 thought, "he brings Mr. Hale to bore us espe 
 cially me, by prosy recitals of his own worth." 
 
 He promptly put himself beyond his brother s 
 range of vision, as he wished to avoid the neces 
 sity of going down-stairs until the last moment. 
 
 He resumed his work, and for an hour or more 
 wrote steadily on, then he threw down his pen 
 and was resting his eyes, his hands before them, 
 when the door opened and his mother entered 
 the room. He knew who it was without looking 
 up, since she was the only one of all the family 
 who ever invaded his privacy. 
 
 "What is it, mother?" he asked. 
 
342 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "May I see you, Philip? Are you very busy?" 
 
 There was something in her voice that caused 
 him to glance around quickly. "Why, what is it, 
 mother?" 
 
 He left his chair and went to her side. He saw 
 that her face was red and swollen as though from 
 much weeping. "What is it, dear?" He put his 
 arms about her. "Does Anson bring bad news 
 of any sort?" 
 
 By a sudden gesture she freed herself from his 
 embrace, covering her face with her apron. 
 
 "Oh! Philip, it s awful." And she began to cry 
 softly. 
 
 "But what is it why don t you tell me?" 
 
 He tried to draw the apron away that he might 
 see her face again, but she resisted his gentle 
 force. 
 
 "What is it, dear? Is it Anson is he ill?" 
 
 "It s worse than that ! Oh ! a million times 
 worse !" 
 
 At her words the desperate sickening feeling 
 begotten of some great and unknown calamity, 
 the forerunner of actual knowledge, came into his 
 heart. 
 
 "You must tell me, mother, or how can I ever 
 help you?" 
 
 "I shall, only wait a minute until I am calm, 
 for you must know and you must save him!" 
 
 "I save him! What do you mean? What has 
 happened to him?" 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 343 
 
 "You won t blame him? Promise me you won t 
 be hard, now before I tell you. That you won t 
 say or think unkind things of him? Promise me, 
 promise me, Philip !" For he had hesitated. 
 
 "I promise, mother, for your sake." 
 
 "No! no! for his own." 
 
 "For his sake then. It is all one." 
 
 "It is difficult to tell even you, Philip." 
 
 He put his arms about her once more. "There, 
 you don t mind me, you know," he said tenderly. 
 "Dear little mother, so brave and good, you really 
 can t mean you mind me?" 
 
 It was in a hushed strainei voice, as though 
 she feared the shameful secret she had to confide 
 would find a listener in the very air, that she 
 told Philip of his brother s fall from grace. 
 
 "He has taken money from the firm. A thou 
 sand dollars. It was not stealing." She was 
 quick to shield him. "He expected he fully ex 
 pected to pay it back, down to the last penny, 
 but the amount grew and grew, and soon it was 
 beyond him. He meant to be honest. He has 
 been so good always, no one would dare accuse 
 him of stealing. You know it was not; say it 
 was not! Say you don t think it!" 
 
 She had given way utterly to her grief, and to 
 quiet her he said: 
 
 "Of course it wasn t stealing." 
 
 "There!" reassured and rendered almost happy. 
 "There, I knew you would understand. Why, 
 
344 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 even Mr. Hale speaks of it in the kindest way. 
 He knows Anson to be perfectly reliable he 
 doesn t dare question it. Everybody knows how 
 good he is, he wouldn t think of doing wrong. 
 He has explained it all. At first he took the 
 money as an advance upon his salary and then the 
 indebtedness grew. He was never able to make 
 good what he had borrowed. It was so easy to 
 take what he needed so easy to think he could 
 repay it. He meant to do what was right: I am 
 sure of this. If I were not it would kill me." 
 She paused for an instant. "It was unfair to put 
 such a pitfall in any man s path, no matter how 
 honest. It was unjust, and they should suffer, 
 but but" looking up appealingly into his face 
 "we must save Anson, must we not? For if we 
 don t he will be arrested and then every one will 
 know. The whole town. Think of the disgrace 
 the awful humiliation! We must save him. He 
 is your brother, and deep in your heart you love 
 him. Say you do!" 
 
 Philip, looking at her, bowed, broken, crushed, 
 scarcely daring to raise her eyes to his, answered 
 that he loved his brother, but in his soul he 
 cursed him for the suffering he had caused. 
 
 "Mr. Hale assures me that if the money is re 
 turned at once, it shall be kept a secret not even 
 the girls need know. You are the only one who 
 can do this, Philip. It all rests with you. "Will 
 you save him ?" 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 345 
 
 "For his own sake and for yours but, most of 
 all for yours, dear, yes." 
 
 In an instant he remembered what that money 
 was to do for him. More than money ever did 
 before. The thought made him sick with a deadly 
 nausea. He saw his hope sink lower and lower 
 until it entirely ceased to be and despair stood 
 in its place. He had all but won in the struggle, 
 and now to have the fruits snatched from him 
 at the last moment! He had saved for another to 
 scatter. 
 
 "What will become of Anson?" he asked. 
 "Where will he go? Of course he can t remain 
 with the firm. It wouldn t be permitted, I sup 
 pose, nor pleasant." 
 
 "He has a friend in the West some place in 
 California in business there. He has been urg 
 ing Anson for months to come to him, and now, 
 it is all most fortunate, he has decided to go. 
 He can t very well stay here. If he should there 
 is danger the secret might be discovered: he 
 would have to get a new position and people 
 would wonder, but once he is gone, they will 
 forget all about him and then there will be no 
 talk. No one will ever learn why he left." 
 
 Philip looked at her commiseratingly. With 
 his hand he brushed away the white hair lying 
 in disorder upon her forehead. 
 
 "Poor mother, poor mother! and you have been 
 so proud of him!" 
 
346 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "As I shall always be. My poor Anson! As I 
 shall always be as I am of all of you." She 
 smiled bravely through her tears. 
 
 "I shall go for the money. I d better go at 
 once or I may find the bank closed." 
 
 He spoke collectedly and his mother did not di 
 vine from any words of his that he was preparing 
 to make the greatest sacrifice possible to him. 
 Nor would he have her know. There was misery 
 enough for her as it was. Yet the thought of 
 what he had to do brought him unspeakable 
 agony. It was not the loss of money, for money 
 of itself was nothing to him, but everything in 
 his little world was held in place by what he was 
 giving up. 
 
 "I shall get the money," he repeated quietly. 
 "I shall go for it at once." 
 
 "You are so good !" she cried. "You were al 
 ways my comfort. I can rely upon you more than 
 on the others." 
 
 She reached up and kissed him again and again. 
 
 "Though no one ever knows of the sacrifice 
 you make, Anson and I will, and we will honor 
 you for it. Do not think that we undervalue it." 
 
 He kissed her softly. No amount of praise 
 could have wrung the money from him, but her 
 tears had been more potent. 
 
 "You don t care," she questioned, "that the 
 girls are not to be told of what you do for An 
 son?" 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 347 
 
 "No, dear. Glory of that sort does not in the 
 least appeal to me. I have no objections to being 
 deprived of it. What I do I do quite willingly. 
 I am satisfied with your thanks and the conscious 
 ness that I have in a measure eased this burden 
 for you." He smiled sadly down upon her. "Now 
 I will go," and unclasping her arms from about 
 his neck, he turned and left the room. 
 
 After a few moments waiting to regain her com 
 posure, Mrs. Southard went down to the parlor 
 where Anson and Hale sat, the former crestfallen 
 and not over-confident of Philip s generosity. 
 
 To Hale she said: "My son will be back in a 
 few moments with the sum you require. He has 
 just gone for it." 
 
 Anson s face lit up with joy. He was safe! 
 How lucky it was that Philip had kept his money 
 instead of spending it! 
 
 They did not have to wait long for Philip s re 
 turn. His mother, who had been watching from 
 the window, saw him as he came into the yard, 
 and quitting the room, joined him in the hall. 
 
 "You have it? You were in time?" she asked 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Yes," he said, placing a bundle of bills in her 
 hand. "It is a thousand dollars you need, is it 
 not?" 
 
 "Yes. It is so good of you. How can I ever 
 tell you what it means to me !" 
 
 With a heavy step, as if all the vigor had left 
 
348 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 him, Philip slowly mounted the stairs leading up 
 to the floor above. 
 
 "Won t you come in and see Mr. Hale?" his 
 mother called. 
 
 "I had rather not, dear," he answered. 
 
 He walked as one in a dream, mechanically clos 
 ing the door behind him as he entered the room. 
 Then he dropped wearily into his chair beside the 
 table. 
 
 He was overwhelmed by the catastrophe. A 
 comprehension of it all, and the probable results, 
 began to come to him. He threw the few hun 
 dred dollars remaining of his little fortune on the 
 table. They were worthless, so far as the pur 
 pose for which they had been saved was con 
 cerned. 
 
 Stunned and stupid he gazed at the little heap 
 of paper. Each dollar represented some privation 
 in his daily life. 
 
 With savage fervor he brought his clenched 
 hand down on the little heap, while from between 
 his set teeth he ground out curses, for now came 
 a frenzy of disappointment. 
 
 It soon subsided, as all violent emotions are bound 
 to do. 
 
 Only a dull pain remained. Still he kept his 
 gaze fastened on the money before him. It re 
 minded him of what the sum had once been and 
 was no longer. He must begin again, go through 
 the round of petty self-denial, the soul-stunting 
 process of small economy. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 349 
 
 "It will be so long so very long until I get so 
 much again," he thought. "While I am about it 
 a thousand things may happen to rob me of the 
 inspiration of her love. And all for the theft of 
 a wretched paltry pittance, so small it could have 
 done Anson no good, and yet so large it may be 
 the ruin of my hopes. It is unjust that I should 
 suffer for him! A thousand dollars! Bah! The 
 commonplaceness of it!* 
 
 With his fist hard pressed upon the table and 
 his eyes fixed on vacancy, he sat and thought; 
 thought with a brain mad and drunk with grief. 
 He would have liked to turn his face toward the 
 wall and give up. He was worsted. The props 
 with which he had sustained himself were gone. 
 
 How he hated Anson! The fool! who had 
 lived in a false world of pious frauds; whose man 
 hood had failed at the one test to which he had 
 been put; who had succumbed to temptation at 
 the first opportunity. 
 
 To cover up this to put a patch upon the torn 
 garment of his brother s honesty he must suffer. 
 How he hated him ! 
 
 He heard Hale leave the house, but dared not 
 look to see him go. He took all his hope, all his 
 aspirations with him. And now how would it all 
 end? Could he ask Barbara to wait much longer? 
 How would he meet her father s exactions ? What 
 excuse was there to offer for the sudden vanish 
 ing of his savings? Mr. Gerard would think he 
 had been lied to from the start. 
 
350 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 Down-stairs the girls and Mrs. Southard were 
 making ready for Anson s departure. It had 
 been arranged that he should leave at once. They 
 moved about noiselessly, talking in whispers, the 
 girls wildly curious, yet not venturing to question 
 their mother. The whole atmosphere was as 
 though some one had died. It pervaded the en 
 tire house. Where he sat in his room, Philip felt 
 it. In fancy he saw his mother packing Anson s 
 trunk saw her tears fall silently as she folded 
 away his clothes and as his fancy saw it, so he 
 knew it must be in reality. 
 
 Despite the load that lay upon him crushing 
 him to earth, he was glad she had been spared 
 the greater humiliation and disgrace that but 
 for him would have come to them. The realiza 
 tion of this lessened the extent of his own anguish 
 somewhat, at least it was a consolation to feel 
 that he had shielded her, no matter at what cost. 
 
 It was dark when his mother finally knocked 
 at his door and told him that supper was ready. 
 
 "I m not hungry," he answered. 
 
 She opened the door and came in, saying in 
 some surprise as she did so, for his lamp was un- 
 lighted: 
 
 "Why, Philip, what s wrong? * 
 
 "Xothing. dear, nothing. Why do you ask?" 
 
 "You don t begrudge the money that kept us 
 all from shame you don t regret that?" She 
 put her hand upon his shoulder. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 351 
 
 "I regret nothing. For you I would have done 
 a hundred times what I did to-day, and counted 
 it a small recompense for what you have given 
 me all these years." 
 
 "You mean it, Philip?" 
 
 "Certainly. I was sitting here in the dusk 
 thinking it over thinking how glad I am that 
 it was in my power to do this for you and him. 
 No matter what the outcome may be, I shall not 
 regret it for one instant." 
 
 Her hand caressed his cheek softly: "Won t 
 you come down to supper?" 
 
 "What s the use? I couldn t eat now." 
 
 "But you will not see Anson again. It may be 
 years before he comes back to us. Do come 
 down." 
 
 "I shall go with him to the train. Won t that 
 do just as well? I wish to think a while longer, 
 here in the dark by myself." 
 
 * : I know he will be delighted to have you," she 
 said. "Poor Anson! It has been a terrible blow 
 to him." 
 
 Philip smiled queerly to himself. He doubted 
 the delight Anson would derive from his company 
 just then, but he made no response. 
 
 "It seems unfair to ask any more of you," his 
 mother said with reluctance, "but Anson is almost 
 penniless. If you could only help just a little it 
 might make it easier for him." 
 
 Philip gathered up the bills that still lay on the 
 
352 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 table where he had thrown them. "Here are one 
 or two hundred dollars," he said, "he may as well 
 have them. They are of no use to me, and you 
 will feel so much better to have him go, if you 
 know he has something to fall back on!" 
 
 She took the money gratefully. "He has prom 
 ised to repay all he has had from you, so don t 
 worry about not getting it back." 
 
 "Ah! dear," and he laughed, "that does not 
 worry me in the least. I don t bother about what 
 he will or will not do." 
 
 She turned to the door: "I shall call you then 
 when he is ready." And she left him to his soli 
 tude. 
 
 Philip wondered when he was once more alone 
 what his mother s action would have been had she 
 known what that money was to do for him. On 
 the whole he concluded it was just as well she did 
 not know. He became reflective. With practise 
 it might be possible for him to acquire a habit 
 which would enable him to derive a melancholy 
 pleasure from being miserable. He laughed aloud. 
 
 "I never knew that farce and tragedy touched 
 hands," he thought. 
 
 It was quite late when his mother called from 
 the foot of the stairs: "Anson is ready, Philip. 
 If you will come, he will be so pleased to have 
 you go down to the station with him." 
 
 He went down and found her waiting for him 
 in the hall. "You will be kind," she whispered 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 353 
 
 anxiously. "You won t say anything hard, when 
 you are alone with him? Poor boy! he feels it 
 so keenly. You will be considerate of him?" 
 
 "Yes, dear. Don t distress yourself. I shall be 
 as kind as I know how." 
 
 They went into the sitting-room where Anson 
 was bidding good-by to his sisters. Philip had 
 no wish to witness his mother s farewells. He 
 picked up a valise his brother was to carry with 
 him, saying: "I shall start on ahead, Anson." 
 
 "All right. I shall be along presently," his 
 brother answered. 
 
 Philip escaped into the open air. Soon he heard 
 Anson coining, waited until he caught up, and 
 the two brothers, without a word, set off for the 
 station very much as though they were trying to 
 run away from each other, but had foolishly 
 elected to go in the same direction while about it. 
 
 Their destination was reached before either had 
 framed a speech diplomatic enough for the occa 
 sion. 
 
 Anson went to ascertain how much time he had 
 and returned almost immediately to say that he 
 had ten minutes left. 
 
 "But," he added, "you needn t wait on my ac 
 count." 
 
 Til see you off. I told mother I would." 
 
 "Of course if you like. I thought you might 
 want to go home." 
 
 They fell to pacing back and forth across the 
 
354 THE HAND OF. THE MIGHTY 
 
 platform, still apparently trying to get away from 
 each other. Neither spoke, and it was only when 
 the train rushed in with a trailing echo of sound 
 from out the darkness, that An son found courage 
 to say hurriedly from the door of his car : 
 
 "Mother told you, didn t she, that I would pay 
 up all I have had from you? I intend to and shall, 
 but I can t do it at once." The whistle of the 
 engine broke in upon him. "I ll do it sure, Philip, 
 I won t forget." 
 
 "There is no haste," his brother answered. 
 "Don t sacrifice yourself because of me." 
 
 He extended his hand. "Good-by and good luck 
 to you." 
 
 The train began to move. 
 
 "It was awfully good of you. You have done 
 a lot for me. I " 
 
 The train bore him swiftly away, but standing 
 as he did on the rear platform of the last car, the 
 door at his back, Philip saw him wave his hand 
 kerchief and he responded in a like fashion, wish 
 ing he were certain Anson could see him as plainly 
 as he saw Anson. 
 
 And so he stood until long after the train had 
 vanished, a miserable lonely feeling within him. 
 
 It was all hopeless the whole affair. 
 
 His mother would never be quite the same 
 again, she could never live beyond the memory of 
 that day. At last he muttered: 
 
 "Poor devil ! I am positive he didn t mean to 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 355 
 
 harm any one, nor did he mean to be bad. He 
 has not the sense in the first place. What he did, 
 was simply the blundering clumsy conduct of 
 a fool." 
 
 IX 
 
 Changes occurred in view of the altered rela 
 tions between Franz and Margaret. 
 
 It came to be Perkins nightly custom to formu 
 late labored excuses that would enable him to re 
 tire to his own apartments, for as he said to 
 Philip: "Just suppose it was one of us!" 
 
 Nor did the change stop here. Mrs. Perkins 
 suddenly found it convenient to spend her even 
 ings in the back parlor where the arrangement of 
 lights was more to her taste and where she could 
 sew without straining her eyes. 
 
 Perkins was treating himself to a few remarks 
 one evening before taking Philip who had just 
 come in up-stairs for a smoke: 
 
 "I think I got off a very good thing to-day," 
 he was saying, "not too amusing, but very bright 
 and to the point. When you take into account 
 that it comes from a fellow who lays no claim 
 to being a wit, why it s not half bad. If you 
 are all dying to hear, I might be induced to re 
 peat it." He did not wait for their entreaties 
 however. "You see, it was this. It s quite 
 complicated and calls for a lot of explanation. 
 
356 THE HAND OF. THE MIGHTY 
 
 I was at Bessie s this afternoon and a Mrs. 
 Cavendish came in. Philip and Franz know her, 
 but, of course, you don t." This last was to Mar 
 garet. "Well, we were talking about family. 
 Mrs. Cavendish is great on family she has been 
 separated from her husband that is part of the 
 story, and it s got to be remembered." Perkins 
 came to a stand-still. "Now, isn t it strange that 
 only the most gifted intellects can master the in 
 tricacies of a funny story. Really, you know, I 
 am getting it all wrong. Oh, yes, this is it. 
 Bessie was speaking of some one I forget who, 
 luckily that doesn t matter and Mrs. Cavendish 
 said He was a connection of mine by mar 
 riage/ And I said to Bessie of course, I sup 
 pose she would call him a disconnection by di 
 
 vorce now/ 
 
 Philip turned to Margaret : "Have you met 
 Bessie yet?" 
 
 "No; Ballard refuses to bring her to the house." 
 
 Perkins shook his head. "My mother and Bessie 
 don t get on." 
 
 "Is it settled, Perkins?" Philip asked laugh 
 ingly. 
 
 "I suppose it is. You see a fellow hasn t a 
 ghost of a chance when a girl and her mother 
 regularly set out to marry him. When that s the 
 case he might just as well beg them to name the 
 day for they are bound to divide the spoils. 
 Yes," with placid resignation, "I really suppose 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 357 
 
 I am as good as done for. I know it from the 
 way their cook treats me. When the cook treats 
 you with a deference you suppose she would only 
 bestow on the heavenly host, you may be alto 
 gether positive your intentions have been dis 
 cussed in the kitchen by members of the family." 
 
 Philip turned from Perkins to gaze gloomily 
 into the fire. He was wondering, as he had many 
 times of late, how he would ever summon the 
 resolution to tell Mr. Gerard of his altered for 
 tunes. 
 
 Perkins, surveying the faces of his friends with 
 an angelic smile upon his own freckled features, 
 noted his abstraction. 
 
 "What s the matter, Philip?" he asked. 
 
 "Nothing. I am simply in the depths to-night. 
 I fear I am not very desirable to have about in 
 my present mood." 
 
 "Is it the work?" asked Margaret. 
 
 "It s everything!" He roused himself with an 
 effort. "Utter and complete dissatisfaction with 
 my surroundings for one thing the feeling that 
 I am dying with dry rot. I suppose to you it 
 seems fresh and interesting. You can t fancy what 
 it is to those who have to live here. The nar 
 rowness and meagerness of it all!" 
 
 "It s not so bad," Perkins said. "The town has 
 lots of intelligent and charming people and if you 
 didn t go about with a chip on your shoulder, 
 you would find them out." 
 
358 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "I detest intelligence," Philip retorted. "We 
 have filled up the valleys by pulling down the 
 mountains when we get a dead level the millen 
 nium will be reached. All that will be left for the 
 unfortunates who live then to do, will be to lie 
 down and long for death." 
 
 "I say," said Perkins interrupting him, "what s 
 wrong with intelligence, anyhow?" 
 
 "Everything s wrong with it. I can respect 
 ignorance. As with any deformity it has its own 
 pathetic dignity, but this thin spread of middle- 
 class intelligence, which is one part enlightenment 
 to nine parts of stupid prejudice, goes far to 
 make me an ardent supporter of gaggings, club 
 bings and burnings at the stake." 
 
 Margaret laughed: "Is intelligence so dreadful 
 as that?" 
 
 "I think it is " then he stopped abruptly, 
 
 for the door opened and Geoffrey Ballard ap 
 peared upon the threshold. 
 
 With an attempt at dignity he moved toward 
 his sister s chair. No one spoke. The surprise 
 was too intense. But they observed that he 
 walked as though tired. 
 
 Margaret shrank from him, her face paling. 
 Every particle of happy color had fled from it 
 when he entered the room. As Geoff bent and 
 kissed her, Franz came to his feet with what 
 sounded like a smothered oath upon his lips. 
 
 After the perfunctory greetings with his sister 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 359 
 
 were disposed of, Geoff swung around languidly 
 to the others. First, he shook hands with Per 
 kins with much cordiality. Next he saluted 
 Philip: 
 
 "I am very glad to see you again, Mr. South 
 ard," he said. 
 
 "Thanks awfully," growled Philip. He resented 
 this intrusion. Besides he was not in a good 
 humor. He didn t propose to be decent to a man 
 he disliked. That was asking too much. 
 
 Silently and avoiding the danger of words, 
 Franz and Geoff acknowledged each other s ex 
 istence. They consoled themselves with looking 
 their hate. 
 
 While they were thus engaged, Perkins stood 
 on tiptoe at Philip s side and said in a hoarse 
 whisper: "What business has he coming here 
 sticking in and spoiling our fun! Damn him! 
 Why doesn t he stay away? I should like to 
 punch his head for him jolly good and well. That s 
 what I would! I came mighty near doing it, too, 
 when he shook hands with me." And Perkins 
 bristled pugnaciously. 
 
 Such was the prodigal s return and such his 
 welcome. 
 
 Not many days elapsed before there dawned 
 upon him a premonition of what had happened 
 during his absence, and a chilly and uncomfort 
 able premonition it was. 
 
 Most assuredly an understanding had been es- 
 
360 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 tablished between Margaret and the German. 
 Whether it was love or a deepened friendship, he 
 could not decide and he was reluctant to inquire. 
 Until now he had never felt the least wish to 
 familiarize himself with the emotions that swayed 
 her, and he did not know just how to begin. 
 
 Geoff finally hit upon Perkins as a likely source 
 of information. He sought him out and asked to 
 be enlightened as to the relationship between his 
 sister and "that Dutchman," and Perkins in 
 formed him, becoming more and more pleased 
 as gloom spread over the face of his questioner. 
 Geoff was seriously alarmed. But if any one 
 thought that after selling his sister at so great an 
 advantage to himself as he had done he was going 
 to sit supinely down and not endeavor to save the 
 purchase money, they did him a rank injustice. 
 
 He began to urge upon his sister the advisabil 
 ity of their being domiciled elsewhere. He didn t 
 demand any radical move to start with, simply 
 that they obtain a house. This he urged on the 
 grounds that they were wearing out their welcome 
 at the Perkinses. 
 
 "We can t impose upon their good nature much 
 longer, you know," he said. "And since you are 
 so very well satisfied here, don t you think we 
 had better settle ourselves in some more perma 
 nent fashion?" 
 
 Margaret demurred, but what he said about the 
 Perkinses made an impression upon her. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 361 
 
 "I think," Geoff continued, "you would enjoy 
 a home of your own, where you could be mis 
 tress. Russell could, of course, relieve you of 
 every burden. She is fully competent to order a 
 much more extensive establishment than you will 
 care to maintain. I find there is just such a 
 place as you would fancy. It is furnished and 
 ready for occupancy. The owner is holding some 
 political office in Washington, his family is with 
 him, and their home is for rent, providing a 
 proper tenant can be found." 
 
 He did not think it worth while to explain that 
 he had learned the chief reason why the house 
 stood vacant was that the location was unhealth- 
 ful, especially during the winter months. He 
 was positive he should experience no ill effects 
 from this and he could afford to take a few risks 
 with his sister. 
 
 "I wish you would think it over, Margaret," 
 he urged. 
 
 "Why can t you remain here?" said Margaret. 
 And her glance wandered wistfully over the room. 
 He was asking a great deal. She was very happy. 
 
 "I don t begin to have your knack at getting 
 on w r ith people. I trust you will not speak of 
 this until you know what you will do." 
 
 All this while Geoff was wonderfully circum 
 spect. Never before had he been so considerate 
 or kind. He seemed to have undergone a thor 
 ough reformation. He knew if he did not accom- 
 
362 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 plish what he was striving for he would find him 
 self face to face with ruin. This steadied him 
 astonishingly. He showed no inclination to leave 
 and for the moment conquered his tendencies to 
 dissipation. He even ceased to be disagreeable 
 to either Perkins or Philip, but he made it his 
 duty to see that the interviews his sister had 
 alone with Becker were few and far between 
 and as brief as possible. 
 
 So it happened, when one afternoon in December 
 Margaret announced she had taken the lease of a 
 house and intended going into it immediately, 
 that Perkins and his mother listened to her in 
 horror-stricken amazement. They could scarcely be 
 lieve it. 
 
 "What!" cried Perkins: "what! leave us, you 
 know ! A house of your own ! Why, you can 
 have all of this one if you will only include mother 
 and me in the bargain." 
 
 "What place is it?" Mrs. Perkins asked. 
 
 Margaret turned to her brother: "What did you 
 say the name was, Geoff?" 
 
 Geoff braced himself mentally as he answered: 
 "The Springer property." 
 
 He was tolerably sure they knew the house and 
 its reputation. Nor was he in error. What peo 
 ple in a town of ten thousand or less don t know 
 of their neighbors affairs isn t worth mention 
 ing. They knew all there was to know of the 
 house in question. 
 
 "Why, look here!" Perkins stuttered, his words 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 363 
 
 falling over one another in their haste for utter 
 ance. "You can t go there, you know. It will 
 never do, you see. The house is damp as all get 
 out from cellar to garret, and it s so mildewy in 
 some of the rooms that the paper won t stick to 
 the walls. I have been there lots of times and 
 have seen it. Why, I say, you should just see 
 the Springer children. They are sick all the time. 
 You can t go there. We won t let you." And he 
 fell to pacing the floor, his thumbs tucked in his 
 waistcoat, as was his wont when nervous or excited. 
 
 Geoff watched him from between narrowed 
 lids. There was a steely glitter in the look, and 
 a baleful twitching at the corners of his mouth, 
 as though he had it strong within him to express 
 a good deal more than was policy just then. 
 
 "You have been most kind to us," he said; "you 
 overwhelm us with your goodness. Still I know 
 my sister will be better contented in her own 
 home. As for the dampness of which you speak, 
 I will see to that. It is a small matter and can 
 be readily overcome." 
 
 "Aren t you contented here?" Mrs. Perkins 
 asked quickly, turning to Margaret. "You know 
 we will do anything for you anything." 
 
 Margaret siezed both her hands and clasped 
 them to her breast, then raised them to her lips 
 while her eyes glistened: "I have never been so 
 happy. Not in all my life. Oh, you are so dear 
 and kind! How shall I ever thank you for all 
 you ve done for me!" 
 
364 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "We can not possibly add to the sense of grati 
 tude beneath which we are already struggling," 
 Geoff interposed. He spoke coldly and insolently. 
 He wished to stop this burst of sentiment or else 
 it might go to dangerous lengths. He succeeded 
 in mortally offending Perkins, who said hotly and 
 with the bottled-up acrimony of many days in 
 his tones : 
 
 "Why do you cut in when my mother and Mar 
 garet are talking! You are always cutting in 
 where you haven t any right to." 
 
 This outburst quieted things down for the mo 
 ment and no more was said about Madame Den- 
 nee s plans for the future, but in two minds at 
 least the thought of her pending departure was 
 uppermost. 
 
 When Geoff quitted the library a few minutes 
 later, Mrs. Perkins, excusing herself to Margaret, 
 followed promptly in his wake, and at once re 
 turned to the charge with unabated zeal. 
 
 "Are you going to take that child there and 
 selfishly jeopardize her health? Are you? An 
 
 swer me." 
 
 "That s exactly what I am going to do, my dear 
 Mrs. Perkins, and the sooner the better, if you 
 will allow me to say so." 
 
 "Then," said Mrs. Perkins, "you are the most 
 contemptible the most thoroughly contemptible 
 of living creatures! That s what I think of you, 
 and I am the easier for having said it!" 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 365 
 
 "Don t you think, my dear Mrs. Perkins, that 
 you rather strain the case?" Geoff retorted. 
 "After all, one s own business is about the only 
 business one should undertake." 
 
 Mrs. Perkins flushed, but she put a check upon 
 herself. "I positively decline to quarrel with you. 
 I don t, for I see through you. I won t quarrel 
 no matter what you do and you needn t try to 
 make me." 
 
 "Your conception of what constitutes incom 
 patibility would prove entertaining," Geoff re 
 plied. "I have the impression that that stage of 
 disagreement has already been reached. The 
 only course open for my sister is to leave." 
 
 Mrs. Perkins fairly gasped at the deftness with 
 which he made their dislike of him embrace Mar 
 garet as well, but being of an emotional tempera 
 ment she trusted herself to speak no further and 
 retired to her own rooms where she could weep 
 in solitude. 
 
 And so it was decided that Margaret should 
 leave the Perkinses. 
 
 When the day came and it came quickly, as 
 Geoff s patience was all but exhausted she 
 wept as she passed out through the wide doors 
 that had opened so hospitably to receive her. 
 
 "We shall see a great deal of each other, shall 
 we not?" she said to Mrs. Perkins. "You will 
 come to me whenever you can? I fear the cold 
 will keep me somewhat confined, but you won t 
 
666 THE HAND OK THE MIGHTY 
 
 mind it as I shall, and you will come often to 
 see me?" 
 
 Perkins and his mother went down to see that 
 she was properly installed in her home, and then 
 sadly took their leave of her just as the night 
 came on. Geoff, being inordinately elated by his 
 success, was absent, celebrating his victory in a 
 spree. 
 
 In spite of the fires and a superheated furnace 
 below stairs, the house had a musty odor and the 
 big rooms held a damp chill that could not be 
 warmed out of them. 
 
 Finally Geoff came in, with unsteady step and 
 bloodshot eyes, to add what he could to the load 
 resting on the poor little shoulders, which for 
 years had been so weighted down with care and 
 weariness. He found her lonely, miserable and in 
 tears. This exhibition of weakness, as he termed 
 it, he took in very bad part. 
 
 The initial dinner was a meal long remembered, 
 with Geoff, stupid and maudlin from too much 
 drink, constantly going to sleep and as constantly 
 waking to growl his complaints. 
 
 When it was finished, he took himself from his 
 sister s sight, while Margaret waited for Perkins 
 and Franz to come as they had said they would. 
 
 Eight o clock brought them and the evening 
 was passed pleasantly enough. 
 
 Madame Dennee had been suffering from a 
 cold for some days, and the next morning she was 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 367 
 
 quite ill. Her brother took no notice of this, and 
 for several days did nothing but press forward 
 to the goal at which he aimed. He pursued his 
 former tactics with the utmost industry, seeing 
 that his sister never had a moment alone with her 
 friends; and wishing to discourage their devotion, 
 was aggressive and rude to such an extent that 
 Philip made just one call on Margaret and then 
 in unmistakable language announced his intention 
 of not repeating the experiment. 
 
 "I don t intend to walk half-way across the 
 town simply for the delirious joy of letting that 
 fellow insult me!" And he kept to his word. 
 
 To be sure, with Perkins and Franz, it was 
 different. They were blind to affronts and proof 
 against the insufferable. For Margaret s sake 
 they were willing to endure the unendurable, but 
 the ordeal was too much for them to live down 
 without an inward revolt at least. 
 
 Franz became habitually morose and sullen. 
 Perkins waxed shockingly profane and his mother 
 spent most of her time on the verge of tears; 
 and all this while Margaret s condition grew 
 rapidly worse. 
 
 When brother and sister were alone it was the 
 eternal harping on the one theme. Geoff wished 
 her to go East with him anywhere. He gave 
 her no peace. Morning, noon and night, he stuck 
 to the dreary round of argument and objection. 
 
 This continued for a week. Margaret s cold 
 
368 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 developed into an alarming cough. She was con 
 fined to her room and could see no one but Mrs. 
 Perkins and Russell. 
 
 Having space for deliberation, Perkins was 
 seized with a brilliant conception: a project that 
 anticipated nothing less than the getting of Geoff 
 drunk and starting him on what Perkins called 
 "a protracted spree." 
 
 He reasoned that a man of his cousin s inclina 
 tions could only hold up so far in combating the 
 unholy charms of a properly presented tempta 
 tion. 
 
 But Perkins was not called upon to assume the 
 tempter s role. Geoff accomplished his downfall 
 himself. 
 
 There was one fatal quality in all his plotting. 
 He invariably gave out before the final blow 
 was dealt. 
 
 He now exemplified this by going away when 
 there was most cause for his remaining. He 
 could not stand the quiet longer. He would have 
 one bout, he told himself, just one. When it 
 was over with he would return and Margaret 
 should go with him where he pleased. He felt 
 almost safe in leaving: she was so ill. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 369 
 
 "Then," said Philip shortly, "if I understand 
 you aright, you wish me to discontinue my 
 visits?" 
 
 Mr. Gerard was rather taken aback by the di 
 rectness with which Philip put it. To be sure 
 that was what it amounted to, but "You see, 
 you keep other men at a distance : you take up 
 most of the leisure she has to devote to society. 
 I don t mean to be hard. I trust you appreciate 
 the delicacy of my position the peculiarity of it. 
 I want to be fair to you and at the same time 
 just to Barbara. It occurs to me that I can only 
 
 accomplish this by having you " He was very 
 
 much mixed very red and very miserable. 
 
 The cause of all his annoyance stood before 
 him cool and collected, but it was the calm of 
 desperation. 
 
 The comfort of knowing this was, however, de 
 nied to Mr. Gerard. He took up the tangled 
 thread of his discourse. "My dear boy, you must 
 know I don t want to seem hard" getting a fresh 
 start "I don t want to interfere with your happi 
 ness, but where my daughter is concerned I must 
 be just. I can t be remiss in my duty there. Now 
 I leave it to you to your sense of fairness. You 
 know what I think do what you consider right." 
 
 "I suppose you can not understand just how I 
 got rid of my money," Philip said grimly. 
 
370 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "I confess I can t," Mr. Gerard replied ner 
 vously. "Your admission has been a great sur 
 prise to me. It was only a month or so ago that 
 you had quite a large sum saved and now you in 
 form me it s all gone, and you don t tell me 
 where." 
 
 "I can not, Mr. Gerard." 
 
 "Of course of course. That is your business. 
 I appreciate that I ask for no explanation 
 and I do like your frankness in coming to me at 
 once," but there was small favor in the glance 
 he bestowed upon Philip. "If it s gone why 
 " he came to a stop again. 
 
 "It is gone. Every penny of it." Philip said 
 relentlessly. 
 
 "It s very unusual, very." 
 
 "And you had rather I slow up on my visits?" 
 
 "I leave it entirely with you, as I said before. 
 I don t understand and I am not satisfied. I 
 really it may be as well for you to keep away. 
 But do whatever you think proper." 
 
 "You put it to me in such shape that there is 
 just one thing I can do, and that is keep away 
 and stay away." 
 
 "My dear boy, I " 
 
 Philip cut him short by turning on his heel. 
 "You have no objection to my calling this after 
 noon?" 
 
 "Oh, no. Not at all. It s right that you 
 should." 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 371 
 
 "Thank you," said Philip, and took himself off, 
 leaving Mr. Gerard puffing and agitated in the 
 door of his office. 
 
 Philip was glad that he had carried off the 
 honors of the interview where calmness and dis- 
 passion were involved, but he knew that the tri 
 umph was a small one, and that Mr. Gerard s 
 turn would come later, when he himself could 
 but compress his lips and suffer. 
 
 He was thinking of this and bitter revolt was 
 in his heart when he presented himself to Bar 
 bara. His face told plainly what he felt. Indeed, 
 it was so apparent that she silently followed him 
 into the parlor. 
 
 He threw his hat down upon a chair and stood 
 in the center of the room looking at her, wonder 
 ing how it would be possible to exist, deprived 
 of her companionship. 
 
 "What is it, Philip? Why don t you tell me?" 
 she at last found courage to ask. 
 
 "It s what I have known would happen all 
 along. Your father " 
 
 "What has my father done?" she interrupted 
 him. 
 
 "He has told me I must stop coming here." 
 
 Barbara s eyes blazed. Her diminutive figure 
 was drawn wrathfully up to its fullest height. 
 "Has he dared to do that has he dared!" 
 
 "I felt in honor bound to tell him I had been 
 compelled to spend my sa\ings. He said he was 
 
372 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 very kind that a continuation of my attentions 
 would compromise you, and since my future was 
 very uncertain " 
 
 "My life is mine it belongs to me !" she inter 
 posed. "And if I choose to give it to you, it s 
 mine to give. I know what I need better than 
 he does." 
 
 "I wish I could have told him how the money 
 went. He evidently attributes my poverty to 
 wild and reckless extravagance. I could see it 
 completely finished me off in his estimation. I 
 wish I could have told but I couldn t. I can t 
 even tell you." 
 
 "It s nobody s affair but your own, and if we 
 are satisfied I don t see what it is to him." 
 
 "Just the same, Barbara, he has made it his 
 affair. He is your father, and it is his privilege." 
 
 Her little foot tapped the floor angrily. His 
 submission offended her. 
 
 "It s all right, Barbara." 
 
 "It s not all right," she burst out. "Is it all 
 right that our happiness should be wrecked?" 
 
 "I don t say that. I refer to his requesting me 
 to cease coming here. He evidently regards me 
 as not the proper sort of person." 
 
 "What are you going to do?" 
 
 "There is but one thing I can do." 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 "Respect his wishes." 
 
 "If you do, what is going to become of me?" 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 373 
 
 Philip put his hand to his aching head. That 
 was more than he could tell. He had thought of 
 it, too. His personal pain and anxiety gave him 
 no concern. He had become accustomed to it, but 
 it would be so hard for her. She had not his 
 training in disappointment. What could he do? 
 
 "What will become of me?" she repeated, with 
 tears in her eyes. 
 
 "As soon as I have the money it will be as it 
 was before. The separation will be but tempor 
 ary unless you forget me." 
 
 "I shall never forget you. I love you." 
 
 "Then as soon as I succeed even partially, I 
 shall come back to you. I shall work so hard, it 
 shan t be for long. I will succeed." And he set 
 his teeth. "I know I shall and it will be no ordi 
 nary success when it does come. You have faith 
 in me?" 
 
 "Yes! yes! but that s so far off! Think of the 
 time we have already waited." 
 
 "I know, dear, but I am making every effort. 
 I know, too, that despite all his efforts a man 
 may fail absolutely and through no fault of 
 his own. He may get down and never rise, 
 though he struggle ever so hard. There is a sav 
 age remorseless quality to life, a cruel indiffer 
 ence to work and worth. This risk we are com 
 pelled to take. In any business or profession it 
 would be the same. It does not apply alone to 
 one who thinks he can write " 
 
374 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 He was striding back and forth across the 
 room. "Yet I can t bring myself to believe that 
 I am to be one of the failures, all I want is time 
 time! I know I can do so much. You must have 
 faith in me, Barbara!" 
 
 "It has been so long," she said sadly, going to 
 his side and clasping both her hands about his 
 arm, "and I am afraid. I don t quite know of 
 what but I am afraid." 
 
 "Can t you be brave just a little longer just 
 a little longer?" 
 
 "I try to be I really do, but " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "I am afraid he wants me to marry Mr. Shel- 
 den. He does not say so, but I know." And she 
 began to cry again, clinging to Philip the while. 
 "I know it! I know it! and unless you save me 
 I shall be forced into it. I can t stand black 
 looks and constant coercion. I shall yield. I 
 know I shall, and my whole life will be ruined." 
 
 "So that s it, is it?" Philip s voice was hoarse 
 and dry. "So that s it? That s what it signifies? 
 He wants to get me out of the road, does he?" 
 And after a brief pause: "Do you like him in the 
 least, Barbara?" 
 
 "I hate him." 
 
 "He has money and all that sort of thing." 
 
 "It s nothing to me. I can only care for you." 
 
 "Has your father made any positive statement 
 of his preference, Barbara?" 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 375 
 
 She shook her head. "Of course he does not 
 speak of it, but I know." 
 
 "Well, I ll go in for work harder than ever, 
 dear we need not despair, for we are sure of each 
 other." 
 
 "But but if I don t see you " 
 
 "Can t you keep your love alive and not see 
 me?" 
 
 "I suppose so, but you are so different from me. 
 You don t feel the same." 
 
 "I feel with my whole soul, Barbara. Can I do 
 more?" 
 
 "It breaks my heart to think I am not to see 
 you." She glanced up into his face. "Not to see 
 you at all why how shall I manage to endure 
 it?" Her eyes grew wide, filled with a pathetic grief 
 that made him desperate. "And now scarcely a 
 day passes, that I do not catch a glimpse of you." 
 
 "It can t be for long, Barbara." 
 
 "It may be forever." This was said in a stifled 
 voice. 
 
 "It s not as if I were going away not as if I 
 were to leave the town. We shall see each other 
 constantly." 
 
 "It s worse than if you were going away. It s 
 a great deal worse. Then I could make up my 
 mind to it and could, I suppose, bear it somehow." 
 
 "Dear," he spoke softly, "dearest, please look 
 up. I want to talk to you. Can t you listen to me? 
 Please, dear, it s not so bad. It might be worse." 
 
376 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "It s bad enough!" without lifting her head 
 from where it rested upon his arm. "It couldn t 
 be worse. I couldn t suffer more." 
 
 "Can t you be hopeful? Can t you try?" 
 
 "I do try." 
 
 "It is coming nearer all the while. I am making 
 money I shall make more. Don t you believe 
 in my ability?" 
 
 "It s not that. I am confident of the future, but 
 the present is so horrible, with all manner of 
 doubt. Do you," looking up and letting her glance 
 meet his for a moment, "do you honestly think 
 it will ever be as we hope?" 
 
 "Yes. It can not be otherwise. It only means 
 patience only a little waiting." 
 
 "Tell me what papa said." 
 
 "He asked me to stop coming here until such 
 time as I am in a position to be accepted form 
 ally as your intended husband." 
 
 "And when will that be?" shaking her head. 
 
 "It can t be so very far off and it comes closer 
 with every day. If I could only give you some 
 of my hope if I only could!" 
 
 "You do but " 
 
 "I do, but it fails in its mission." 
 
 "Tell me what he said." 
 
 "It all amounted to this. I must forego the 
 pleasure of seeing you, except very infrequently." 
 
 "Is it good-by you are saying to me? Is it? 
 Is it?" 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 377 
 
 "I fear it is. You must forgive me, but I have 
 to show some little pride, and there is but one 
 course open to me. It s not choice, but necessity 
 that influences me in my decision." 
 
 "Does he want to make me hate him! I shall." 
 
 She gave way utterly to her emotions and 
 Philip did the best he could to soothe her as she 
 stood within the protecting circle of his arms. 
 
 "I have exhausted my patience. I am tired 
 tired. How do I know it will ever come. It has 
 been years already," she said at last. 
 
 "It is no more doubtful than anything else 
 would be. I am putting forth all my energy." 
 
 "I am tired. I am tired." 
 
 "I have this to reproach myself with. I thought 
 in the beginning success would come sooner. I 
 have kept on and on, and now I am as far from 
 it as ever. It has been four years, Barbara, four 
 years. I am so sorry, dear, so sorry." 
 
 "If you go I shall never see you again. Some 
 thing will happen. I shall be driven into some 
 thing dreadful. I shall be at papa s mercy, and I 
 haven t any strength of character. He can do 
 what he likes when you are gone, and I shall 
 give in. I always do." 
 
 Her whole attitude was one of weak complaint. 
 It was fast forcing Philip to the verge of mad 
 ness. As if she divined what his thoughts were, 
 she said: "You don t respect me. You think I 
 don t amount to anything." 
 
378 THE HAND OK THE MIGHTY 
 
 "I love you!" he said gravely. "And now I 
 must go/ 
 
 "You are not going! not yet! not yet!" 
 
 "I shall write you every day when I don t hap 
 pen to see you, so you will know how I get on." 
 
 "Yes! yes! but are you going?" 
 
 "I must go sometime and it s better over with. 
 We shall write each other and we shall meet quite 
 often at various places. I shall go where I know 
 you will be." 
 
 She was crying violently. 
 
 "You must not leave me! You must not, 
 Philip!" 
 
 But he moved slowly to the door. 
 
 "I can t tell you how hard I shall work. Just 
 be brave and good as you have been from the 
 start and it will come out all right." 
 
 "I can t wait forever and I need you now." 
 
 "You will have to, dearest." 
 
 "Doesn t it make you furious?" 
 
 "What, Barbara?" 
 
 "Furious, that he can interfere with us. It s 
 our life our love. We only ask to be left alone. 
 Oh I can t bear it!" 
 
 "I m afraid we must bear it for a while. We 
 won t be altogether separated we will see each 
 other now and then!" 
 
 "No! no! what will such meetings be with 
 people about people who will stare at us with 
 silly senseless curiosity!" 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 379 
 
 "Good-by for the present, dear for to-day." 
 
 "No no!" 
 
 "We shall meet often. Try to think of that." 
 
 "I am not brave and I invariably give in. He 
 knows it. I shall have no peace if you go like 
 this. Promise me you will come back!" 
 
 "I can not, Barbara." 
 
 "Then the blame for whatever follows falls 
 on you. You go willingly." 
 
 "You are unjust." 
 
 "You go willingly," she insisted. "You desert 
 me. You leave me for him to torture into doing 
 what he wants! Is it nothing to you?" 
 
 "I love you," he answered simply. 
 
 "And if we drift apart?" 
 
 "I don t know what you mean. How can we 
 drift apart?" 
 
 "People do." 
 
 "Are we like them?" 
 
 "Are we?" 
 
 "I thought we were not," he said. 
 
 "Why should you think that?" she answered. 
 
 "I don t know. Perhaps we are the same as 
 the rest. Perhaps I only imagine the difference." 
 
 "You are going?" she said in alarm as he moved 
 toward the door. 
 
 "Yes, Barbara." 
 
 But Barbara threw herself down into a chair 
 and commenced to cry afresh. This drew Philip 
 back to her side in an instant. 
 
380 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Won t you say good-by, Barbara, just for the 
 present? Won t you say good-by, dear?" He 
 sought to remove the hand she held before her 
 face. 
 
 She gave him no answer and he turned from 
 her, at first irresolute and then with more deci 
 sion, for his mind was made up. After all, her 
 sense of resentment would lighten her grief for 
 the moment. It would be easier to bear because 
 of it. 
 
 He stepped into the hall, the door closed, and 
 Barbara heard his footsteps growing fainter. He 
 was gone ! 
 
 Curled up in the easy chair she sobbed out her 
 sorrow and anger, for it was a mingling of both. 
 At last she raised her head and looked about. 
 She was still sobbing brokenly. 
 
 Suddenly she sat erect. It was growing late. 
 She remembered that her father was to bring 
 Mr. Shelden home with him to tea. 
 
 "I hate him!" she thought. "I hate everybody, 
 but I shall have to see him and be agreeable, and 
 I suppose I look like a perfect fright with my 
 eyes all red. Of course while he is here, I shall 
 have to pretend that I am enjoying myself, and 
 my head hurts and I am miserable. I want 
 Philip, and no one else !" 
 
 In proof of which she commenced to weep. 
 
 And so for an hour or more she lay curled up 
 in the chair, a doleful little heap. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 381 
 
 XI 
 
 "I told them they must have a doctor/ Per 
 kins explained to Franz, "and in spite of my 
 mother s objections I called one in. Mother has 
 been dosing her for a week now." 
 
 Young Perkins and his mother practically lived 
 with Margaret, now that Geoff was gone, and it 
 was on the second day of their installment as 
 members of her household, when Perkins, as 
 serting himself in defiance of the paternal man 
 date, announced his intention of summoning a 
 physician "Right off, and with no more depend 
 ence on luck," by which it is to be inferred that 
 his mother s remedies did not inspire him with 
 much confidence. 
 
 "He is with her?" Franz inquired, having just 
 come in. 
 
 "Yes, if it hadn t been for my interference, I 
 am certain my mother would have kept on 
 dosing Margaret with her nasty home-made con 
 coctions until doomsday. Poor Margaret would 
 never have rebelled : she would have swallowed 
 the stuff until it killed her rather than wound my 
 mother by showing lack of faith." 
 
 At this juncture they were joined by the doctor, 
 a gray puffy man, reeking of stale tobacco smoke 
 and staler drugs, who took the ills flesh is heir to 
 as a personal grievance. 
 
382 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Well?" Perkins interrogated him. 
 
 The doctor emitted a sound that could have 
 been either a grunt or groan: "It won t do," he 
 said gloomily; "she must be sent South. She 
 has not the stamina for this climate. It s using 
 her up. Unless something is done she will not 
 live through the winter, I ll stake my reputation." 
 
 "Then she should go to Florida?" Perkins ques 
 tioned. 
 
 "I said she must be sent South, if you are 
 interested in keeping her alive and I suppose 
 you are." 
 
 "Good lord, yes!" Perkins gasped. 
 
 "I don t say her illness is critical at its present 
 stage, but if you are going to do what I recom 
 mend, don t put it off. I don t want to be blamed. 
 Good night." 
 
 He snorted angrily at the inoffensive Perkins, 
 picked up his hat and medicine-case and departed, 
 leaving the young men staring apprehensively at 
 each other. 
 
 Perkins jerked his head in the direction the 
 doctor had gone. "He s a confounded fool ! 
 That s what he is. If he had waited a minute, I d 
 have said so. He doesn t have to scare us to 
 death." 
 
 Franz was busy with his thoughts. How could 
 she go and how could she stay threatened by 
 danger? The problem swung between the two 
 alternatives and refused to be solved. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 383 
 
 Suddenly Perkins cried joyously: "I ve got it, 
 Franz ! You must marry her right off and take 
 her South yourself otherwise she will be left to 
 the mercy of her brother. You love her, I know 
 all about it, old fellow. I saw it by accident and I 
 take just stacks of interest in you young people. * 
 
 He put his hand on Franz s shoulder. His de 
 meanor was both patronizing and affectionate. 
 He looked as cupid might, grown to sturdy man 
 hood, so thrilled was he by his purpose. 
 
 "If you are the least diffident, I ll adjust it. I d 
 dearly love to, and won t it be a jolly little earth 
 quake for Mr. Geoffrey Ballard, won t it?" And 
 he hopped around gleefully, proving there can be 
 two good and sufficient reasons for a man s acts, 
 namely to please himself, and to annoy his fel 
 low: and who shall determine which is sweeter? 
 
 Franz had felt his heart leap at the suggestion, 
 but what would Margaret say? 
 
 Perkins plunged ahead vigorously: "What will 
 you do; will you wait for Geoff to come and spoil 
 it all?" 
 
 Before Franz could answer Margaret herself 
 entered the room, accompanied by Mrs. Perkins. 
 Instinctively they turned to her. Never had she 
 looked so slight and fragile. 
 
 With an anxious throb of his heart Franz started 
 toward her with outstretched hands. Perkins was 
 no fool. He stepped into the hall, motioning his 
 mother to follow. Then he shut the door, re- 
 
384 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 marking: "I guess they would appreciate being by 
 themselves," and he winked with peculiar em 
 phasis. 
 
 Left with Margaret, Franz arranged a chair 
 for her. She watched his rather clumsy placing 
 of wraps and pillows with an amused smile. 
 
 "You will make a baby of me, and I shall be a 
 bother always," she said. She was pathetically 
 grateful for the slightest display of love or de 
 votion. 
 
 "How do you feel, Margaret?" Franz asked. 
 
 Margaret reclined languidly in her seat. The 
 excitement of getting down-stairs had passed and 
 she felt tired and weak. 
 
 "Tell me about yourself, Franz," she said. "I 
 haven t seen you in days. To-night I insisted 
 that they should let me dress, I wished to see you 
 so much." 
 
 "What did the doctor tell you, Margaret?" 
 
 "That I must go South, but" hastily "I can 
 not do that I can not leave you !" 
 
 "But, if it is for the best, dear?" 
 
 "Surely it can not be best for me to be cut off 
 from my friends, when they are so few " She 
 spoke in a frightened voice, as if appalled at the 
 idea. "I should simply die of loneliness." She 
 glanced up at him appealingly, her lips quivering. 
 "You would not have me go, would you, Franz? 
 I am such a coward. What would become of me, 
 without you?" 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 385 
 
 "I shall go with you, Margaret, if I may," he 
 said softly. "It all rests with you, dear. The 
 grief of your going, if you went alone, would be 
 quite as hard for me to bear as for you." 
 
 For a space she was silent, then her reserve 
 gave way entirely. 
 
 "If I go, Franz, it must be with you. I can 
 not leave myself open to my brother s persecutions 
 I can not endure them! The doctor said but 
 he told you, too?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I wish to live" clasping and unclasping her 
 hands nervously. "I never before minded what 
 happened to me, life is so hard but your love 
 has changed everything. I wish to live for your 
 sake not for mine." 
 
 "Are you willing to trust yourself to me?" 
 Franz gently interposed. 
 
 Margaret s head half rested on the chair-back, 
 half upon his shoulder. Her eyes were closed 
 and the hands he held within his own burned 
 feverishly. At last she whispered: 
 
 "Take me with you. It is best we go together. 
 I am sick sick and he is killing me. If you 
 would have me, you must take me now. . . ." 
 
 The next day as Philip was at work, Franz en 
 tered his room unannounced. Seeing who it was, 
 Philip put down his pen, turning from the pile of 
 manuscript over which he had been toiling. 
 
 "Are you busy, Philip?" Franz asked. 
 
386 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Not very. Why?" 
 
 "Because I should like a moment s talk with 
 you." 
 
 Philip nodded. 
 
 "Just knock those books off a corner of the 
 bed and sit down dump them on the floor. What 
 is it, old fellow?" 
 
 Franz, having complied with the suggestion, 
 said: "You know that Margaret is ill?" 
 
 "I knew she had a cold. I hope it s not seri 
 ous." 
 
 "Her physician advises that she spend the re 
 mainder of the winter in the South. This she will 
 do as soon as she recovers sufficiently." 
 
 Again Philip nodded. 
 
 "It s very unexpected, isn t it? I should con 
 sider it risky." 
 
 "She is not to go alone." 
 
 "Oh, I presume Mrs. Perkins is to go with 
 her?" 
 
 "It would not be paying much of a compliment 
 to your intelligence if I thought to surprise you 
 by saying that I love Margaret." 
 
 "Precious little," Philip admitted laconically. 
 
 "Well, I shall surprise you. We are to be 
 married immediately. The situation is so grave 
 as to permit of no delay. Her health and the 
 probable reappearance of her brother make it 
 necessary." 
 
 "Bless me I I never figured on this." Philip 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 387 
 
 looked his amazement. "What will you do then, 
 Franz?" 
 
 "When she is able to travel, I suppose it means 
 Florida, or the Bermudas." 
 
 Philip had risen and gathered himself together 
 while making the circuit of the room. 
 
 "I declare, I didn t congratulate you, did I ? 
 To be sure, old fellow, the thought of losing you 
 is not agreeable." 
 
 "If you will, Philip, you can be of great service 
 to me." 
 
 "I was about to volunteer," said Philip heartily, 
 "but you swept me squarely off my feet." 
 
 On the authority of Perkins "It was a mighty 
 jolly wedding." 
 
 The ceremony was performed in Margaret s 
 own room and during its progress she lay upon 
 a lounge, looking as fair as the lilies-of-the-valley 
 in her hands, which Perkins had given her, after 
 liberally bedewing them with his tears dropped 
 in sentimental secrecy. 
 
 The sun was sinking far across the white fields, 
 and the gold of its dying flames stole in through 
 the windows, lighting up the room, as Franz, 
 standing at Margaret s side, gave her his name 
 and the protection of his love. 
 
 Mrs. Perkins and Franz s mother wept profusely, 
 and Perkins disgraced himself in his own estima- 
 
388 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 tion by sobbing aloud in stifled tones he vainly 
 sought to suppress on peril of choking. He finally 
 retreated to the hall, where he encountered Rus 
 sell with a limp handkerchief "making an ass 
 of herself, too." 
 
 A little later Philip drew the curtains in front of 
 the windows to exclude the darkening sky and 
 Perkins said, "When you get screwed up to 
 it a wedding is really more festive than a funeral, 
 though they seem to have much in common. 
 Now I am in a measure familiar with the ordeal, 
 I venture to predict this has been the most bliss 
 ful day I shall ever know when one of my dear 
 est friends is married to another of my dearest 
 friends." 
 
 Here he had difficulty with his words. 
 
 "Doubtless you all think me a driveling idiot, 
 but I feel like I don t know r what and I can t 
 really help it." 
 
 Everybody laughed at this and Philip shook 
 hands with him, saying he was the finest fellow 
 in the world, while Margaret bestowed upon him 
 a generous share of her bouquet. The gift bore 
 with it a grateful little speech that caused him to 
 weep afresh. 
 
 It was very late, indeed, when they separated. 
 
 "I assure yon," Perkins informed Philip when 
 they had reached the Perkins home, "I assure 
 you, it has been the most satisfactory event in 
 my life, and it s a source of stupendous joy for 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 389 
 
 me to reflect that my dear cousin Geoff is des 
 tined to undergo a severe mental shock in con 
 sequence. I think I am entitled to all the com 
 fort I can get." 
 
 Philip smiled appreciatively. 
 
 "What a funny little fellow you are ! Such a 
 good chap, too," he added. 
 
 "Well, I am glad she has Franz to look after 
 her, and he will have the means to go on with 
 his studies," continued Perkins. 
 
 "He is fortunate," Philip replied. "We so sel 
 dom get what we want generally it s what we 
 don t want that comes to us." 
 
 Perkins looked at him curiously, his head well 
 to one side and his chubby hands buried in the 
 depths of his trousers pockets. 
 
 "I say what s up? Aren t you happy?" 
 
 "I am blue, and not so decent as I should be. 
 I am always and everlastingly thinking of myself. 
 I am wretched but you know what s wrong with 
 me, so don t discuss it. I can t stand it." 
 
 "As you prefer, Philip. Still, don t you believe 
 it will be all right in the end?" 
 
 "It s not the future that troubles me. It s 
 what may occur while I am flat on my back. I 
 am fairly desperate!" 
 
 Perkins gazed at him sorrowfully. Philip 
 added: 
 
 "I can t seem very generous to you when I flop 
 into the dumps on no greater provocation than 
 
390 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 seeing those who are contented and at peace. 
 My nature is not sweetened by adversity, it s be 
 ing pickled in it." He struck the floor savagely 
 with the heel of his shoe. "I feel like running off 
 from everything, and if I could include my miser 
 able self among what I left behind, I d not re 
 main undecided/ 
 
 "I hope you won t go any place, Philip !" Per 
 kins said in alarm. "What the dickens will be 
 come of me? It will be absolutely forsaken 
 when Franz and Margaret go." 
 
 "You will see all you want of me. I shall un 
 questionably stay for a time at least." 
 
 "Why have you been actually thinking of 
 leaving?" 
 
 Philip smiled grimly. 
 
 "Don t distress yourself; you can safely depend 
 on having all you desire of my cheerful company. 
 And now if you ll help me into my overcoat, I ll 
 start home." 
 
 No sooner was Philip gone than Perkins took 
 from his waistcoat pocket, where he had secreted 
 them, the lilies-of-the-valley Margaret had given him. 
 As he gazed at them a telltale moisture mounted 
 to his eyes. He could only shake his head mourn 
 fully and deposit them again not next his heart 
 but near an equally important organ and one 
 he knew more of, even though he was in doubt as to 
 its exact location. 
 
 Poor Perkins! He was learning that a clisin- 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 391 
 
 terested love has its griefs. It s not unmitigated 
 bliss to witness another s rapture. 
 
 XII 
 
 Time jogged forward. The year grew to its 
 fullest age and died the old giving birth to the 
 new, and as the days went on Philip worked at 
 his task, worked and struggled with what courage 
 he could find. 
 
 He had at first seen Barbara quite often, but 
 the frequency of their meetings gradually lessened. 
 This, he knew, was the result of her father s 
 interference. 
 
 Had his ears been open to the current gossip 
 of the town, he might have been shocked by a 
 rumor that even his mother forbore to tell him. 
 He toiled away through the days, running his 
 race with chance and fate, and when hope was 
 once more beginning to burn within him, the blow 
 fell. Spread out on the table before him was her 
 letter. For the hundredth time he read it. 
 
 "You will hate me, but I told you how it would 
 be. My father is determined that I marry Mr. 
 Shelden. He is determined, and I have decided 
 to do as he wishes. You will despise me, but 
 I have tried to be hopeful and true to you 
 I have tried so hard, so very hard, Philip. I 
 can only see that the future is doubtful and un 
 certain. Perhaps it is best as it is. If you achieve 
 
392 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 the success you deserve, I am unworthy to enjoy 
 it with you. If you fail you know I am not 
 suited to poverty. 1 believe in your goodness, in 
 your generosity, most firmly, as I have from the 
 start, and 1 feel it will comfort you, when I say 
 that the thought of marrying Mr. Shelden does 
 not distress me in the least. I am not altogether 
 unhappy that I am so soon to be his wife." 
 
 Again and again Philip read it, until the words 
 were jumbled together in meaningless confusion. 
 
 "No, she is not entirely unhappy I can see 
 that," he thought. "What will she gain? A house 
 on the best street; a man twice her age, and her 
 father s blessing. Bah! It isn t much, though 
 it counts for more than I." 
 
 He turned and gazed out of the window. How 
 many times he had done so when his day s work 
 was finished and he was happy, tired, satisfied. He 
 was looking on a different world a world he had 
 never viewed before. The coldness was only cold. 
 There was no contrasting thought of warmth and 
 cheer. It was bleak and lonely only that! 
 
 He raised the letter to his lips suddenly and 
 kissed it. 
 
 "I loved her!" he thought. "I still love her 
 and I hope she is happy." He drew forward a 
 sheet of note-paper, took up his pen, and dipping 
 it in the ink, began to write an answer to her 
 letter his farewell to her and love, and the hope 
 born and created of love. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 393 
 
 When the letter was written, he put her letter 
 the last he should ever receive with others of 
 hers that he had kept. 
 
 "When she is his wife, I shall burn them/ he 
 muttered. "Till then, I shall keep them here. It 
 can do no harm." 
 
 He marveled how he got through the days that 
 followed. They came and found him, unable to 
 w r rite, wretched, but so composed his mother 
 imagined his grief less than it was. But he was 
 madly restless. There was no peace for him save 
 in movement. Night after night he tramped the 
 streets. Day after day, with a gun on his shoul 
 der, he roamed the woods, about the town and 
 by the river. The gun served for an excuse. It 
 was never fired. In fact it was never even loaded. 
 
 He could not work and work was usually his 
 refuge in periods of distress. Now it was 
 changed. He could only await the day she would 
 marry Shelden. 
 
 "When it is over with it will be the same as if 
 I had not loved her/* he assured himself. 
 
 One afternoon as he was going toward his 
 home, he came on Geoffrey Ballard face to face. 
 Not the splendid creature to whom he had been 
 accustomed, but Geoff, the seedy and disreput 
 able. 
 
 Geoff had just arrived. He had been wandering 
 through back streets and alleyways for an hour 
 or more, waiting until the darkness of evening 
 
394 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 should settle down that he might slink unob 
 served into his sister s presence and demand 
 money sufficient to make himself presentable. 
 
 There was a moment of defiant silence on the 
 part of the prodigal met by a contemptuous in 
 difference from Philip. Then Geoff spoke: 
 
 "I am glad to see you, Mr. Southard." 
 
 "Are you? Well, you don t look it." 
 
 Geoff would have passed, but Philip detained 
 him. 
 
 "Hold on! I have something to tell you." 
 Geoff came to a stand. "Have you heard from 
 your sister during your absence? If you haven t 
 there is a surprise in store for you. She has 
 been dangerously ill and she is married to Becker. 
 That was two or three weeks ago. They are 
 preparing to go South, as soon as she is able to 
 take the journey. Hold on!" but Geoff moved 
 rapidly away. 
 
 His sister married and to the German! It 
 put all other considerations out of his mind. 
 
 Perhaps Philip had lied. This was the meager 
 hope with which he endeavored to sustain him 
 self. He entered the house, and brushing past 
 Russell, whom he encountered on the stairs, ran 
 tip to his sister s room. She was in bed and 
 alone. 
 
 "Geoff!" she cried in alarm. 
 
 His face was purple with rage; he could not 
 control his voice as he poured forth a volley of 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 395 
 
 incoherent abuse, from which she shrank, fright 
 ened and shuddering. 
 
 "Is it so? Are you married?" He was a trifle 
 calmer when he asked the question. 
 
 "Yes, Geoff." 
 
 She answered steadily, but her cheeks were 
 colorless. She feared him more than she even ad 
 mitted to herself. Still it was well to have it over 
 with. Franz was not by. ... If he would only 
 stay away until Geoff was through was her prayer. 
 
 "This is the advantage you took of my ab 
 sence !" 
 
 "Oh, hush, Geoff," she implored. "He will 
 hear you ! It will be the same as it has always 
 been you have the claim on me you have always 
 had there is no change. I ve only got a little 
 happiness, surely you don t begrudge me that!" 
 Perhaps she appreciated the weakness of her plea, 
 for she continued with dignity. "You forget your 
 self, and what is due me " 
 
 As she spoke, Franz entered. He had caught 
 the sound of Geoff s high-pitched voice in the 
 room below. 
 
 "You don t seem to realize that your sister is 
 ill," he said coldly. For Margaret s sake he was 
 prepared to endure much. "If you have any re 
 proaches to make you must choose another occa 
 sion. She is not in condition to listen to you at 
 present." 
 
 The German s quiet demeanor sobered Geoff 
 
396 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 on the instant. "I have nothing to do with you," 
 he answered sullenly. "You have only done what 
 any man would in your position, I suppose. It 
 was an opportunity and you made the most of 
 it. I am not blaming you, but" turning hotly 
 to the bed where Margaret lay "I blame her 
 for having no better sense than to do a thing like 
 this without consulting me. It was my right, 
 as her brother, to know!" 
 
 "But you were not here," Margaret interposed. 
 She was anxious to draw all the trouble that was 
 brewing upon herself. Geoff s mood boded harm. 
 
 He paid no heed to her. He twirled a cane of 
 flexible rattan he carried between thumb and fore 
 finger, and glared at Becker. Stupidity, anger 
 and partial drunkenness were in the glance. 
 
 "I say to you," Franz began evenly and quietly, 
 "I say to you that your sister is sick, and I insist 
 upon your leaving the room." 
 
 "I have nothing to do with you, Becker, though 
 you did sneak into my place. For a fellow such 
 as you it was a chance not apt to come again." 
 
 Franz flushed scarlet, but he managed to speak 
 without perceptible emotion. "Whatever you 
 may wish to tell your sister must be deferred. 
 This is not the time." 
 
 He deliberately pushed Geoff from the room, 
 closing the door after them. 
 
 In the hall they confronted each other. Franz 
 was sternly self-possessed. He would exercise all 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 397 
 
 the tolerance at his command, at no matter what 
 cost to his pride. 
 
 Within the room they had just quitted, Mar 
 garet lay breathless and listening, but when there 
 penetrated to her ears the echo of Geoff s in 
 sulting speech, she arose with a dizzy aching 
 head and with trembling fingers began to dress. 
 
 The two men were standing at the head of the 
 stairs. Geoff was saying sneeringly: "For a 
 fellow of your stamp you have done well. I can 
 congratulate you even if I can t my sister." 
 
 Franz was silent. He simply looked from un 
 derneath straight brows at his tormentor, biting 
 his lips. 
 
 "You have done a fine thing for yourself. 
 My sister s money will find more uses than ever. 
 Of course, it was the main attraction." 
 
 Still Franz was silent. 
 
 "Why don t you deny the truth of what I say?" 
 Geoff insisted. "Why don t you tell me I lie, 
 you fool?" 
 
 "If you speak to me like that again, I ll not be 
 responsible for what I do," said Franz evenly. 
 
 "I congratulate you you have done a fine 
 thing for yourself. It means ease and plenty." 
 He stretched out his hand mockingly. 
 
 Franz struck the extended hand roughly with 
 his fist. "What you insinuate is a lie! You are 
 a coward to get behind the advantage you have 
 of me a coward!" 
 
398 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 Geoff dropped back a step. With his cane he hit 
 Franz lightly at first, and then made as if to re 
 peat the blow. 
 
 Forgetting everything but his hate for the man 
 before him, Franz put out his hand to take Geoff 
 by the throat. It was then the cane descended, 
 striking him across the temples. Instantly foot 
 and hand alike were stayed. He reeled as though 
 he would fall, putting up both hands to his eyes. 
 
 Geoff saw the door of his sister s room swing 
 open, and turning with an oath from Franz, who 
 stood swaying unsteadily, he ran down the stairs. 
 
 In the hall Franz lurched from side to side, his 
 hands to his face. "Franz," Margaret called, 
 "Franz, dear! what did he do?" 
 
 With staggering uncertain steps he started 
 toward her. 
 
 "Franz!" she called. "Dear Franz! what is it?" 
 
 He gave no answer. He only groped his way 
 nearer, and she saw the cruel red welts just above 
 his eyes. He had come almost to her, when he 
 sank to his knees at her feet. 
 
 "Franz, dear!" she cried, "what is it? Are you 
 hurt, my love? Are you hurt?" 
 
 She put her cool palm against his forehead, 
 and kneeling beside him slipped an arm around 
 his neck. She felt him tremble as though every 
 nerve and muscle in his body were wrenched and 
 torn. 
 
 As she clung to him a chill stole into her own 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 399 
 
 heart. She, too, could only crouch and cower 
 and shudder. 
 
 Finally he spoke in strange hushed accents. 
 "Margaret, I can t see! It is all black black as 
 night in front of me !" 
 
 She pressed close in his arms, and with her 
 little hand she chafed his brow where the red line 
 burned and stung. 
 
 He stood erect once more and slowly turned 
 about as if in quest of something. 
 
 "Margaret, how does the light come? Is it 
 there?" He faced the wall the window at his 
 back. 
 
 She had moved with him, her glance fastened 
 upon his eyes. 
 
 They were fixed in a stony glare. 
 
 "Where is the window?" he asked appealingly. 
 
 She was sobbing now. 
 
 "Margaret, I can t see I am blind blind!" 
 
 He felt her fall lax in his embrace. The sobs 
 ceased abruptly. 
 
 She was unconscious. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Franz knew that Margaret must die. 
 She weakened visibly with the moments that 
 had the single mission to kill. 
 
 He knew but too well what passed before him 
 
400 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 in his darkened world. He knew that since his 
 blindness, she had sunk through stupor to stupor, 
 each to drag her farther and farther from him. 
 
 There were intervals seconds that might have 
 been ages, when she would sit erect and call 
 his name, but there were no conscious periods. 
 
 She was sinking by slow degrees, and the blind 
 man held a dark vigil. 
 
 In the still room the other watchers came and 
 went noiselessly, with the question continually 
 on their lips: "Is she better?" 
 
 During those long days, when it was neither 
 life nor death, Philip came frequently to make 
 his inquiries, to be confronted by the vision of 
 Mrs. Perkins tear-stained countenance or, what 
 was worse to encounter Perkins. 
 
 He would wander in their company aimlessly 
 from room to room, or with them listen at her 
 door, seeing in his fancy Franz sitting, a blind 
 sentinel, counting the minutes that stole up out 
 of the lap of time to bear her away. 
 
 It was the evening of the fourth day. The 
 doctor had just left the sick chamber to be met 
 at the foot of the stairs by the three anxious 
 friends. 
 
 "What are the chances?" Philip asked. 
 
 He shook his head. Then addressing Philip: 
 "It may be well for you to stay here to-night. 
 She is failing rapidly." 
 
 Philip looked at him stupidly. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 401 
 
 Perkins seized the doctor by the shoulder al 
 most savagely: "Why don t you save her?" he 
 demanded. "Why don t you?" 
 
 "I am doing all I can. The cure should have 
 commenced weeks ago. I said then what should 
 be done." 
 
 He pushed past them, glad of the opportunity 
 to escape that their momentary panic afforded; but 
 Philip followed him from the house, and as the 
 doctor turned a lighted match between his fin 
 gers, for he was arranging to make his walk 
 home comfortable with a cigar, Philip said, "Do 
 you mean she will die? Is there no hope?" 
 
 "None whatever." 
 
 "How soon will it be?" Philip questioned with 
 a stolid curiosity which was a source of aston 
 ishment to himself. 
 
 "In an hour or so, I think." 
 
 Philip twice essayed to speak and failed. The 
 doctor puffed reflectively at his cigar. He added: 
 
 "She was never strong, and the shock of Beck 
 er s blindness will prove too much for her. She 
 was in no condition to meet it." 
 
 Philip mopped his brow. It was damp and 
 clammy. Of a sudden he dripped at every pore. 
 
 "What do you mean to do?" he asked. 
 
 "I ll drop in later. I would remain if it wasn t 
 for an old party up on the edge of town who 
 can t last. His folks have sent for me a dozen 
 times to-day. He insists he won t die unless 
 
402 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 I come to help him off, and I guess the fam 
 ily s afraid he will stick to his word." And the 
 man of pills laughed softly at his modest lit 
 tle joke. "I am of no use here. All has been 
 done that can be only keep an eye on Becker. 
 He doesn t take it right. He is too undemon 
 strative. Good night." 
 
 And he strode up the street, leaving an odor 
 of tobacco smoke in his wake. 
 
 Philip went into the house, shutting the door 
 quietly behind him. It was all like a hideous 
 nightmare, and he felt himself as unreal as all the 
 rest. He found Perkins seated on the lowest 
 step of the stairs. His face was buried in his 
 hands. 
 
 "What else did he say?" Perkins asked, shift 
 ing his position, and looking up. 
 
 "It was merely a repetition of his former state 
 ment." 
 
 "I wish it were I!" Perkins blurted out. "I 
 wish it were! Why can t we do something for 
 her for him! You love her, too, don t you?" 
 
 "Yes, I love her; maybe not with your unselfish 
 devotion, but I have your desire to be of service." 
 
 Perkins shook his head. "It s all up," he sob 
 bed. "Think of it Margaret dying!" 
 
 Philip regarded his friend pityingly, and took 
 to pacing back and forth in front of him. 
 
 Imperceptibly he moderated his step until he 
 no more than tiptoed up and down the hall. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 403 
 
 Perkins, worn and wretched with four nights of 
 sleeplessness, slumbered against the newel post, 
 his hands idly folded in his lap, his hair roughened 
 and disordered, his dress creased and crumpled, 
 his whole attitude one of utter dejection. 
 
 The solitary gas-jet in the center of the hall 
 burned feebly. 
 
 The light, stealing through the colored globe, 
 imparted to Perkins* features a semblance of 
 shrunken ghastliness. More than once Philip had 
 a compelling impulse to turn it up, and had step 
 ped to the chandelier to do so only to be resisted 
 by an invisible force that possessed him, a chilling 
 apathy that revolted at any change. 
 
 The least noise had a powerful fascination for 
 him. The ticking of a clock and numberless 
 clocks appeared to be ticking with jarring clangor, 
 some close by, some far off in the distance or 
 the footfall of an occasional belated wayfarer on 
 the street without, would cause him to pause and 
 listen breathlessly with a vague unexplainable 
 fear. His sensations were so distressing that for 
 the sake of personal contact he wedged in at Per 
 kins elbow on the steps. In spite of his care he 
 aroused his companion, who stirred fretfully to 
 ask sleepily: "What is it? Do they want me?" 
 
 "I wished to sit down. I didn t intend to dis 
 turb you." 
 
 "Oh! that s all right." And almost immediate 
 ly Perkins was dozing as before. 
 
404 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 In the room above, the watcher and watched 
 kept their place. 
 
 Franz clasped her hands fast in both of his, as 
 though through sheer physical strength he would 
 keep her with him. As yet she had indicated by 
 no sign that she understood what was going on 
 about her. It was always the same tired tossing, 
 but with greater weakness there slowly succeeded 
 greater calm. 
 
 With a fixed rapt look Franz s gaze sought 
 her face and never wavered; it preserved its di 
 rection as steadily from beneath his broad straight 
 brows as though he really saw. 
 
 She turned restlessly for the thousandth time, 
 and as he had a thousand times already, he whis 
 pered softly, "Margaret." 
 
 Hitherto his words had fallen on deaf ears, now 
 the head moved upon the pillow the sweet wan 
 face was raised to his. 
 
 "Margaret/ he said, "Margaret, do you hear 
 me? My little wife! My little wife!" As he 
 spoke her eyes opened. 
 
 The room was unlighted save for the night- 
 lamp burning on the table, and peering at her in 
 the gloom with those sunken sightless eyes of his, 
 was her husband. 
 
 She remembered all. "Franz! Franz!" she 
 cried, in a voice so faint as scarcely to be audible. 
 "It was not a dream? I meant you should have so 
 much, say you forgive me !" 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 405 
 
 "You must not grieve, dear," he said tenderly. 
 "You must not think of me now." 
 
 "It was all so beautiful until he came," she 
 said dreamily; "I have been so happy with you, 
 dear, so happy." 
 
 There was infinite regret and infinite tenderness 
 in her all but inarticulate speech. 
 
 They were silent for a while, then Margaret 
 said: "It is good-by we are saying, Franz. Who 
 would imagine there would be so little to say?" 
 
 Franz bent over her, desolation in his soul. 
 
 "What was that?" she asked, her voice fainter 
 than before. 
 
 "I thought it very quiet, dear," he answered. 
 "Perhaps it is the wind." 
 
 "How many days ago was it?" she questioned. 
 
 "You mean when you were taken ill, dear? It 
 was four days ago." 
 
 "So many days ago as that? Where are the 
 others?" 
 
 "They are here. My mother, Mrs. Perkins, 
 Ballard and Philip. Would you like to see them, 
 dear?" 
 
 "Only you, Franz. Take my love to them." 
 
 Her voice had become the gentlest of murmurs, 
 but the small white hand continued to stroke his 
 face, though with a faltering movement. Then 
 the soft caress stopped; a sigh escaped her; she 
 appeared to slip from his grasp to shrink within 
 his arms. 
 
406 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Margaret!" he said. "Margaret!" and his lips 
 were ashen and tremulous. 
 
 He allowed her to fall limply to the pillow. 
 
 He waited a moment, then springing to his feet 
 he started for the door. And as he groped his 
 way, there burst from his quivering lips a great 
 cry. "Margaret! Margaret!" 
 
 XIV 
 
 It was the second evening after Margaret s 
 death, and the night of Barbara s marriage to 
 Shelden. 
 
 To Philip the day had come, as all days must, 
 where one exists for them alone, with no other 
 interest in their passing than that they go swiftly. 
 What was in store for him he wondered. Even 
 supposing he eventually succeeded, it would be 
 the bitter satire of success. What could fame or 
 money give him! he was robbed of every in 
 spiration. At least he could turn to his work for 
 forgetfulness. That was something, even if it 
 yielded him no further recompense. He looked 
 at his watch. "It must soon be over with. They 
 must soon be married," he thought, and slipping 
 into his hat and coat started down-stairs. His 
 mother heard him and came into the hall. 
 
 "Are you going out, Philip?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, dear. I want to see Franz. I haven t 
 been there to-day. I ll not be out late." 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 407 
 
 "It s very cold." 
 
 "I shall not care/ 
 
 She put up her lips to kiss him, then pressed 
 her cheek to his. "I m so sorry, Philip!" she 
 whispered. It was the only expression of pity 
 she had ventured. 
 
 "Don t, mother. I can t endure it. Not now 
 not yet." 
 
 With a hasty good-by he hurried off. 
 
 Ten minutes later and he stood with Perkins 
 before the door leading into the room where 
 Margaret lay. 
 
 "Where is Franz?" Philip asked. 
 
 Perkins nodded toward the door. "We can t 
 induce him to leave her," he said. 
 
 "Why should you seek to? Poor fellow!" 
 
 They were silent, gazing at each other, a depth 
 of sorrow in their glance. Finally Perkins said, 
 with a show of control: 
 
 "Have you seen her, Philip?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I had decided to keep the memory I have of 
 her unchanged. It is as I saw her when they 
 were married. She was so happy, poor little 
 thing!" 
 
 "There is more than happiness in her face now," 
 Perkins observed thoughtfully. "Do you believe 
 in a hereafter?" 
 
 "What odds can it be? It s in the present our 
 lot is cast." 
 
408 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Don t you like to think you are destined to 
 meet those you love again?" 
 
 Philip placed his hand irresolutely upon the 
 knob. 
 
 "I shall go in. Perhaps I shall be able to de 
 termine what I do believe." 
 
 As he entered the room, a rush of cold air met 
 him, for the windows were partially raised 
 the outer shutters only being closed. The dim 
 light filled the apartment with shadowy indis 
 tinctness. 
 
 Slowly and overpoweringly objects became 
 plain in the somberness of his surroundings. 
 
 Margaret lay upon a couch in the center of the 
 room. She might have been asleep. 
 
 At her side sat Franz, regardless of the sting 
 ing gusts of wind that came in between the shut 
 ters. 
 
 Philip stepped to the couch and looked down 
 upon the beautiful face, then he moved back 
 quietly, and would have quitted the room, but 
 Franz detained him by saying: "Is it you, Per 
 kins?" 
 
 "It is I," Philip answered. 
 
 Franz arose instantly, putting out his hand, and 
 Philip clasped it eagerly. 
 
 Without the wind sighed drearily. The sound was 
 depressing. 
 
 The naked branches of a tree growing in a 
 corner of the yard lashed the house incessantly. 
 The single lamp burned with a flickering flame. 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 409 
 
 "What is it?" Franz questioned, for twice Philip 
 had essayed to speak. 
 
 "I am so sorry, Franz. So sorry," he cried in 
 broken tones. 
 
 "I know you are," Franz answered simply. 
 
 "There is this that I want to tell you, Franz, 
 if I may," Philip continued. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Barbara is to be married to-night." He came 
 to an abrupt stop. "I have determined to go East," 
 he went on presently. "It will mean greater oppor 
 tunity. A garbled version of that affair of Anson s 
 has got abroad and my mother is equally anxious to 
 break up here. What I wished to ask you is, won t 
 you join me, dear old fellow?" 
 
 "And allow my blindness to be your affliction?" 
 
 "You are more to me than I can express. First 
 my mother then you, and after you Perkins." 
 
 Franz swept his hand across his forehead. 
 
 "Wait! How can I think of the future? My 
 very world is ended! Wait." 
 
 Philip stole out of the room and from the house. 
 It was snowing heavily. The ground was already 
 covered. It had been bare at supper-time. He kept 
 on up the street until he was opposite the Gerards. 
 
 The house was brilliantly lighted, but the wed 
 ding party was still absent at the church. He 
 must see her once more! 
 
 So he waited in the cold, half hidden by the 
 falling snow that clung to him and that drifted 
 about the quiet and empty streets. 
 
410 THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY 
 
 Yes, Franz should live with him and his mother. 
 Comfort was possible with favoring circumstances 
 where happiness was not. 
 
 Presently, disturbing his reverie, the dull rum 
 ble of wheels was audible, muffled and deadened 
 by the fall of snow. 
 
 The carriages rolled into view. 
 
 He saw the many figures moving about, as the 
 guests streamed into the house, and straining his 
 eyes he saw Barbara. She stood in the open 
 door, and as she turned to answer some one who 
 had spoken on the walk her voice reached him, 
 gay and bright. 
 
 The guests had disappeared, yet he waited. 
 He would wait until she entered her carriage to 
 be driven to the station. It could not be very 
 long, and then he, too, would forget. 
 
 Suddenly the doors swung back. He saw her, 
 attended by her friends, clinging to her husband s 
 arm, and then she was whirled away and it was 
 over. 
 
 Turning he went directly home and to his room, 
 and took from the drawer the bundle of letters. 
 One by one he burned them and as the last let 
 ter left his hand, far off in the distance pealed the 
 shrill shriek of the whistle that announced the 
 approach of the train. 
 
 The sound drew him to the window. He 
 opened it and leaned upon the ledge. 
 
 He heard the shrill whistle once again, the 
 
ALL THAT A MAN HATH 411 
 
 creaking of the wheels upon the frosted rails, the 
 ringing of a bell and she was gone ! gone ! 
 
 A desperate sense of wrong and injury of pain 
 and grief swept over him. 
 
 He turned from the white night and threw him 
 self upon the bed, abject, lonely, miserable! If 
 he could only die if he only could! but it was 
 the sickness not of death, but of life, that was on 
 him. 
 
 For a time he was unable to think or to throw 
 off the stupor possessing him. 
 
 His mother came into the room, but he did not 
 look up. 
 
 She closed the window, saying: "Philip, if you 
 intend to lie there, you must be wrapped up, or 
 you will take cold." 
 
 He did not speak, and she added: "It s late. 
 It s almost midnight. Won t you go to bed?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "My poor boy! my poor boy! I am so sorry!" 
 
 "The worst is over with," he said. 
 
 "Can t I help you? It hurts me to see you so. 
 I w ish " 
 
 "Please go. You can t help me nothing can. 
 Please go!" His voice was full of entreaty. 
 
 "How could she treat you so, Philip!" 
 
 "It wasn t her fault. It was mine. I didn t trust 
 myself. I didn t trust her. I was a coward! She 
 would have taken any risk had I asked it of her, 
 but I was afraid, and this is my punishment." 
 
412 THE HAND OE THE MIGHTY 
 
 "Won t you let me spread a blanket over you?" 
 
 "No, no. I ll get up in a few moments." He 
 lifted his white drawn face to hers: "Please go, 
 mother. Please go. I I can t talk about it." 
 
 Reluctantly his mother left him to his solitude. 
 
 For a while he rested motionless on the bed, 
 then he came to his feet and went to the table, 
 taking his seat beside it, his elbows propped upon 
 its blotted and discolored top. He pictured his 
 altered life. There remained to him one solace 
 if he willed it. He could cheat time by work, and 
 so, perhaps, win fame to fill the place of love, and 
 for the rest the world could go hang! 
 
 So he pictured his future, a future vastly less 
 successful than the reality was destined to be, 
 and when he had built his new ideal buttressed 
 it with hope and courage he picked up his pen, 
 cleared it of the black rust that had gathered on 
 its point, and commenced to write to finish the 
 work he had abandoned when the blow fell. 
 
 All through the night and into the dawn, to 
 and fro across the long pages, with a cheerful 
 little murmur of approval, the pen scratched and 
 labored. 
 
 THE END