140 
 Long Be*** 2, Calif
 
 " Kiltie, what is it? Name it and it s yours! " I tii/c 11.
 
 My Friend Bill 
 
 Many Stories Told in the Telling of One 
 
 BY 
 
 Anson A. Gard 
 
 Published by 
 
 The Emerson Press 
 
 149 Broadway 
 New York City
 
 Copyright, 1900, 
 
 BY 
 
 ANSON A. CARD. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 ROBERT DKUMMOND, 1 RINTRR, NBW YORK.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 THE writer of "My Friend Bill" has made no 
 attempt at a literary production, and he trusts that 
 his readers will not view his first effort from any such 
 standpoint. He believes that a story may contain 
 interest even though the strict rules of literature are 
 not followed. To write by rule is to lay down a plan 
 and make everything fit to that plan. " My Friend 
 Bill " is a life-story, and no rule can be laid down to 
 fit a life. Each day brings forth a change, and the 
 rules of yesterday may be broken by the happenings 
 of to-day. " My Friend Bill " is a human story, in 
 which the heart rather than the intellect guided the 
 pen. That which pleases the intellect is a passing 
 pleasure that which touches the heart is a lasting 
 impression. 
 
 The author has a kindly feeling for all those who 
 see only the seamy side of life, and no patience with 
 those whose selfishness would crush the hopes and 
 ambitions of the " under man." 
 
 In the asides of his story he has tried to show up 
 the shams and fallacies of the day in their true light, 
 and has aimed to prove that true happiness is only 
 found in doing justice to our fellows. The piling up 
 
 iii 
 
 1.711379
 
 JV INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of riches for the sake of riches, and the gaining of 
 honors that vanity may be appeased, never bring hap 
 piness, while generous treatment is ever followed by 
 contentment. 
 
 His casual characters are known only by their call 
 ing or occupation a name means nothing, and is un 
 necessary. The reader of a story is like one in a pro 
 miscuous company he cares not to have each indi- 
 ^vidual introduced to him. 
 
 While many an author, who aims to follow literary 
 rules to the letter, will devote pages to dry argument 
 that nobody cares to read, the author of this volume 
 has aimed to give, instead, some character-sketch or 
 incident of human interest. In this he may, at times, 
 have failed, or may even have failed in his main story, 
 but he trusts that when you have reached the end, 
 you will lay aside the book with a pleasant : 
 
 "HE IS MY FRIEND, TOO!"
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Chapter I. Bill Starts for New York City Sam Wiggins 
 
 City Wife 1 
 
 Chapter II. The Leigh tons Leave Highmont Charles 
 
 Leighton s History 6 
 
 Chapter III.- Ruben Goes to the City to Visit His Friend 
 
 Bill 11 
 
 Chapter IV. Ruben in New York Without Bill s address 
 He Is Driven in a Cab the Full Length of Fifth Ave 
 nue Hunting for Fifth Avenue He Meets Many 
 Sociable People, Among the Number a Great After 
 Dinner Speaker, to Whom He Tells Country Stories 
 The Hunter He Advertises for "A Quiet Boarding 
 Place" 16 
 
 Chapter V.- "Ruben Starts an Endless Chain" He Finds 
 a Typical New York Boarding House, at Which He 
 Meets the Statesman, the Heathen, the Actor and the 
 Man with the Red Whi skers All Attempts at "Guy 
 ing" Ruben Fail 25 
 
 Chaper VI. Ruben Tells the Story of His First Turkey 
 Shooting Match The Boarders Try to Make Rube an 
 After Dinner Speaker The Country Boy and the 
 City Boy Compared The Country Preacher The 
 Country Teacher The "Hired Hand" -Dennis and 
 His Story of the "Cat Burd" Old Mike and the Giant 
 "Brandy" Jake from Holland, Story The "Hired 
 Girl" and Her Witch Stories 29 
 
 Chapter VII. The Biographer Tells of the Boys from the 
 Valley of Virginia The "Merchant Prince" The 
 Smart Young Doctor 37 
 
 Chapter VIII. Ruben on the Bowery He Visits the Mu 
 seums, Where He Wrestles with Prof. Throwem 
 Ruben Helps the Poor Young Man The Medal Man.. 40 
 
 Chapter IX. The Bald Headed Broker Gives Ruben Much 
 Good Advice and Tells Him Many Stories of His Own
 
 Vi CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 Experience of Playing Philanthropist 47 
 
 Chapter X. The B. M. Broker Philosophizes in a Quaint 
 Way The Actor Takes Ruben to the Theatre and 
 "Explains" the Play 52 
 
 Chapter XI. Mr. Knickerbocker on "The Society of To 
 day" The Man from Lunnon and His "Impressions 
 of America" Snobs of the Suburbs The Indian; 
 Pension Story 55 
 
 Chapter XII. Mrs. Crowley The Man Who Tells of the 
 Excellence of Others The Inventor The Author. . . . 
 
 Chapter XIII. Ruben Turns Reporter and Goes to See the 
 
 Editor with a Story, but Fares Badly 64 
 
 Chapter XIV. Ruben Visits the Club and "Boxes" with the 
 
 "Meek Young Man" 67 
 
 Chapter XV. Ze Frenchman and ze Forchunes 71 
 
 Chapter XVI. The Anarchist Gives His Views 75 
 
 Chapter XVII. The Anarchist s Pathetic Story of the Death 
 
 of Little Edith 78 
 
 Chapter XVIII. Ruben Surprised at the Way that Jus 
 tice ( ?) Is Meted Out in the City 83 
 
 Chapter XIX. The Anarchist Tells Ruben All About Coun 
 try Politics 86 
 
 Chapter XX. Ruben Goes to Church and Helps Sing The 
 
 Heathen Discourses on the Coldness of City Churches 93 
 
 Chapter XXI. Ruben Saves the Life of a Little Girl, the 
 Child of a Millionaire, Gets His Leg Broken and Is 
 Sent to the Hospital, Where He Is Visited by Edward 
 S. DeHertburn, Brother of Little Helen 98 
 
 Chapter XXII. Helen brings flowers to Ruben and Charms 
 
 Him with Her Child Talk 103 
 
 Chapter XXIII. Ruben Hears from Home, Where They 
 Thought He Had Been Lost The Country Maidens 
 and the "Lone Widows" Helen and Dr. Whipple. . .106 
 
 Chapter XXIV. Edward Tells Ruben of His Travels in 
 Egypt, Where He Had Met, in a Newly Discovered 
 Tomb, a Beautiful Lady, Whose Face Has Ever Been 
 Before Him 109 
 
 Chapter XXV. Ruben Recites to Beatrice and Helen His 
 
 Poem Some Deed of Worth 118 
 
 Chapter XXVI. Ruben Tells Edward of His First Love
 
 CONTENTS. v ii 
 
 Page. 
 Affair 123 
 
 Chapter XXVII. Edward, Beatrice and Helen Drive with 
 
 Ruben Through Central Park 126 
 
 Chapter XXVIII. "Tousm Wallie" Returns from Europe 
 and Calls on Ruben at the Hospital, with Beatrice 
 and Helen Strange Denouement "Tousin Wallie" 
 of Whom Helen Had Continually talked, Turns Out 
 to be Ruben s Friend Bill 132 
 
 Chapter XXIX. Ruben and Bill Talk of the Old Home and 
 Its People John Woodman; "Aunt Rachal" and Her 
 Gift of the "Old Barren Farm" 137 
 
 Chapter XXX. Bill Tells of His Meeting With the De 
 Hertberns City Boys in the Country Edward Offers 
 to Educate Ruben in the Law Ruben Refuses City 
 Charities (?) 140 
 
 Chapter XXXI. The Far Reaching Effect of a Story Mr. 
 
 DeHertbern and the Trust 150 
 
 Chapter XXXII. Ruben ife Invited by the Great Man (the 
 one he had met on Fifth Avenue) to a Dinner Given 
 by the Hilarious Sons of Kamskatka He Goes and 
 Makes His First After Dinner Speech, Amid Ap 
 plause Helen Pleads With Ruben to Stay in New 
 York and Be a Lawyer 153 
 
 Chapter XXXIII. Edward Hears From Professor Blake in 
 
 Milan, ItalyEdward Sails for Milan 165 
 
 Chapter XXXIV. Mr. DeHertbern Insists on Loaning 
 Ruben Money to Educate Himself in the Law Ruben 
 Refuses 169 
 
 Chapter XXXV. The Shylock Ruben Receives Wonderful 
 News from Home Oil Has Been Found on Aunt 
 Rachael s Barren Old Farm 175 
 
 Chapter XXXVI. Ruben Returns to Highmont Shylock 
 Sues His Father for Money Loaned The Trial in 
 Which Ruben Makes a Great Speech and Wins the 
 Suit The Poor Widow and Her Lost Maggie Mr. De 
 Hertbern Buys the Barren Old Farm Ruben, Now a 
 Rich Young Man, Returns to New York to Study 
 Law 180 
 
 Chapter XXXVII. Edward Reaches Milan and with Count 
 Drasco Prepares to go as Minstrels to Rescue a
 
 v iii CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Maiden, Held for a Ransom by Bandife 192 
 
 Chapter XXXVIIL Edward Reported Slain by Bandits 
 He and the Count Imprisoned in a Wine Cellar at 
 
 Lecco They are Released 1 9& 
 
 Chapter XXXIX. The Gala Night in the Hamlet near Ban 
 dit Camp Edward and the Count Meet the Giant 
 Leader Amabilli The Dead Young Man in the Shed. 210 
 Chapter XL. Fulco and Barrone Plot to Poison the Two 
 
 Minstrels, Who are Thought to Be Spies 217 
 
 Chapter XLI. The Minstrels are Taken to the Camp of the 
 
 Bandits to Sing for the Captive Maiden 221 
 
 Chapter XLII. Edward Improvises and Sings the Plan of 
 
 Escape 228 
 
 Chapter XLIIL The Escape and Sword Duel Bandit 
 
 Leaders Slain 232 
 
 Chapter XLIV. The Two Counsellors Plan to Get Ransom. 239 
 Chapter XLV. Two Dark Figures Intercept Them with 
 Blows from Heavy Sticks The Maiden, Anita Al- 
 
 leyn, Returned to Her Parents 247 
 
 Chapter XLVL Anita, the Betrothed of Another, Danger 
 ously 111 254 
 
 Chapter XLVII. Anita Recovers Old Lord Leighton Al- 
 
 leyn s Will 265 
 
 Chapter XLVIII. Anita Has a Mystery Solved in Strange 
 
 Letter from America 269 
 
 Chapter XLIX. The Great DeHertbern Reception 276 
 
 Chapter L The Dance in the Barn 280 
 
 Chapter LI. Tom, the Anarchist, Has Much to Say on 
 Wrong Systems, Unneeded Laws Suggests Many 
 Needed Changes Takes Up the Cause of the Under 
 paid Teachers He Suggests a Great Leader 288 
 
 Chapter LII. Tom Continues His Criticisms on Our Cus 
 toms and Evils 299 
 
 Chapter LIII. Maggie s Story 304 
 
 Chapter LIV. Ruben and the "Hunter" 309 
 
 Chapter LV. The Celebration Man 315 
 
 Chapter LVI. Ruben Goes to the Assembly, Where His Ad 
 miration for Lawmaker^ Becomes Nil 319 
 
 Chapter LVIL Helen the Grown Lady 325 
 
 Chapter LVIII "Mister Ruben" Again 331
 
 MY FRIEND BILL 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 We felt that the turn in the road at the bottom of the hill 
 had shut out forever the Bill ivc had knoiwn from 
 childhood! 
 
 Always when Bill came home on his summer vacations 
 he seemed so different from the green country hoy who 
 had left Highmont for the great city of New York. 
 
 He was changed in so many ways that I cannot describe 
 them. He did not exactly put on "airs," but the "airs" 
 were on him just the same. He did, however, emphasize 
 the fact that he lived on Fifth avenue. Now, to us boys, 
 who had never seen New York, and, for that matter, any 
 other place than our own little village of two hundred 
 people, situated far back in the mountains of Pennsyl 
 vania, Fifth avenue was a greater place than a city itself, 
 where only the millionaires had their palaces. He did not 
 just say that he was better than we home boys, but you 
 could tell by his every movement that he thought so; and 
 somehow his living on Fifth avenue, or, as Bill called it, 
 "The Ahvnu," we accorded him a position on a little 
 higher plane, and he saw it and used it against us. 
 
 Then, his dress was different. His neckties were nat 
 tier. His hat had a narrow brim, with a colored band ;
 
 2 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 his shoes were pointed, and on occasion he wore gloves 
 and carried a cane. Although he had always prided him 
 self on his good eyesight, his later homecomings were 
 marked with gold spectacles held on with a chain. In 
 short, his whole make-up was the opposite of the roughly 
 dressed Bill who had started away to seek his fortune in 
 the far-off city. 
 
 I shall never forget the morning Bill left Highmont. 
 It \vas an event we had talked of arid looked forward to 
 for months. We thought of his departure as though he 
 were going out into an entirely new world. We knew of 
 New York only as we had read of it. We could not 
 compare it, as we had never seen anything with w r hich to 
 compare it. Somebody had told us that it was a great 
 scope of flat country with houses built all over it and 
 rivers all around it. This conveyed no notion to our 
 minds, for w r e had never even seen a flat country or a 
 stream larger than the "crick" that ran at the edge of the 
 village, with here and there a place deep enough for a 
 "swimming hole." Our impressions of the outside w r orld 
 cannot be conveyed by tongue or pen to any one save to 
 him who has seen only one place, and that a rough, 
 mountainous country, shut away from the world as by a 
 great wall. 
 
 Bill had often said he knew he would miss our "singing 
 school," "spelling matches," "corn huskings" and kindred 
 gatherings for the young people from far and near. We 
 knew, however, what he would miss more than all these 
 his Sunday nights with Anita. Bill never missed church 
 Sunday night. He was one of the few boys at Highmont 
 w r ho was brave enough to start at the church door with 
 his girl and run the gauntlet, w^hich gauntlet always had 
 much to say to the boy who passed down between. 
 
 But I started to tell of the morning Bill left Highmont.
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 3 
 
 We had all gathered down at Uncle Dave Carter s tavcin, 
 where the stage coach stopped, to see him off. He was 
 so late we were sure he would be left behind, but bye-and- 
 bye we saw him and Anita coming down the one street of 
 the village holding hands. They walked slowly, as 
 though loath to part. Anita seemed to have a premoni 
 tion that it was the last time she would ever see him 
 as her lover. We watched the stage coach as far as we 
 could see it, and when it reached the turn, away at the 
 bottom of the hill, at the bridge, we all went our several 
 ways. No one spoke a word. We felt that the turn in 
 the road had shut out forever the Bill we had known from 
 childhood. And we were right. We never again saw him 
 as we had known him. He may have been improved, 
 but the childhood affection never returned. Anita s 
 premonition became a reality, as, when he came home on 
 his first vacation, he treated her with scant courtesy in 
 return for her year s faithfulness to his memory. He told 
 his mother that Anita was too quiet, or, as he said, to the 
 complete shocking of the dear lady : "She s too derned 
 bashful for me, see?" His mother s eyesight being most 
 excellent for one of her age, she said she saw, but was 
 pained to hear him swear so violently about it. "Besides, 
 my dear son, why should you so soon forget Anita? She 
 is sweet and modest, and of the best family in the village. 
 T had looked forward to your home-coming almost as 
 much for her sake as for my own. Often in the twilight 
 she and T have sat and talked of you and wondered if you 
 would be much changed. Little she thought to find in 
 you coldness where she expected love the same love you 
 had promised when you said good-by a year ago. My 
 son, you will some time regret this step!" 
 
 "Now, mother." said Bill, rather irritated at her long 
 speech, "you know I expect to make my home in New
 
 4 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 York. Anita may be good enough for Highmont, but I 
 want a wife that 1 will be proud of. How do you think 
 1 should feel to have her come down to the office? The 
 boys would never end with their guying me and my 
 mountain lassie. 
 
 "I do not know what you mean by guying, but I do 
 know that the man who is fortunate enough to take Anita 
 as a wife will never be ashamed to present her to his 
 friends." 
 
 "Mother, you are prejudiced. You have never seen 
 a real city lady, and think that because you love Anita, 
 and because she is the best in this little mountain village, 
 that she would be a lady in the city." Bill was almost 
 rude in his manner toward his dear mother, but she, in 
 her gentle way, softly replied : "I may not have seen 
 what you call a city lady/ but I do know that a true and 
 loving heart is to be preferred in a wife rather than the 
 polished manners which so often clothe a heartless 
 woman. You should marry a wife for the home rather 
 than for the drawing-room. A woman may easily change 
 her habit of dress, may acquire fine manners, but the 
 heart will seldom change. Choose first a gentle nature, 
 which indicates a kind heart; then consider the face. 
 Anita has both the heart and attractive face. Change in 
 her manner of dress will easily follow, for the woman 
 has never yet been found who will refuse pretty things, if 
 her husband s means admit of them and his wishes call for 
 them." 
 
 "Mother," concluded Rill, "you cannot appreciate my 
 feelings on this subject. I do not wish to go contrary to 
 what you would have me flo, but I cannot see in Anita that 
 which I would choose in a wife." 
 
 As Bill talked about the city ladies and their "polished 
 manners" I couldn t help thinking of Sam Wiggins fine
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 5 
 
 city wife. Sam had been a great beau among all the girls 
 over the country. He knew them for miles in all direc 
 tions around Highmont. They called him "Sweet Sam," 
 as he always brought them candy. He went to the city 
 and brought home with him a very elegant-looking wife. 
 We always wondered how Sam won her. This fine lady, 
 however, had her "temper," and would say things right 
 out in company. Once during a visit to Highmont Sam 
 wanted his wife to go with him to see some of his old 
 girls. "What do I want to see them for?" she asked, in 
 a key that would have opened all the upstairs rooms. 
 "Why," said Sam, meeklike, "to crow over them !" 
 "You flatter yourself, Mr. Wiggins. What have I to 
 crow over?" Then everybody laughed but Sam. 
 
 With all of Bill s indifference he would often think of 
 the two years he and Anita had spent so happily together, 
 for he loved her then, before he had gotten all those 
 Fifth avenue notions in his head.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 When Bill came home again I could sec that he missed 
 Anita. He told his mother as much. He said he 
 had found the city ladies more shoiv than real. 
 
 Shortly after Bill s first visit home Anita s father 
 moved away with his family. The Leightons had come 
 to Highmont when Anita, their only child, was a wee bit 
 of a girl of three years, so that she had known no other 
 home. She had grown to love our village and its people, 
 and when going away she said : "I know I will never find 
 another place so dear to me as Highmont." One always 
 feels that way when one has known but one place. The 
 dweller in the city pities the poor mountaineer, while the 
 poor mountaineer, in his turn, wonders how "them people 
 do stand it, anyway, to allers be shut up in ther hot, dusty 
 city !" 
 
 The Leightons had never seemed like our people. There 
 was that about them which indicated a marked degree of 
 culture. Mr. Leighton had been an officer in the British 
 Army, and rumor said he belonged to a fine old English 
 family, but no one could ever get him to talk on the sub 
 ject, and so we got to thinking, from his silence, that there 
 was a mystery about his life. "Why should he come to 
 America and settle in a far removed mountain village of 
 scarce two hundred people, all of them so different in 
 every way from what he had been accustomed to? Did 
 he want to hide away ?" These and many more questions 
 
 6
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 7 
 
 we asked each other. If to hide from the world, he had 
 indeed come to the right place, as the only communication 
 we had with the outside world was the tri-weekly stage 
 coach, which few ever used aside from the "drummers." 
 
 With all our wondering, however, he came and went, 
 taking with him the mystery, and not until years after did 
 we learn that his real name was Charles Leighton Allyn, 
 son of Lord Leighton Allyn, of Westmoreland, in the 
 North of England. 
 
 When Charles was hut eighteen years old he entered the 
 army and passed a number of years in India. For his 
 devotion to duty and his many deeds of valor he was from 
 time to time promoted, until he had reached the rank of 
 captain. Once during the Sepoy mutiny of 1857 the de 
 tachment to which he belonged was hemmed in by several 
 thousand of those fanatical Indian soldiers. The English 
 were so securely entrenched in the mountains that for 
 days they kept back the hordes of Sepoys, but on the 
 evening of the sixth day their ammunition began to run 
 low. The commanding general called a council of his 
 officers and told them that unless help came soon they 
 would be unable to withstand the attacks. All knew that 
 this meant that there would be no one left to tell the story 
 of the battle. 
 
 "Surrounded as we are on all sides," said the general, 
 "it will be almost impossible for us to get a messenger 
 through their lines, and yet it is our only hope. But who 
 will go? There is one chance in a hundred that their 
 lines can be penetrated and passed by a man who does not 
 fear death." 
 
 "General," spoke up Colonel Ross, "I have in my regi 
 ment a young lieutenant from Westmoreland who is not 
 only fearless, but he is one of the most tactful officers in 
 our armv. If there is the one chance, he will take it."
 
 8 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 Call him at once," said the general. 
 
 Charles Leigh ton Allyn was called, and when the object 
 of the council was told him, he quietly said : 
 
 General, I will go!" 
 
 "Do you know," he was asked, "that it means almost 
 certain death to you?" 
 
 "I do; but it may mean death to all if some one does 
 not attempt this risk, and I fear not to try. General, I 
 am at your service." The general gave him minute in 
 structions for his perilous mission. He was ready within 
 the hour, and set out at once, as every moment was 
 precious. 
 
 How he succeeded in eluding the vigilance of the 
 Sepoys as he passed through their lines he scarcely knew 
 himself, but that he did, and by morning of the next day 
 had reached the outpost of a large body of English troops 
 beyond the mountains is a matter of history. 
 
 The general in command of these troops had been sent 
 to relieve the besieged army, but knew not the great peril 
 it was in, nor did he know its exact location until Charles 
 had hurriedly sketched a rough map of the battleground 
 and intervening country. 
 
 The long journey had been almost too much for even 
 the hardy constitution of Charles, but there was no< time 
 to rest. He was given a horse, and was soon at the head 
 of the moving columns, leading on to the relief of his 
 comrades. 
 
 By forced marches they had come in sight of the battle 
 ground on the following forenoon, and were none too 
 soon, for the ammunition of the besieged army was all 
 gone, and they were fighting hand to hand with the now 
 desperate Sepoys. 
 
 The fate of the battle quickly turned as the reinforce 
 ments poured down from the mountain side, sweeping
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 9 
 
 everything before them. What a loud cheer went up as 
 the advancing- army came into the camp of their besieged 
 friends ! Charles was the hero of the hour, and well he 
 might have been ! 
 
 The day following he was called out in the presence of 
 the united armies and decorated, and, although but 
 twenty-one years of age, was made a captain. It was a 
 proud day for his family in England when news of his 
 daring deed came to them. He returned to his home 
 shortly after this, as the active service was over, the 
 Sepoys having been quelled and a number of them shot 
 from cannon as a civilizing (?) example to their fellow- 
 mutineers. 
 
 Charles had another tie besides his family to call him 
 home. On a neighboring estate dwelt a young maiden 
 whom he had known and loved from his childhood. He 
 and Lady Whiteside had during the years of his absence 
 kept up a correspondence. Her welcome to the young 
 captain was quite as warm as that of his own family. 
 His father, a stern, cold-hearted man, had never approved 
 of this attachment. He had other notions about his son s 
 choice in the selection of a wife. 
 
 "Charles," said Lord Leighton one day, shortly after 
 his son s return, "I do not approve of Lady Whiteside. I 
 have selected for you a wife more suitable. There is 
 Lady Tealbrooke, a most superior woman, and one I 
 would have you marry." 
 
 "Yes. father ; but she is much older than I, very ugly in 
 face and disposition, and cold natured ; besides, I do not 
 love her." 
 
 "Love ! What has that to do with it ? Think of the 
 lands she will bring to you !" 
 
 "Father, in reason I will abide your decision in all 
 things, but to ask me to marrv a woman whose onlv merit
 
 10 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 is the lands she will bring to me is asking more than I 
 can grant you." 
 
 "What!" cried the father, in a towering rage, "do you 
 tell me that my will is not to be obeyed ?" 
 
 "I cannot nor will I marry a woman I can never love, 
 though she owned the whole of England !" 
 
 "Enough ! Say no more. From this day forth I am 
 childless. Go ; there is no longer a place for you at my 
 board you, who refuse to do my will." 
 
 His mother, as lovely in character as his father was cold 
 and heartless, pleaded in vain for her brave, noble son. 
 The father would listen to no reason. His will had been 
 defied, and nothing could change his purpose. Charles 
 and Lady Whiteside were married soon after, and he got 
 transferred from India to garrison duty in England. 
 
 Four years after his marriage his mother died. During 
 all these years she had pleaded for her son, but Lord 
 Leighton was relentless. Not even her death softened 
 his nature. Charles resigned from the army and came to 
 America with his wife and daughter, Anita. They came 
 almost direct to Highmont. Of their residence there I 
 have spoken fully. When they went away it was to re 
 turn to England. Old Lord Leighton Allyn having died, 
 his son, now Lord Leighton, came into his inheritance. 
 They were loved by every one in Highmont, and their 
 going away was deeply felt by all. 
 
 When Bill came home again I could see that he missed 
 Anita. He told his mother as much. He said he had 
 found the city ladies "more show than real." His mother, 
 good soul that she was, proved an exception by not re 
 ferring him to what she had previously remarked on that 
 subject.
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 Come to the city, Rube. I ll show you the sights and 
 have fun with you! 
 
 Bill had often invited me to come to New York to visit 
 him. "Come to the city, Rube. I ll show you the sights 
 and have fun with you." I had a great longing to go. 
 For years, on each recurrence of Bill s visits home, he had 
 told me so many wonderful things about New York, and 
 spoke so familiarly of its great men, that I thought he 
 was on most intimate terms with them. This, with the 
 fact that he lived on Fifth avenue, had always kept me 
 from accepting his invitation. But finally I could resist 
 no longer. I surprised the family one day by telling them 
 that I was going to New York to see Bill. They tried to 
 dissuade me, but all to no purpose. It had taken me years 
 to decide, and I was now determined to go. I did not 
 care if Bill lived in the finest palace on the avenue, even 
 though next door to a man of millions. It was all the 
 same to me, now that I had made up my mind. I did 
 hope, however, that he would not make me spend much of 
 my time visiting among his rich friends ; I was afraid I 
 would not feel comfortable. I did not write to him that 
 I was coming. I wanted to surprise him, and subsequent 
 events proved that I was most successful. 
 
 I will not try to tell of the pleasures of the coming. 
 "My first ride on the cars" has been told by too many to 
 have left in the telling any newness to the story. Suffice
 
 12 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 it that I seemed drifting through space into a new world 
 at lightning speed. The only thing to mar the new joy 
 was the fear that the train would run off the track. It 
 did not, however, and I reached the city almost before I 
 had fairly started. The longest part of the way had 
 seemed the stage. 
 
 Not until I was safely in the city did it occur to me 
 that I didn t know just where to find Bill I don t believe 
 I gave the matter a thought. Such a little item as an 
 address, to one who had never had any occasion to use 
 an address, it is not surprising that I should have given 
 no thought as to how I was to find my friend. I sort o 
 felt that I d run across him in the street, and if not, I 
 would just find where he lived from some of those big 
 friends of his. I knew that they would be only too glad 
 to either tell me, or, for that matter, go with me if I told 
 them that I was a friend of Bill s from home. Bill had 
 always spoken so familiarly of these great men of New 
 York, that I was sure they would know all about him. 
 
 I wanted to do the proper thing, so I thought to take 
 a carriage, as I knew Bill would be more pleased to see 
 me if I came in good style. I did not have the least 
 trouble in finding a carriage, as it did seem that every man 
 in town who owned a team was down at the ferry that day 
 and knew at once what I wanted before I had said a 
 word; and the minute I spoke well, I had played foot 
 ball head man of the "wedge" but football was easy. 
 When I "came to," half an hour after the "rush," I found 
 myself going uptown. I asked the driver where he w r as 
 going with me. "Fait , Oi doan kno ; ye hov n t tould me 
 yit; but it s whariver ye wants." I asked him if he knew 
 where Fifth avenue was. "Thrue far ye divil a place in 
 the city Oi doan kno . And is it Fifth ahvnu ye wants? 
 It s whnrlin to it. ve ahr."
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 13 
 
 That driver knew more about New York city than a 
 guide-book, and he was so sociable and willing to impart 
 information that I quite forgave him the terrible hustling 
 1 got at the ferry. I asked him, as a sort of introduction, 
 how he got me, seeing there were so many after me. 
 
 "Ye may wull ask thot saim, and thonk me bruther, who 
 is aim the foorce, far savin yer loife by puttin ye into 
 me kerridge." 
 
 "I thought," said 1, "they were all on the force/ the 
 way they hustled me." 
 
 "No; Oi mane me bruther is aim the purless foorce, and 
 is stashunned at the firry." 
 
 Just then we passed through a woods lot, with walks 
 and flowers, and benches here and there, with all sorts 
 of people sitting around, as though they had nothing to 
 do but take life easy. It was all very beautiful. The 
 driver said the place was called Washington Square. I 
 wanted to stop a while and look at it, but he would have 
 to hurry on, he said, as Fifth avenue was a long way 
 off yet. 
 
 From this "square" we drove out into a wide road that 
 was so very long that I couldn t see the other end of it. 
 
 Further on up this wide pike we came to another little 
 "square." The driver said it was Madison Square. He 
 pointed out a red brick house across the way, which he 
 said was Mister Delmonioo s place. T had often heard 
 Bill speak about this house, but he always called it 
 "Del s." I was almost sure it was the same place. No, it 
 could not be ; "Del s" was on Fifth avenue. He also 
 pointed out another big house a big stone house just 
 across to the west from the "square." "Thare s phare the 
 up-Sthate pollytishuns liould Sunday school." I could 
 not help thinking that there must be a great many poli 
 ticians up the State to need so large a house. I also
 
 J4 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 thought how different New York politicians were from 
 those in Pennsylvania, where the smallest school-house in 
 the country would hold all who wanted to attend Sunday 
 school and not crowd each other at that. 
 
 Further along 1 saw a great pile of stone at one side of 
 the road, and asked the driver if it was a stone quarry. 
 
 "Oh, no," said he, "thot is the riservoy phat thay ahr 
 goin to tare down and build a library in 2200 A. D., if 
 by thot toime the coourts hov decided thot Mister Tilding 
 knew how to dhraw a wull ; and thot big bilding beyant is 
 called the Grand Cintril." And so he ran on, telling me 
 of more places than I had ever thought there were in the 
 whole city of New York. He was so well acquainted; 
 not a house but he could tell me who lived in it. 
 
 Of all the fine parks we had seen there were none of 
 them that could compare with the one called "Cintril" 
 Park. We drove along its full length. To see it made 
 me almost ashamed that I had asked so often if we would 
 never reach Fifth avenue. Several times I felt convinced 
 that we had come into New York at the wrong end. 
 That driver, however, talked so entertainingly about the 
 various places we were passing, and told me so many 
 things about the people who lived in the palaces on the 
 way, that I scarcely noticed the hours as they passed 
 for that matter, the hours passed along faster than our old 
 horse. I was fortunate that I had brought with me, from 
 home, an abundance of ginger-bread in my big carpet 
 satchel, else I had grown very hungry before we had 
 reached Bill s ahvnu. 
 
 Finally, late in the afternoon, the driver said we were 
 nearly there. Up this street, down that, back up another, 
 and then : "Here ye aire at lasht. It was a lang, tajus 
 thrip ye hod." Indeed it was long, much longer in time 
 than my stage coach ride of the morning from Highmont.
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 15 
 
 "And now, Pat, what is the fare" I asked. 
 
 "Wull, Oi ll hov to kalklatc. Corllandt to Washington 
 Sqare, twenty- four blox; Washington Sqare to Wan 
 Hundrid and Thurty-ate strate, is wan hnndrid and 
 thurty-wan more ; thot maix wan hundrid and fufty-six 
 hlox awl tould at fure cints a blok $6.40 no, $6.24 
 yis, thot s roight, six dalers and twinty-fure cints." 
 
 I told him that he was mistaken ; that my name was 
 not Astor. "I am no millionaire." 
 
 Come aff, now ; yeez name wull be Dinnis if ye dis 
 pute me bill, which is moast rasinable, afther me lang 
 dhrivc, nat to minshun the grate infurmashun Oi ve guv 
 ye cumin alang." 
 
 I finally compromised with him on $5. Then I started 
 out on Fifth avenue to hunt for Bill.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 "Kit tie, what is it? Name it, and it s yours." 
 
 Were you ever raised in the country and got dropped 
 down into a great city all at once ? Then you remember 
 how the first thing you did was to look about for a familiar 
 face. Out home you knew everybody for miles around, 
 and got so used to knowing people that the feeling fol 
 lowed you. Oh, I know how it was with you ; that is just 
 how I felt that day on the "Ahvnu." 
 
 As 1 walked along I felt sure that I must meet some 
 one I knew, but I did not, and yet, strange to say, while 
 1 didn t know a soul, a number of the people I met knew 
 me even by name. 
 
 I knew that they had never been in our town, for when 
 ever a stranger dropped in we all went down to the tavern 
 and got real well acquainted before he left the village. It 
 was no end of wonder, then, to me to hear these people, as 
 they passed, remark to each other : "There s A. Ruben. I 
 wonder when he got in?" Now, how could they know 
 me, and I just arrived? I puzzled my brain until it was 
 all of a whirl. I forgot to introduce myself to you before. 
 My name is Adolphus Ruben Hickenlooper, of Highmont, 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 I had divided my first names up in various ways. 
 Sometimes Adolph Ruben, Adolphus R., and Dolphus R., 
 but when Bill came back from New York on one of his 
 vacations he said that the proper thing was to use the 
 
 16
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 17 
 
 initial of the first name and the full middle name. Since 
 then I have always written it A. Ruben. And now, to 
 think of these people, utter strangers to me, in a far-away 
 city, knowing me ! It was too much for my compre 
 hension ! 
 
 Some of them were real friendly and spoke up so 
 sociable like that it made me feel that I was home again. 
 "Hullo, Rube," said one; "when did you come?" I told 
 him that I had just got in. "Glad to see you. How are 
 the folks at home ? Say, Rube, you want to keep off the 
 Bowery." I thanked him. Now, how did he know that 
 I wanted to keep off the Bowery? That was one of the 
 very places I had heard Bill speak of so much that I had 
 determined to see it as soon as possible, and here was this 
 fellow telling me that I wanted to keep O ff. It just shows 
 how little some people know what other people really 
 want. 
 
 Not only the men, but the women as well, showed a 
 friendliness. I had always thought of the New York 
 ladies as cold and haughty. Not so, for I met two beauti 
 fully dressed girls as I came down the avenue. They had 
 just come out of one of those palaces that lined the way, 
 and were about to enter their carriage, which was waiting 
 for them at the side of the road, as I passed along. They 
 smiled real friendly, and began talking to each other. I 
 could only hear a little of what they said. One remark, 
 however, seemed very odd to me : "Kittie, what is it ? 
 Name it, and it s yours." There was really nothing to the 
 remark, and yet they both laughed right out and smiled 
 at me as they were driven away by two soldiers, in uni 
 form, who sat on the top of the carnage. 
 
 I had been so taken up with the people I met that I had 
 not noticed the houses, but when I did look at them they 
 looked so familiar that I felt I had seen them in a dream.
 
 !8 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 When, however, I got down to the stone quarry, which 
 the driver had called the "riservoy," I knew it was no 
 dream, but I was greatly bewildered. How could this 
 be Fifth avenue? How could all these other places be on 
 Fifth avenue, when I was here only an hour or two be 
 fore ? I asked a man, who looked as though he wanted to 
 talk to me : "Is there any other road in this town that 
 looks just like this one?" He said there was but one 
 Fifth avenue, and that it looked only like itself and never 
 changed, except just before election, when they dug it 
 up to give work to their "heelers." I wished for the 
 driver. I was sure that he could explain it, for he did 
 know a sight of things for one in his walk of life. 
 
 I had not been idle in my search for Bill. On every 
 chance during my long walk 1 had asked people if they 
 knew him. I met one oldish gentleman, coming leisurely 
 along, who had such a good, kind face that I thought he 
 might tell me the best way to find my friend. He said 
 that without an address I would have a long search. 
 
 "It is so strange," I told him, "that I can t find anybody 
 who knows Bill. Why, mister, from what Bill always 
 said himself, or, rather, what I gathered from what he 
 did say, I was under the impression that everybody on 
 Fifth avenue knew him intimately." 
 
 "I am afraid, young man, that your friend Bill is like a 
 great many other country boys who come to New York. 
 They stay here a few months, and on their return home 
 give their friends the impression that they were the only 
 fellows coming down the Ahvnu while in the city." 
 
 He asked me my name, where I was from, when I got 
 to town and how long I intended to remain. When I 
 told him my name he smiled and said : "It fits very well." 
 I didn t know what he meant, but I smiled, too. just as 
 though I understood. He wanted to know if I was in any
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 19 
 
 particular hurry, and, if not,, would I come in with him, 
 as he lived "only a step or two up the block." I was 
 almost afraid to go, as Bill had often told me about men 
 called "bunkoers," who invite you in and "do you," as he 
 said. When I looked at this man s genial face I knew he 
 would never "do" anybody. I knew I was safe, and said 
 I would go with him, wondering all the while why he 
 should want me as a visitor. He took me into a palace. 
 I wish 1 could describe it, but I don t know what words 
 to use, as I had never seen anything like it before. We 
 sat down, and he then told me why he had invited me in. 
 Fie seemed almost sad as he said: 
 
 "Young man, you have told me that you live far away 
 in the mountains of Pennsylvania, so far removed that 
 you see nothing of the outside world. I would have you 
 tell me some of the humorous stories that prevail in your 
 country. This may seem to you a very strange request, 
 but when I tell you that I am what they call an after- 
 dinner speaker, you may appreciate my po sition. Here I 
 am scarce in middle life, and yet, with invitations increas 
 ing, I have told and retold all the funny stories extant. I 
 have searched in foreign lands for something new and 
 found nothing. I have carried to the royalty of Europe 
 my best stories. I have told these stories on one visit, 
 knowing that they will be fully understood and their fine 
 points appreciated by my next. But now I have nothing 
 left to tell which I have not told and retold many times 
 before. My reputation is at stake yes, young man, my 
 very reputation ;" and then, almost desperate in his 
 anxiety : "Tell me, tell me but one good story that is 
 new, and I am your friend always." 
 
 Not for a moment would I have believed that this man 
 was a humorist, so tragical was he in his search for hu 
 mor. I could not deny him the simple request, and so I
 
 20 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 related a number of stories I had heard Uncle Dave Carter 
 and Dave Stoner tell of winter nights as we all sat around 
 the old stove at Carter s tavern. He was wild with de 
 light as I told these simple village stories. He said they 
 were nearly all new, and was kind enough to say that I 
 told them well ; even said I would make an after-dinner 
 speaker if I took enough years time for it. He invited 
 me to call at some other time and to let him know when 
 I found Bill. 
 
 He had aroused my curiosity to know something about 
 after-dinner speaking, so I asked him what they did at 
 these dinners. He looked at me inquisitive like and said : 
 "Oh, a good many things, young man, especially at some 
 of them to which I don t get an invitation." He said 
 that if I was going to be in the city for any length of time 
 he would get me an invitation to one, and then I could see 
 for myself. I was delighted, and couldn t he:lp wonder 
 ing what the people of Highmont would think if they 
 knew I had a possible chance of getting an invitation to a 
 swell New York dinner, as the guest of whose guest 
 would I be, anyhow? Who was this man? He hadn t 
 thought to tell me his name, and I couldn t ask very well ; 
 but I knew he could not be far from the top. Had he not 
 spoken of the royalty of Europe? I felt just then almost 
 as well pleased as though I had found Bill. He was 
 profuse in his thanks, and, as I was going, he gave me 
 his card. When I looked at it I nearly fell down the steps, 
 so great was my excitement. Here I had been visiting 
 with the very man Bill had always spoken of as one of 
 the best-known men in the world, and he had treated me 
 as though I was one of his own kind, instead of looking 
 upon me as the green country boy that I was. 
 
 T soon noticed that I was dressed different from the 
 men I met. Nearly every one had "pants" that came clear
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 21 
 
 to his very shoe heels, while mine only came half-way up 
 my boots. They wore their coat sleeves, as I thought, 
 far too long for comfort, while none of them had a nice, 
 broad-brimmed hat like mine. Neither had any of them 
 hair so long as mine. In short, I was what might have 
 been termed real unique in my dress. It must have been 
 quite a marked difference, as nearly everybody seemed to 
 take a lively interest in my appearance, much as we were 
 when a stranger came to our village dressed differently 
 from us. We never, however, patterned after him, as our 
 village tailor, who was also our barber and horse doctor, 
 always used to say, when one of these strangely dressed 
 fellows came around : "That man don t know the first 
 thing about style." But we never tried to make him feel 
 that we noticed, as we just thought he might dress as he 
 pleased ; and I guess he would have done so, anyhow, 
 even had we spoken to him on the subject, as I have heard 
 Bill say that city people were very set in their ways. 
 
 I call to mind one young fellow in particular who once 
 came to Highmont, hunting. We called him tiie hunter, 
 but he never got any game except what he bought from 
 some of us boys who could shoot. He d pay us two prices 
 for it, too one for the game itself and the other, not to 
 tell on him, when he would be bragging about his good 
 luck, of an evening, at Carter s tavern. You should have 
 seen that hunter. He had three trunks of clothes, and 
 changed them so often that had we not gotten used to 
 his face we would have thought he was a whole company 
 of hunters. He had a peculiar scar on his right cheek, 
 which he said he had gotten in a duel over in Germany, 
 where he had been at college. He was very proud of that 
 scar. He said if a student didn t have a sword cut some 
 where about his face or head that he wasn t thought to be 
 anything. For my part, I d rather be a large nothing
 
 22 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 than to have my face made more homely than it is by a 
 cut of honor, as he called it. He told us how in Germany 
 the custom of treating was not known. It was before he 
 had learned of this that he one day offered to pay for a 
 fellow-student s drink, which insult brought on the chal 
 lenge and the cut. I couldn t help thinking how dry some 
 people would get if that custom prevailed here. 
 
 We sometimes got real mad at him. While we were 
 shooting the game for him he would be very agreeable, 
 but the minute he got into one of those changes of clothes 
 he was another man, and the other man wouldn t speak to 
 us. He would look at us through a piece of glass that he 
 had tied to a string, as though we were some rare bird or 
 beast that he would like to shoot at. This didn t scare 
 us a little bit, for we had seen him shoot. Then there 
 was another thing that made us wild mad. The young 
 girls in town acted as though he was the only real thing 
 that had ever blown into the village. No matter where 
 they were, this hunter was all they talked about. Toward 
 the latter part of his three \veeks stay the girls couldn t 
 see us boys, even when we were standing right by them. 
 One strange thing about him was that nobody knew 
 when he left town. He sent his trunks on the stage one 
 day, but he stayed right on and hunted. Then all at once, 
 when nobody suspected a thing, he was gone swallowed 
 up, as it w r ere. He was the only stranger that ever left 
 Highmont without our knowing it. 
 
 It was getting late. I had walked the full length of the 
 avenue and I had found no clue to Bill. A man went 
 with me into a drug store and looked all through a big 
 book, which he called a directory, but he couldn t find any 
 one by the name of William Van Alden, except one, a 
 banker, and his residence was in Hackensack. I knew this 
 couldn t be my Bill, for what else he might be, he was no
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 23 
 
 banker. I gave up the search for the day, and went back 
 up the road to a large hotel in front of Madison Square, 
 where I stayed all night. Next morning, when I went to 
 the desk to pay, I was amused when the fellow with a 
 small looking-glass on his shirt front thought I wanted 
 to buy the room I had used for the night. "No," I told 
 him, "I don t need it; I have no use for it. Besides, how 
 can I take it with me?" I was amused only for a short 
 time, for, when he said, "That s the price for the night," 
 it all flashed onto me then that that was why even the 
 bankers move out to Hackensack. 
 
 A real nice young man, who had heard me talking with 
 the fellow of the looking-glass front, told me that if I 
 would put an advertisement in the newspapers that I 
 wanted a room and board, that I would perhaps get some 
 answers, and I could select from them a nice place. He 
 said I had better put it in three or four papers, as, if only 
 in one, the people w r ho keep boarders might not see it. 
 I asked him where I could find the papers, and if there 
 were as many as three or four in the city. "Oh, yes," he 
 said, "and, as I am going downtown, I will show you 
 where some of them are." He pointed out six, and said if 
 he only had the time that he would point out the rest, but, 
 that being his busy day, I d have to look them out myself. 
 I forgot to say that the looking-glass man to show me 
 that there were no hard feelings said that I might have 
 the answers sent to his hotel. 
 
 I began at the first one a German paper. The clerk 
 was very sociable and nice. He told me how to write the 
 advertisement : "Wanted A nice, quiet place, quiet and 
 homelike, to board." I put it in the six papers which the 
 young man had pointed out. I didn t say it always the 
 same way tried to see how many different ways I could 
 word it, but I never failed to get in "quiet and home-
 
 24 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 like." I didn t want a noisy place, whatever else I got. 
 By the time I had visited the six papers I had acquired 
 the ad. habit to such an extent that I spent the rest of 
 the day hunting out the other newspapers in town. I 
 must have found them all, by the appearance of my 
 pocketbook at the end of the day, but, then, I was de 
 termined to find a "nice, quiet place" to board, while 
 hunting for Bill. As the papers made me pay for every 
 word I used, I saved a good many pennies by dropping 
 my last name and signing simply "A. Ruben."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "// a man knew on Tuesday what he finds out by Satur 
 day, there are a good many things that would never 
 happen." 
 
 If a man knew on Tuesday what he finds out by Satur 
 day, there are a good many things that would never 
 happen. My troubles didn t begin all at once. They just 
 grew gradually, but a very swift "gradually" it was. I 
 put in the "want" on Tuesday, and on Wednesday morn 
 ing went up to the hotel in the hope that I might find 
 some replies. "Did I find some?" I did; but you should 
 have been there on Thursday. They came in whole 
 sacks full of them like wheat at threshing time. The 
 looking-glass man was wild. "Young man," said he, 
 "this is your work, turning our hotel into a postoffice. Our 
 porters can do nothing all day but handle your mail." 
 
 The newspaper reporters, always looking for something 
 to print, swarmed around like bees at a sugar camp, and 
 the very papers that had taken my money on Tuesday came 
 out on Friday with great headlines, such as "A. Ruben 
 starts an endless chain at the - Hotel." "A. Ruben s 
 correspondence grows." "He wants a quiet boarding 
 place," etc. Some of them had my picture and a sketch 
 of my life, both of which were as correct as pictures and 
 sketches usually are in the daily papers. But most of them 
 confined themselves to reporting the great rush of business 
 at the hotel. By Saturday the suburban towns began to 
 
 25
 
 26 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 be heard from, with: "I have just noticed your advertise 
 ment, and 1 am sure I have the very place you are looking 
 for." Many of the writers, not satisfied with extolling 
 their places, went on to give a complete history of their 
 family, "merely to show you who we are that we are 
 not ordinary people. What, with letters still coming in 
 from the city, and the country replies added to them, 
 things were very exciting at this particular hotel. The 
 clerk grew desperate and said if I would only change my 
 address that he would give me back what he had charged 
 for the room and pay me ten dollars besides. I had hardly 
 accepted the offer when a real bright-looking young man 
 came up and said that he had been hunting for me said he 
 would give me twenty-five dollars for my mail, and that I 
 might change my address to his office. I could not think 
 what use he could make of it, but I accepted his offer and 
 made the change, glad to get out of the matter so easily 
 and so much ahead in the transaction. I learned that he 
 bought the mail for the addresses. He told me a week 
 or so after that he had never before known that New York 
 had so many "quiet, homelike places." It made him feel 
 real homesick, he said, to read some of the letters. He was 
 from a large town in Pennsylvania, he told me. 
 
 I selected a place on a side street, near Fifth avenue. 
 It proved to be a typical New York Boarding House, with 
 big capitals. There were a good many boarders beside 
 myself. I shall never forget my first supper or, as they 
 called it, dinner. Everybody was so sociable, and all 
 wanted to talk with me. I had never considered myself a 
 humorist, yet they all laughed at whatever I said and made 
 me feel right at home. Some of the young men seemed to 
 me real born statesmen, the way they could talk on the 
 great topics of the day. One, whom I afterward learned 
 was a clerk in the thread department of a Sixth avenue
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 27 
 
 store, said : "The way the President is running- the affairs 
 of this Nation is an outrage. If I had the matters in hand, 
 they would be run in an altogether different manner." 
 Then, turning to me, he wanted to know : "Ruben, what do 
 you think of it? What is your opinion?" 
 
 "I have no opinion," said I. "If I could tell the Presi 
 dent how to run the national affairs he might want me in 
 his Cabinet, and I haven t the time; I am here hunting for 
 my friend Bill." Then they all laughed, and the young 
 statesman stopped talking. I was real sorry, because he 
 was a good talker and I liked to hear him. 
 
 Another of the men "The Heathen," they called him 
 like all heathens, he seemed to think that everybody but 
 himself was in the wrong. There was nothing in the Bible 
 worth believing the whole thing was one great big mis 
 take. He said that Moses "if there ever was such a per 
 son as Moses had made a great many mistakes" as he 
 said "many were very grievous mistakes." Then, like 
 the young statesman, he wanted to know of me if I didn t 
 think so, too? 
 
 "Oh, yes," said I, "I guess he did ; but he should be 
 pardoned, as he never had the advantages of a New York 
 boarding-house, where he might have learned just what 
 to do to escape those grave errors of which he is accused." 
 He looked very angry just then, but he did not say any 
 thing more about Moses. 
 
 They talked about many things I had never before heard 
 of. A fine-looking young man at my left, who I learned 
 next day from one of the other boarders was an actor in 
 the theatre or expected to> be as soon as his agent found 
 him a place told us all about why a man by the name of 
 Forrest was not a real good actor. I was much interested 
 in his great display of theatrical knowledge, but feared for 
 the young man, if this Mr. Forrest should ever get to hear
 
 2 g MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 what he had said about him. I said as much to the lady 
 who sat at my side. "I wonder," said I, "what Mr. Forrest 
 would say if he should hear the way his character is being 
 torn up?" She laughed right out, and said that Air. For 
 rest was dead. "Then," said I, "the young man is safe." 
 
 I never heard so many weighty matters decided so con 
 clusively before as at that table. It made me feel, as I sat 
 there listening, that my education had been sadly neg 
 lected. Very few subjects on which they discoursed so 
 ably had I ever even heard mentioned before. 
 
 "Ruben," asked the man with the red whiskers, "what 
 do you do in winter time out where you live?" I was 
 very grateful to him, for I was beginning to feel out of 
 place, surrounded by so many intellectual lights. Now I 
 could talk a while on things which I knew more about 
 than they did. I said we had "spelling matches, school 
 exhibitions, corn huskings, apple cuttings, turkey shooting 
 matches." "Come, now," said he, "Ruben tell us about 
 those shooting matches. What are they like? How do 
 you do it? Does the fellow who shoots the best always 
 get the turkey?" 
 
 "Not always," I answered. 
 
 "Why not always?" Then I had to tell them about the 
 time when the other fellow got the turkey.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "It is not always the best shot that wins the turkey." 
 
 "I was only eight years old when I ran off from home 
 one day one Christmas day, I remember it well. There 
 was going to be a great shooting match down in the 
 woods pasture. It had been talked about so much that I 
 felt I just couldn t miss it. I knew what the penalty would 
 be if father should get to hear of my being there, but you 
 all know the risk the boys will take to do something they 
 know is forbidden them to do. Well, I went. During 
 the early part of the match I hung around the edge of the 
 crowd, afraid that I might be seen by some one who would 
 carry the fact home to father, but soon the match became 
 so exciting that a whole score of small boys of my size 
 could walk unseen by both participants and onlookers, and 
 I came boldly out and watched the game. There was 
 Captain Scott Martin, captain of the old militia company, 
 which did great service in the village up to the time 
 they were about to be called out for active service, when 
 they disbanded ; Uncle Dave Carter, the Ritter boys, John 
 Flick and a lot of others all good shots. One after 
 another won his turkey. The interest ran high. Scott 
 Martin was ahead, with four turkeys to the good. I was 
 now becoming fairly wild with the excitement. What 
 matter if I had been taught that it was very wicked to 
 shoot for turkeys, when there, before my little eyes, was 
 the very last turkey being put up the last one the finest
 
 30 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 old gobbler of the lot? Men, I couldn t stand it. The 
 temptation was too great for my young sporting blood. I 
 had ten cents, and took a chance. Now for the trial of 
 skill, men against the boy, and 1 the boy. Excited ! do you 
 ask? Never so much in my life, before or since. I 
 couldn t be still. Like a young charger going into his 
 first skirmish, I pranced about, awaiting my turn to shoot. 
 Captain Martin let off. 
 
 " Good shot, cried the marker. Next, Joe Ritter let 
 fly, and missed the board amid cries of Get him a barn 
 door. John Milt made a good shot, while John Flick 
 cut just inside of Martin s try. But when Turm Neff, 
 who had just arrived, came up to shoot, everybody as 
 good as conceded to him the turkey, he being the best 
 marksman in the county, with perhaps the exception of 
 his old uncle, Abe Shockey, the deer hunter and trapper. 
 Turm knew that there was very little space for a ball 
 being placed between the last shot and the centre. He 
 took his own time, and when he fired he was so near 
 the tack that the crowd cried out, Bawkman, the bird s 
 yours, and he went over and picked it up. 
 
 "You should have heard them all laugh when I piped 
 out, at the top of my voice : Say, I hain t shot yit ! 
 
 Rube, you just save your powder, and Turm will give 
 you the "drumstick," won t you "Daddy"? (Turman 
 had no end of nicknames.) 
 
 ( Yes, Rube, that s a nice little boy ; you may shoot 
 next year. I would not have it that way, as I knew 
 that I could, at least, beat Joe Ritter s shot, and when 
 I insisted they let me shoot, I suppose to please me. I had 
 been used to a gun ever since I was five years old my 
 earliest prayer, I remember, was for a gun and a drum. 
 Everybody was now on tip-toe of excitement the novelty 
 of seeing a child take part in a turkey shooting match
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 31 
 
 and that child the son of a deacon, who thought every 
 thing was wicked that had the smallest mite of sport in it 
 was great, even in a country where boys were taught to 
 use firearms. Being only a little boy, they let me rest 
 my gun on a big stone. I took, oh ! such good aim, held 
 my breath and pulled the trigger. Whether by acci 
 dent or actual skill, I struck the very centre, and won 
 the finest turkey of the day. The cheer that went up at 
 my supposed fine marksmanship was so loud that it woke 
 up my conscience to the enormity of the crime I had just 
 committed. Why had I gambled, and won a turkey at a 
 shooting match? I, the good little Sunday school boy, 
 shooting for a turkey ! I remember to this day how I 
 felt under the lashing of conscience at that hour. By the 
 time conscience had me thoroughly worked up Cousin 
 John McDonald came over to where I stood trembling 
 with my prize. 
 
 " Rube, said he, I want that turkey! 
 
 You shall not have it, I cried. It s mine; I beat all 
 the men and won it fairly. 
 
 "Do you believe it, John wouldn t even argue the ques 
 tion with me. He just stood there and said : Rube, I want 
 that turkey, and if you don t give it to me I ll tell your 
 father. Argument was not necessary after that ; John 
 knew it, and got the gobbler. That s the only time I re 
 member of the other fellow getting the turkey." 
 
 After this they used every night to call for more country 
 stories. They said they wanted to make an "after-dinner 
 speaker" out of me, and knew no better way of giving me 
 practice. I have thought many times since that they were 
 only wanting to have "fun with me," as Bill would say. 
 Be that as it may, they were very kind, and always listened 
 when I told them of the country and its people. I told 
 them my notion of the difference between the country
 
 3 2 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 boy and the city boy. I talked much as though "speaking 
 a piece." 
 
 "The country boy is born and "raised" amid surround 
 ings that seldom change. Winter follows summer, and 
 summer in turn follows winter. The seed is sown and the 
 harvest is gathered. The years come and go, one so like 
 the other that he scarce notes their flight. He sees nothing 
 new, he hears nothing new. The teacher at the village 
 school and usually there is a new one each year begins 
 in the fall and gets just so far by spring. Next year it is 
 the same routine. If the boy has learned anything, it is no 
 credit to the teacher, but in spite of the teacher, who, in 
 many cases, has taken the position as a means of getting 
 money for his own education which he is so sadly in need 
 of. The preacher (this refers to the old school, not the 
 progressive new) he has to listen to, or be "licked," is 
 usually one who can t possibly get a "call" any place else. 
 While this preacher may not be brilliant, he is real good 
 that s all, just good but, oh, how long he can preach, as 
 though he were \vorking by the hour and wanted to get in 
 all the time he could. I used to call them "opiates." 
 Father never heard me call them that but once that once 
 was enough for me. Ever after that I was careful to see 
 that father and I were in different localities when I had 
 aught to say on the subject of "opiates." That reminds 
 me of how angry I got at Bill one day. He and I were 
 at preaching, it was in about the third hour of the dis 
 course, when he woke me up all of a sudden to look across 
 at Aunt Sinda, who was sound asleep. It was very mean 
 of Bill. There may be a library in the village, near by, but 
 the book that passes the scrutiny of the committee, com 
 posed usually of the preacher, deacon and some members 
 of the sewing circle, is not one to make a boy sit up o 
 nights to read.
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 33 
 
 "I must not forget to mention the "hired hand." He is 
 an "institution" in country life that must not be passed 
 lightly over. The education which the country boy gets 
 at this "institution" may not be good, but it is very lasting. 
 
 The "hired hand" is never happier than when he can get 
 a boy to believe his stories. My experience with him leads 
 me to believe that Munchausen was a "hired hand." I 
 was always a favorite boy with him the "hired hand," 
 not Munchausen. He told me many strange things that 
 occurred in "the ould counthry." They always occurred 
 away off, which gave them added wonderment for me. 
 As an illustration of these stories, I think it was Dennis 
 O Donahue, or well, I am sure his first name was Dennis 
 who told me about how, in his country, there was a law 
 against using guns to hunt with, and how the poor people 
 had to raise "cat burds" and hunt with them, instead of 
 with guns. By this time my interest was at its height, 
 and I wanted to know how they raised the cat birds. Said 
 Dennis : 
 
 "Ye first make a nist ov sthraw, nixt ye git a duzzin aigs 
 bin s aigs thin ye git a noise, gintle cat, and aim the 
 aigs sit the cat, and whin the aigs hatch out ye have a baste 
 that has the dubble power of the cat and the burd the 
 burd part duz the flyin and the cat part duz the catchin 
 of the gaim, and there ye are. It bates the gun, and no 
 law agin it." 
 
 It took my poor little hands a month to get w r ell of the 
 scratches, all on account of that story. I remember how 
 I spent that whole afternoon trying to induce "Old Tom" 
 to sit, but "Old Tom" wasn t a "gintle cat." 
 
 ******** 
 
 Old Mike I always loved Old Mike. That is what 
 everybody called him, almost as soon as he came to live at 
 Highmont. Some said it was because there was another 
 Mike living in the village, but I never thought so. At first
 
 34 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 the other Mike was called "Little Mike," but when he 
 grew up to be a man they were both little, and the name 
 seemed not appropriate, so they went one being one Old 
 Mike" and the other "The Other Mike." 
 
 When I was young I was very good. The younger 
 the better I was. I used to try to get the hired hands to 
 go with me to "meeting." 
 
 I never succeeded with Old Mike but once, and then I 
 remember I was very much frightened in the second hour 
 of the sermon. The preacher was on the subject of Sam 
 son. Now, as long 1 as he talked about the great strength 
 of that giant it was all right, but the very moment he 
 began to draw comparisons with other giants I could see 
 that there was trouble in Old Mike s eye. I should have 
 spoken of a peculiarity of some of the old-school expound 
 ers. They thought, to be impressive, that they must sing 
 their sermons. This particular preacher was a member of 
 that school in good standing-. To say, however, that he 
 sang his sermon does not mean that he had a musical 
 voice ; far from it. He rather sang it on a tremolo key 
 with a rising and falling inflection, but with no regularity 
 of tone whatever sort of a "go as you please" style but 
 one which was not a pleasing style, by any means. 
 
 As I was saying, the preacher was on the subject of 
 Samson. He was going along somewhere between the 
 gates of Gaza and the hair cut, with the giant, when he 
 stopped to dwell on the great strength of his subject. To 
 make it more impressive, he was wont to repeat a good 
 deal. 
 
 "Yes, dear brethering," he sang, "Samsing was a terri 
 ble giant. Of all the terrible giants that ever lived, 
 Samsing was the terriblest." Old Mike grew uneasy; he 
 seemed about to get up, but I held him down with my little 
 hand as best I could, while the preacher went on, now 
 fully wrought up w r ith his subject:
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 35 
 
 "Yes, dear brethering, Samson was a terrible giant. 
 Of all the terrible giants that ever lived, Samson was the 
 terriblest. He could take all the other giants that ever 
 lived and handle them as easy as a schoolmarm could 
 handle the baby class. : 
 
 This was too much for Old Mike s loyalty to one of the 
 giants of the "ould country." He jumped up on the seat, 
 and, trembling with rage, told the preacher : "That s a lie 
 far ye. Thare s Filly Mackoo, fram the Narth of Oire- 
 land, who could whup hill s blazes out of him in wan 
 minut," and out he stalked, pulling me after him. He 
 never would go> with me to meeting again after that. 
 
 The poor man died last summer. Some said he was 106 
 years old; some said he was only 90. His own family 
 did not know, but nobody ever denied that he was "Old 
 Mike." 
 
 I must not forget "Brandy." I never knew why they 
 called him that, but "Brandy" is the only name I now re 
 member as belonging to him. People who knew said he 
 was a typical Southern darkey. He came to Highmont 
 after the "wall." Brandy asked me one day : 
 
 "Rube, du yu kno why de dahkies nevah gits de mania 
 pouchey de delerium tremblers?" 
 
 "No, Brandy," said I, "I do not." 
 
 "Well, Rube, yu see it s dis way. De dahkies da dun 
 drink, and da drink, and da drink, but jest foh da gits em 
 clar munny gins out an da dun haf tu stop." 
 
 I used to think, after that, that Brandy must be a very 
 rich darkey. 
 
 One day he called from the barn, where he had been 
 sent to shovel over a pile of wheat that was in danger of 
 "heating." He called to me: "Rube, wha s dat tarmil 
 skupe shuvul?" "Wait a minute till I think," said I, 
 trying to recall where it had been left, but something took
 
 36 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 my attention just at that time. I forgot all abount Brandy 
 until almost night, when I went out to the barn and found 
 him sound asleep. 
 
 "Here, Brandy ; wake up. What have you been doing 
 all the afternoon ?" 
 
 "Massah Rube, I wus dun waitin fob yu tu fink, jes 
 like yu dun tole me tu." 
 
 Then there was Jake, from Holland. Jake told us 
 children such horrible stories about Holland that I have 
 never been proud of my great grandmother s native home 
 since, But Jake went to Baltimore, and from a "hired 
 hand" he became a millionaire, so I have long ago for 
 given him. 
 
 Worse than hired hands are the hired girls. They run 
 to witch stories and are never happier than when they 
 can get the country boy so frightened that he cannot sleep. 
 Her stories make him real glad that they once burned 
 witches in Salem. 
 
 Now, with this line of education, is it any wonder that 
 the country boy is not up to date ? 
 
 On the other hand, is the city boy. All I know of him 
 is what Bill told me. Bill says he is brought up more care 
 fully than our sweet potato plants in the spring. He has a 
 nurse to watch over him and a teacher all to himself, 
 who has nothing to do but just see that his A, B, C s are 
 correctly learned. He is sent away to college, where he 
 learns football, boxing, rowing and other branches, and 
 comes out a polished gentleman and joins a club called the 
 Four Hundred. 
 
 I was greatly surprised one clay when Bill told me all 
 these things about the city boy, to have him finish with : 
 "But, then, most of the great men of New York city were 
 brought up in the country."
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "Between Ireland and the Valley of Virginia, New York 
 is having a close call." 
 
 At this point the Biographer, who sat over at a side 
 table, became very enthusiastic in praise of the "country 
 bumpkin," as the smart boarder had called us. The 
 Biographer had been a country boy himself and had much 
 to say in praise of him. Said he, among other things : 
 
 "The most remarkable instance I know is of a large 
 number of young men who came to New York from a 
 little town in the Valley of Virginia. 
 
 "So many had left the village that those few who re 
 mained were as popular with the girls as the man at a 
 summer resort. 
 
 "They came to this great city, and from a small begin 
 ning, as they were all poor, have worked their way up to 
 the foremost positions in finance, commerce, the profes 
 sions and politics especially politics so many having 
 already become leaders and Assemblymen that between 
 Ireland and the Valley of Virginia New York is having a 
 close call. 
 
 "I would speak particularly of one of these Virginians, 
 who, when he came, was very, very poor, but who is now 
 a millionaire, and known throughout the length and 
 breadth of the country as the Merchant Prince. 
 
 "Men who were high in commercial life when he came 
 
 37
 
 38 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 to New York, and who refused him a place, have since 
 worked for him as clerks. 
 
 "He has never forgotten his old home, and scarce a 
 year passes that he does not send thousands of dollars, for 
 various purposes, to Virginia. 
 
 "Monuments of stone and marble stand to-day in many 
 a Southern city as gifts from this once poor country boy, 
 but now generous man of wealth. Nor is his generosity 
 bounded by a Southern line, as here and there are being 
 placed statues of enduring bronze in many of our North 
 ern parks. 
 
 "The declining days of many a pensionless old soldier, 
 if it were known, are made pleasant days by this success 
 ful man. 
 
 "Yes, Ruben, your friend Bill is right. Take out of any 
 city the country boy, with his bright, cheery push and 
 energy, and that city will soon lose its position among its 
 sisters." 
 
 This speech of the Biographer quite nettled the smart 
 boarder, a young doctor, a city-bred man, who wanted to 
 know, with much sarcasm in his inquiry, if "our late 
 arrival" meaning me "was a fair specimen of the 
 genus verd ?" 
 
 Everybody looked at me, but I made as though I did not 
 understand his meaning, and made no reply to his rude 
 ness. 
 
 This doctor was ever talking about the great advance 
 ment that medicine and surgery had made, and, like many 
 other people who talk incessantly, he often said inappro 
 priate things. 
 
 Just after his "genus verd" speech he spoke about a 
 new discovery of medical science, and told us how that 
 by means of heat and steam that a man might reduce his 
 weight. The idea of speaking of such a thing at a
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 39 
 
 boarding-house. Nobody seemed to appreciate it but the 
 landlady, who smiled pleased-like. 
 
 I thought that just here was a good place to return his 
 rudeness, so I said: "Why, that is nothing! Everybody 
 always knew that a doctor could make a man poorer/ 
 even without doing it by steam." The landlady didn t 
 smile, but the rest did, and I felt less embarrassed about 
 the doctor s Latin, which ever after he used only for 
 medicinal purposes.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 "I picked him up easy like and threw Jiim out into the 
 road. They guessed I was real after that." 
 
 One morning I asked the young statesman, to whom I 
 had taken a liking, if he would tell me how I could find 
 the Bowery. I don t know why the question should have 
 amused him so much, but he laughed a good deal before he 
 said : "Ruben, if I were you I wouldn t go over there 
 alone." But he told me the way, nevertheless, and I 
 went down in the afternoon. It was not at all like 
 Fifth avenue. I could not have believed it possible that 
 there could be so vast a difference in two streets of the 
 same city. 
 
 Jf I had bought clothes at every place where I was in 
 vited in I could have stocked four stores back home. 
 They not only invited me in, but at some of the stores the 
 whole family came out and insisted on taking me in bodily, 
 and I think they felt really offended because I refused. 
 But I was firm ; I refused them all, as I was quite well 
 satisfied with my own home suit. 
 
 I was much attracted by places they called museums, 
 where they had more strange things than I had ever heard 
 of, much less seen. They had calves with more heads 
 than they could possibly use ; snakes larger than any old 
 "toper" ever dreamed of; monkeys that looked enough 
 like Dennis O Donahue to have been his own brother; 
 women four times as large as old Mrs. Smithers at home ; 
 men who were so thin that they rattled \vhen they walked. 
 I asked one of them how he got so slender. He said that 
 
 40
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 41 
 
 he had always boarded since he came to New York, but 
 I couldn t see what that had to do with it I guess he 
 couldn t have fully understood my question. 
 
 These museums nearly all had Red Jacket s scalp, and 
 Tecumseh s tomahawk ; but what I could not understand 
 at all was why so many of them had the head of Guiteau, 
 done up in alcohol. I should have thought, after his ter 
 rible deed, that he would have been satisfied to let just 
 one of them have it ; but it was in all of them, nearly as 
 large as life, each with a certificate from Guiteau himself 
 that "this is my head the only genuine one in town." 
 
 I forgot to say that I did not have to pay a cent to get 
 in any of the museums, and I certainly must have seen 
 them all. When I would come up in front of one of them 
 and stop, the crowd that followed me from one to the 
 other always stopped, too. The fellow at the door I 
 didn t know any of them from Adam would always say : 
 "Rube, step right in ; I heard you was comin ." All I 
 had to do was to walk in. The crowd that was along, 
 however, had to pay. One or two of the fellows who 
 were following along wanted to know if I was "real." 
 That was the queerest question I ever had put to me. 
 "Of course I am real," I answered, indignantly. 
 
 At one of these museums they had a regular school 
 exhibition only they didn t speak real pieces or have 
 nice dialogues like we had at Robbin s Exhibition. 
 They just sang the silliest songs I had ever heard, and 
 said in a number of places, and in sub-cellar voices, that 
 "the villain still pursued her." If "her" was anything 
 like those I saw on the platform, I would have been sorry 
 for the villain. I never saw such dressing, or the lack 
 of it, rather. Some of the girls who took part didn t have 
 any skirt dresses on at all, and what they did wear was 
 as tight as a hunter s buckskin suit after a hard rain.
 
 42 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 Why, I just had to turn my head away until I got used 
 to it which must have taken me two or three minutes. 
 
 What took my attention most of all \vas a big "rassler" 
 they had. That fellow could throw down every one who 
 would wrestle with him. The man who ran the exhibi 
 tion came out to the edge of the platform after the wrest 
 ler had thrown every one down he could get hold of. 
 Said he : "Ladies and gentlemen Professor Throwum, 
 whom you see before you to-day is the champeen rasler 
 of New York city. He expected the champeen of Wee- 
 hawkin this afternoon, but we have just received a tele 
 gram that he had missed the ferry boat and that he cannot 
 reach here in time. We are very sorry, but rather than 
 to disappoint yon, the management has concluded to offer 
 ten dollars to the man whom the professor cannot throw 
 down in four minutes, and to make it fifteen dollars if 
 the man can throw the professor." The whole house 
 and it was nearly full rose up to cheer. I felt my blood 
 boil. I, the champion of Highmont and vicinity, I just 
 held on to the bench and never said a word, but w T hen 
 that fellow who> ran the show came out again and said, 
 "I guess you women are all cowards," I just couldn t 
 stand it, and got right up. They all knew 7 me, somehow, 
 and cried out : "Reuben, go up and get your fifteen 
 dollars." 
 
 I went I could take no dare like that. The man up 
 there turned to the crowd of people and asked : "Has 
 this boy any friends here?" 
 
 "Yes; we are all his friends." 
 
 "No, I don t mean that. Has he any relatives to look 
 after him after the Professor gets through with him? 
 No one? Well," then to me, "my dear young man, to 
 what address will we send you ? Have you any choice 
 of hospital?"
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 43 
 
 I knew that he was only trying to scare me, so I told 
 him : "I will not trouble you to send me to any of them, 
 as they are not looking for me to-day." 
 
 At that the crowd stood right up and shook hands with 
 itself, and said : "Reuben, you re game ! All this while 
 I was looking at the Professor to see how large he was. 
 He was smaller but much heavier than I. I run to length. 
 People used to call me Abe because, as they said, I 
 looked so much like Abe Lincoln, only that I was not so 
 good looking as Abe. 
 
 The manager began again : "Is there an insurance 
 agent in the house? If so, please step up and write a 
 policy for our brave young friend. None here? Then > 
 Ruben, you will have to carry your own risk." 
 
 "None to carry," I told him, and the crowd was with 
 me. When he called "Ready!" I never saw as quick a 
 man in my life as that Professor. He had hold of me, 
 and before I knew what he was doing he nearly had me 
 off my feet ; but I soon got myself righted, and in order 
 that I might, at least, be sure of the ten dollars, I did 
 nothing for the first four minutes, except to keep him 
 from throwing me. The man with the watch cheated me 
 out of one minute, but the crowd made such an outcry 
 against it that he had to call "Time !" and they made him 
 pay me the money on the spot. I wanted to stop at that, 
 but the crowd would not hear to it. They had been so 
 friendly toward me that I felt to quit would be treating 
 them unfairly. So I told the manager that, "I will only 
 take the other five dollars to please my friends." 
 
 "Young man, your friends will be a good deal harder 
 to please than you think for." He did not speak with the 
 same loud tone that he had used before. Again, 
 "Ready!" This time I was watching. 
 
 During the five minutes we had wrestled I had caught
 
 44 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 most of the Professor s trips, and found that he did not 
 know the one we used back home. We had not been to 
 gether much over half a minute when I used the "grape 
 vine" on him. Here s where my long legs came into 
 play. I caught him so quick that he could not gather 
 hirrfself, and threw him so hard that I was really scared. 
 Would you believe it the crowd wanted to get on the 
 platform with me ! They were standing on top of the 
 seats and trying to lift the very roof with their voices. 
 Robbin s Exhibition was no comparison to this one for 
 real, downright enjoyment for the crowd, if one were to 
 judge by the noise they made; and that Robbin s affair, 
 too the one great event from which all Highmont enter 
 tainments have dated and been compared quite the finest 
 thing that ever happened in all those parts. Of course, 
 I don t mean to say that this Bowery exhibition was as 
 good I only say that there was more noise and appear 
 ance of enjoyment. When the man gave me the other 
 five dollars he said that if I would come and "rassel" every 
 day he would pay me fifty dollars a week and one "benefit 
 a month. "Now, while that seemed a fortune to me, I 
 had to tell him that I had not come to New York to 
 "rassel," but to find my friend Bill. The crowd wanted 
 to know if I were going to the "hospital," and if I wanted 
 to "get my life insured," or if I had any "relative" to look 
 after me. The man did not take nearly so much interest 
 in all this as he did when he was doing the talking. I 
 had only wrestled to learn some new trips I learned a 
 number. 
 
 I was going along quietly about five o clock sort o 
 Between museums, as it were when a young man stepped 
 up to me from a saloon door and said : "Say, young 
 feller, we re onto yer. Now git out." I told him that 
 T guessed he wasn t onto me, and that if he was he had
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 45 
 
 better get off before I found it out. At that the crowd 
 laughed. He got very angry, and without the least provo 
 cation went as though he would hit me ; but I picked him 
 up, easy like, and threw him out into the road and walked 
 on. I wanted to know if there was anybody else "onto" 
 me, but there didn t seem to be any, so I walked on to 
 the next museum. As I went along, after I had tossed 
 the fellow out into the road, I heard several of my "fol 
 lowers" say, "I guess he is real." 
 
 That night at the supper table I told all about my ex 
 periences of the afternoon, and they were greatly inter 
 ested. 
 
 A very thin-looking young man at the end of the table, 
 who had not spoken before, asked in a very gentle, clear 
 voice : "I beg your pardon, my dear sir, but what did 
 I understand you to say you had earned with five and 
 three-quarters minutes of actual effort?" I told him that 
 I had been paid fifteen dollars. 
 
 "And pardon me further," said he; "w T hat did you say 
 they had offered you for each week?" 
 
 "Fifty dollars a week," said I, "and only fifteen minutes 
 work twice a clay, and something they called a, benefit 
 once a month if I would stay three months." He did not 
 address me further, but I heard him say to the man sitting 
 beside him : "I fear I have missed my calling." 
 
 The Statesman told me the next morning that but little 
 was known of this young man, further than that he had 
 graduated a few months before at one of the great colleges 
 of the country, and that he had been what was known as 
 "medal man." He took all the prizes, and was a very 
 great favorite at the college. The newspapers all said 
 when he graduated that "His future is assured." 
 
 "He came to New York," said the Statesman, "and has 
 boarded here ever since. For three months now he eats
 
 46 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 but one meal a day, and the landlady good soul that 
 she is ! says that for the past two months he has paid 
 her nothing, but that he will, as he is so good. Nobody 
 knows what he does, but we do notice him growing frailer 
 each week, and his cheeks more sunken." Really, I was 
 so sorry for him that I could hardly keep the tears from 
 my eyes when I heard this about him. When he came to 
 supper next day I met him in the hallway, and told him 
 that when I made any money real easy that I had a habit 
 of giving it away to the first man who took my fancy, 
 and asked him if he \vould let me give him the fifteen 
 dollars I had made in five and three-quarters minutes. 
 I said that if he refused I would be put to the trouble 
 of finding some one else to give it to. 
 
 "My dear friend, I cannot take this money as a gift, 
 and I have nothing to give you in exchange for it no, 
 I cannot accept it." 
 
 "I ll tell you how we can fix that. I will loan it to 
 you, and take your note, and you can pay it when you 
 can." He gave me his note, which I tore up when he 
 was not looking, and threw it into the fire. The States 
 man said afterward : "The preacher must have struck 
 it/ as he has paid the landlady some money ;" but I never 
 said a word.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "A debt of honor lias no limitation." 
 
 The bald-headed Broker told me one day that he would 
 like to help the "preacher," as he called the "medal man," 
 but that his experience in giving money to help "deserv 
 ing (?) persons" had been very unsatisfactory that very 
 few of all the number were worthy of even a passing 
 notice. I said something about the "bread on the water" 
 story. 
 
 "Yes," said he, "and if you keep it up you will find 
 it all end in a bread and water story." I felt like calling 
 him a heartless, cruel man ; but he told me some of his 
 experience in helping people. 
 
 He said that he had been what the boys call "a real 
 good thing," and that they had "pushed him along." 
 
 "I think," said he, beginning as though to tell a story 
 to excuse himself for his heartlessness, "it must have 
 been in about 188 . I was then on Twenty-fourth street. 
 At the same place where I boarded was a young man from 
 my own home in the West Ohio. He was studying 
 medicine. Three days before he was to graduate I missed 
 him. Nobody knew where Dan was, and yet all of us 
 wondered not a little, as we felt the time was short. Dan 
 was not a regular drinker, but would occasionally take a 
 day or two off. The night before graduating day a mes 
 senger brought me a badly-foiled envelope. I opened it 
 
 47
 
 48 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 and found what was meant to be a letter. By great and 
 persevering effort I made out the following: 
 
 Shay fer shee good name your home cum an git 
 me Few dont cum en git me an fix me up we are 
 lost termorrer s zee day few ony cum an git me I le 
 bles you til dyin day an pay you back ever cent hav 
 
 spent all my mony a nt got a d cent left. Am at 
 
 Odermans up stairs back rum god sake cum an git 
 me an cum quik 
 
 "There was no name to it, but I knew it was from 
 Dan. Say, Ruben, if you had seen him you would have 
 been touched I was, to the extent of $40. He was a 
 sight. I had to take him, and get him clothes from top 
 to toe fixed him all up, and he graduated with honors, 
 as he was a brilliant man, handsome as a Greek god, and 
 a genial good fellow when himself. He got a position at 
 once in the greatest asylum up the State." 
 
 "Did he pay you back the $40?" I asked. 
 
 "No," said he. "I was then rich, and did not need it. 
 Years later I met with reverses, and wrote to Dan for 
 the money he having prospered. I explained my situa 
 tion, and that I was actually in sore need of the money. 
 Imagine my feelings when he wrote back : Your claim 
 is outlawed by the statute of limitation. 
 
 "All I could reply to that was : Dan, a debt of honor 
 has no limitation ; but he never wrote to me again. The 
 bread has never returned, though many days have 
 passed, and some of them very hungry ones." 
 
 I had nothing to say, but wondered if there were many 
 like Dan. I asked him if his experience as Good Sa 
 maritan had always been ill. 
 
 "Few exceptions. Why. I once saved a young man s 
 life who was sick unto death in a boarding house. I took 
 him to a hospital, and had him placed in a private room,
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 49 
 
 and paid liberally that he might have the best of care. 
 He got well, after weeks of delirium. He, too, prospered, 
 but has not only not repaid me the expenses of his illness, 
 but has since defrauded me out of thousands of dollars 
 himself and made it possible for me to lose thousands 
 more through others. But, Ruben, lest you think that all 
 the world is bad, with no good in it, I will tell you of 
 an exception in my varied experience, which has always 
 been to me a source of pleasure. I was at college in 
 
 D , Ohio. In the winter of 1866, near the middle of 
 
 the term, one of the boys, who knew me well, said : I 
 will have to give up my money is all gone. Being 
 young and with a rich father, I could not appreciate what 
 it meant to reach the end of one s means. 
 
 " Why don t you send home for more? I asked. 
 " I have no place to send. I am all alone in the world. 
 Well, we were soon a committee of ways and means, and 
 by next day we found that $27 would buy a complete 
 stencil outfit. I took cheap quarters, boarded myself, 
 and thus saved out of my allowance the $27 which W T C 
 had at once sent away for the outfit. it came. The 
 boys who, for advertising purposes, had been let into 
 the scheme, all needed stencil plates, and he was soon 
 making money. He went through college and graduated 
 with honor, as he was a remarkably fine student. He 
 traveled in Europe to study its educational systems, pay 
 ing his way with his pen. He was a brilliant writer, and 
 found no trouble in the sale of his European articles. 
 On his return to America, he sent me the old loan, with 
 compound interest. To-day he is one of the big educators 
 of this country, and I am proud of him." 
 
 "And again, Ruben," continued the broker, "I call to 
 mind another instance for the credit side. This story has 
 in it a bit of romance.
 
 50 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 Like yourself, I was reared in the country. Several 
 miles from the home place my father owned another farm, 
 to which we used often to go. We had to pass through 
 a lane off from the main road to reach it. Beside this 
 lane stood a log cabin. I used often to watch a large 
 family of children playing about it. Among the number 
 was one in particular a little girl. She was not like the 
 rest. She cared not for dolls and toys which other chil 
 dren loved. She was ever drawing pictures, and, not 
 knowing anything about paints, she used as colors the 
 juices of berries and flowers. 
 
 "Her work, for a child, was so remarkable that I took 
 an interest in her. I found for her, at a near-by town, 
 a drawing teacher. Her progress was so rapid that she 
 soon had learned all that this teacher could impart. She 
 had learned, however, much of the principle of drawing, 
 and worked on at her home. When she grew older I sent 
 her away to a great city, where she became an artist o>f 
 note. She painted for me many pictures in part pay 
 ment, as she used often to say. Those pictures I shall 
 always keep. 
 
 "I told you there was a romance connected with this 
 story. There was to be in the great city an exhibition of 
 paintings. Artists from many States brought their pro 
 ductions. My protege was of the number. Her work 
 attracted much attention. During the thronged hours it 
 was hard to get near her masterpiece. The subject of 
 this was a simple one. but. oh, how she had brought out 
 the detail ! As you looked at it. you could almost see 
 the children move who were playing about a little log 
 cabin that stood beside a narrow lane. At the gate leaned 
 a young man watching the children at play. Yes, Ruben, 
 the face of the young man might have been taken for 
 mine when I was younger. But to the romance. A very
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 51 
 
 wealthy gentleman from an adjoining State purchased the 
 picture, paying for it a large sum. He sought out the 
 artist, and well, my protege is now his wife. 
 
 "The only thing she has to remind her of the log cabin 
 is the masterpiece, which hangs in the art gallery of her 
 palatial home." 
 
 I just felt that these two stories made up for many 
 "Dans," and I was glad I had given the fifteen dollars 
 to the poor young man.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "Feed a hungry man and he will feel grateful to you till 
 his appetite is gone." 
 
 The bald-headed broker was a queer combination. He 
 was a success and yet a failure. If the enterprise de 
 pended on his own effort, he succeeded, as nothing could 
 daunt him or turn him aside from the object in view, but 
 the moment he had to depend upon another the enterprise 
 would fail seemingly no reason for it, but it would fail. 
 There was nothing too large for him to attempt, and he 
 was never caught unaware. He might go to a capitalist 
 with a proposition requiring a few thousand dollars, and 
 when told that, "We do not entertain anything so small 
 as that," he would at once offer one requiring millions and 
 show its feasibility. I used often to think he had little 
 to encourage him, yet he was always cheerful. "Look on 
 the bright side," he would say; "and, like the late Brick 
 Pomeroy, if you have no bright side, take a white-wash 
 brush and paint one. Many times I have run out of paint 
 or worn the brush to the very wood, and had nothing but 
 the black wall to look upon, and yet before it got all dark 
 a little ray of sunshine would come, and I was again 
 happy." 
 
 One of his enterprises has since succeeded, and he is 
 once more very rich, but he is the same genial man, w r ith 
 a kind word for the most lowly. Some of the boys say 
 that he is again "a real good thing," but they also say 
 
 52
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 53 
 
 that they can t "push him along" like they used to. When 
 he regained his fortune he took great pleasure in going 
 about paying back, sometimes ten-fold, for favors shown 
 him when he was "down." He told me one time, how 
 ever, that he soon got around, and that it had cost him 
 a very little money. 
 
 The adversities of this quaint man had made him a bit 
 of a philosopher. He used often to invite me to his room 
 to talk. Why I do not know ; but he seemed never to 
 tire of having me with him. I would from time to time 
 jot down the short, quaint sentences with which his con 
 versation was full. These gems of philosophy always 
 fitted in. I have often since thought that he felt I needed 
 advice, and took this means of giving it from his own 
 full experience. Here are a few illustrations which I 
 find among my memoranda : 
 
 "Ruben, many a man, famous in some inland city, finds 
 himself dwindle into insignificance on coming to New 
 York city the great Mental Cemetery of America. 
 
 "Make few friends and acquaintances ; the latter will 
 use you in their need, and the former will forget you in 
 your adversity. 
 
 "The man you may help in poverty will not remember 
 you in his prosperity. 
 
 "Boast not of wealth ; it creates jealousy in the rich and 
 envy in the poor, and only makes of you a mark for the 
 designing sharper. 
 
 "Never borrow a dollar the lender will own you for 
 all time. 
 
 "Ruben, you will find New York a city of shams. You 
 may see the millionaire clad as an old farmer, and many 
 a youth living on a few cents a day in full dress of an 
 evening at some free entertainment, putting on all the 
 airs of a prosperous man.
 
 54 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "It is not the coat that makes the man. Many a large, 
 flashy tie covers a torn bosom. 
 
 "Prove all you hear. The most valuable bits of infor 
 mation are often about things that never happened. 
 
 "Lend a dollar this week, and the borrower will be 
 angry at you if you do not lend him two next. 
 
 "Feed a hungry man, and he will feel grateful to you 
 until his appetite is gone. 
 
 "What you learn, learn thoroughly. Half knowledge 
 often marks the ignorant person. 
 
 "Never accept a free ticket from an actor. The sup 
 pers he will play , you for it would pay for a box. 
 
 Oh, how well I could appreciate this last "gem !" The 
 remembrance of the ticket that the young actor (?) had 
 once given me came vividly up before me. I thought of 
 the many suppers I had given him since for that one 
 ticket, and yet when I think of how I did enjoy that play 
 the very first I had ever seen I can t feel that I paid 
 too much for it. It was a new life to me, that play it 
 was so real. The only thing that marred the pleasure of 
 the play was that "actor." He had gone with me, as he 
 said, to explain it, but I soon found that his explanation 
 only spoiled it for me. I might be in the very middle 
 of a good cry at the misfortunes of some person on the 
 stage, when he would try to affect an entrance in my side 
 by means of a very sharp elbow, and then go on to tell 
 me how much better he could have played the part "far 
 better than that gilly on the stage! To him all the 
 actors were a "set of gillies, anyhow." The only gratifi 
 cation I ever got out of the matter was to know that the 
 nearest he ever came to doing anything on the stage was 
 that he finally got a position as scene shifter in an "East 
 Side" theatre.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 "Don t frown; it winkles the face. Better wrinkle it 
 with a smile, if yon are determined to wear wrinkles." 
 
 We called him Knickerbocker, as no one at the house 
 knew his name. He associated with no one, and seldom 
 spoke to any one. He took no part in the table talk, and 
 seemed to be happy only when let alone. He appeared to 
 belong to another generation one long passed. He was 
 old, yet young. His hair was white, though his handsome 
 face was that of a man of thirty years or under. Even 
 a recluse will talk at times. The subject which unlocked 
 his lips was, "The society of to-day." 
 
 "There is no society to-day," said he. There are none 
 of the old families of New York left. All now are of 
 the nauvoo reech. When I was in society" with a 
 marked emphasis on the "I"- -"Second avenue was the 
 fashionable centre the great promenade. Of an evening 
 you would see the gentlemen and ladies out walking, the 
 ladies with their hair streaming down their backs, wearing 
 black mantillas over their heads. The gentlemen never 
 thought of calling, save, in a carriage. If a gentleman 
 took a lady to the theatre he always furnished the flowers 
 and her gloves. Society was governed only by Family 
 then. Money had nothing to do with position. No, there 
 is no society to-day. I never go out any more. I have 
 not gone out for years. I feel all alone." 
 
 55
 
 56 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 He was. Xo one cared whether he came or stayed 
 away. 
 
 I could not help asking: "Mr. Knickerbocker, where 
 does what you call Society begin? How many genera 
 tions does it take to make a gentleman or a lady? The 
 sending of flowers and the buying of the lady s gloves is 
 custom. If custom changed, it would then be improper. 
 As well say that, as the Bow r ery was then the great prome 
 nade, it should be so to-day. By your view of Society, 
 the man who, without any assistance, works himself up 
 from a lowly, but respectable origin, and gains riches, and 
 by study and observation acquires all the accomplishments 
 which the best people in the land say are the correct cus 
 toms to observe, is not a gentleman because he hasn t 
 family because his father before him had not done the 
 same things." I had talked on at length because he did 
 not deign to reply to any of my questions or comments. 
 He simply looked at me as beneath his notice. This made 
 me a little angry. I tried to be sarcastic. I said: "I 
 once knew of a father who drove his own four-in-hand 
 to a carriage, lived in his own palace, and led the world 
 of fashion. His son after him drove two-in-hand to 
 a. truck ; and, I suppose simply because the truck belonged 
 to some one else, he was known and treated as a hired 
 hand. His old family tree cut no figure whatever. Yes, 
 Mr. Knickerbocker, I guess that you are right there is 
 no Society to-day, if a man may be called a gentleman 
 solely because his father before him was one. That which 
 has taken the place of Society demands that the person 
 must have more than mere family to warrant a place 
 among the best people call the best whatever you will." 
 
 Mr. Knickerbocker, at that, replied in the same vein. 
 His first question was meant to be crushing short and 
 conclusive, even scornful. ""What do vou know about
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 57 
 
 Society what the best demand you, whose knowledge 
 of the best was gained, no doubt, in the corner grocery 
 store of some back-woods country village, where the great 
 burden of conversation is : What s Bush on goin ter 
 plant in ther hill field by them woods? or Have yer heard 
 thet Luis Miller run a splinter in his thumb? " 
 
 "That is correct," said I. "I know very little about the 
 customs of the best in fact, nothing, except what Bill 
 has told me. Bill goes out sometimes. He says he sees 
 the very old society in society, and some of the new of 
 New York. He told me once how that he called on one 
 of the very, very old families, who had been Dutch so 
 far back that the very records were gone to decay. He 
 spent an evening at this house, and the burden of con 
 versation in this case, Bill said, w r as the illness of one of 
 their dogs an insignificant cur that lay on the floor. I 
 may be deficient in taste, but give me the corner grocery, 
 for Bushon will get his field planted, and Miller s thumb 
 will get well, but the cur of the very old family may 
 hang on for many years." 
 
 Mr. Knickerbocker was very silent thereafter more so 
 than ever. I could but think that had he taken conditions 
 as they exist, he had been far happier especially had he 
 done his part toward trying to make the world better, 
 rather than to exclude himself from it because it was not 
 as he had once known it. I remarked to the Reporter, 
 who sat at my left speaking low like : "I must have 
 seen some of the old society promenading on the Bowery 
 the day I was over. The ladies were wearing their hair 
 hanging down their backs/ but they wore no mantillas. : 
 The Reporter asked me the color of their hair. When I 
 told him, he merely said : "No, these could not have been 
 any of the old families the color was too golden." Just 
 as thousfh the color had anvthingf to do with it ! but I
 
 58 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 did not reply. I just sat and thought, and thought. As 
 I looked at Mr. Knickerbocker I moralized on things. If 
 you don t care for the world and want to withdraw from 
 it, do so it will not^miss you, it will not seek out your 
 hiding-place. If you are not pleased with the changing 
 customs, don t protest they will change anyhow. Don t 
 frown ; it wrinkles the face. Better wrinkle it with a 
 smile, if you are determined to wear wrinkles. 
 
 At the conclusion of the social controversy with Mr. 
 Knickerbocker, and when I had thought the subject at an 
 end, the man from "Lunnon adjusted his one-eyed spec 
 tacles and began on his "Impressions of America/ Said 
 he : "You have very queer social customs in this country. 
 There is no standard. The lowest strata of society in this 
 generation may be the leaders of the next. The mediocre 
 of the city, if they fail of recognition, only need to go 
 into some of your suburban towns, and by pure assurance 
 and a little money, rule the social sets of the place. 
 They may be the veriest snobs, but your patient people 
 submit most graciously, and seem happy to receive from 
 them a bow of recognition. 
 
 "It has often been a source of amusement to me to 
 watch these snobs trying to do the proper thing. 
 
 "In dear old England it is not so. Everybody there 
 knows his place and is happy. There is not that heart 
 burning which you see here, where people are continually 
 trying to reach a social position, for which they will 
 sacrifice everything else to attain, and when they have 
 attained it they are not content, for many of them know 
 that they are still only mediocre. 
 
 "See how proud the highest of your people become 
 when our real society in England gives them a little recog 
 nition ; and when our Queen consents to have them pre 
 sented to her it is an event worthy a cablegram.
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 59 
 
 "The recipient of that recognition becomes thereafter 
 a person a little bit higher than the rest of her country 
 women. 
 
 No, my friends, America has no social standard. 
 Even your smart set/ from whom the correct is sup 
 posed to emanate, look to a seller of wine, imported from 
 another city, to know what is correct. And if, perchance, 
 one of our actresses whose name at home may be most 
 unsavory should ask aid for some cause that pleased her 
 fancy, these people, whose one aim in life is social, will 
 come and go at her bidding, as though she were a social 
 queen." 
 
 I was about to answer him, but the Statesman gave 
 me a look that said, "Don t say a word !" He afterward 
 told me that the Englishman was right; that he had de 
 scribed conditions very true to life. 
 
 Then I set to wondering how long it would be till we 
 would have a standard purely American, and not bow to 
 the social customs of any land but our own wondering, 
 too, how far distant the day when those customs would 
 be ruled by the heart rather than by the vanity of our 
 people. 
 
 The "impressions" of this Englishman were, to say the 
 least, subject to changes by a longer residence in America. 
 He asked me one day what State I had come from. I told 
 him Pennsylvania. 
 
 "Oh ! I see ; away out on the frontier !" The States 
 man must have been rather personal when he remarked 
 to me, sort of as an aside, "He judges from your clothes 
 more than from his knowledge of your geography, I 
 guess." 
 
 "Yes," said I to the Englishman, paying no attention 
 to the Statesman.
 
 60 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "Is the Indian very bad out there?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, he certainly is ! The worst, in fact, that I have 
 ever seen !" said I, having in mind the one "Toppy" 
 Troupe had cut out of a block of wood for his cigar store. 
 
 This Briton believed everything he heard. 
 
 One day the subject of pensions to our soldiers came 
 up, when he remarked : 
 
 "I think your Government very liberal with its pen 
 sions. A man told me the other day about a soldier 
 in one of your wars who got scared into a fit when he 
 was about to go into battle, and that he had been drawing 
 a pension on that one fit ever since !" 
 
 Oh, but this man from "Lunnon" was credulous !
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 "It isn t always the yungist that lives the langist" 
 
 "It is better to be capable of doing one little thing well 
 
 than to be able to tell well of the great things other 
 
 people can do." 
 "Ann Street, the dumping ground for genius." 
 
 I found among the "hired" people here quite as odd 
 characters as in the country. One day at the table I 
 asked old Mrs. Crowley, one of the waitresses, as they 
 called them but she always seemed to be too old for that 
 word : "Mrs. Crowley, what has become of that pretty 
 little black-eyed girl who used to help you at the wait- 
 ing?" 
 
 Is it Anny ye manes? Pore leetle Anny! It s ded 
 she is." 
 
 I was surprised and sorry, for Anna was a very bright 
 young girl. 
 
 "Why, Mrs. Crowley, Anna was so young!" 
 
 "Thru far ye, Mister Rubing, thru far ye. She was 
 yung, but it isn t ollways the yungist that lives the lang 
 ist," and she wiped her poor old eyes with the corner of 
 her apron. 
 
 This same old lady asked me one day : "Mister Rubing, 
 phat is the grate poile ov papers in yer rume?" 
 
 "Why, Mrs. Crowley, I am waiting a book all about 
 my experience in New York." 
 
 "Ah, me ! an it s a buke ye are wroitin ! Ah, Mister 
 
 6r
 
 62 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 Rubing! an it is shurely a moity foine buke a virry 
 butiful buke, indade!" 
 
 "What! Have you been reading my manuscript? 
 
 "Radin iz it ye say? Oi rade? Ah, Mister Rubing! 
 nary a single bit can Oi rade. It s the wroitin the 
 wroitin , Oi mane. It is so butiful !" 
 
 I could not help wishing that certain of my friends 
 had heard that compliment. 
 
 The man whose sole excellence lies in being able to 
 tell well about what others can do well was also a boarder 
 at our house. He used to tell us about how this or that 
 actor could act; how well this singer could sing; what a 
 wonderful orator was Mr. X., or what this or that great 
 personage could do, better than anybody else. He used 
 to make the rest of us feel most insignificant by the self- 
 important manner in which he would speak of the accom 
 plishments of others. I thought at the time that he was 
 a unique character, but have long since learned that he 
 is a most numerous personage. Every large boarding- 
 house has him in full size, and, no doubt, will have him 
 to the end of time, as one of the ills of this world and 
 possibly, too, in the next, where he will know some "harp 
 er who can "out-harp any harper you ever knew." 
 
 I have long since learned this : It is far better to be 
 capable of doing even one little thing well than to be 
 able to tell well the great things that other people can do. 
 
 What I noticed as remarkable at my boarding place 
 was the diversity of the callings of the boarders. This 
 limited the subjects for conversation only to the number 
 at the table. 
 
 There was the inventor and the author. The inventor 
 had just been granted a patent on a small article, which 
 was sure to bring him in a vast fortune. He often told 
 what he would do for us when his "article" got to selling.
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 63 
 
 "Why," said he in his inventor s enthusiasm, "there is an 
 untold fortune in it. Better than a gold mine. There 
 are, in the first place, the States of the Union. Then 
 comes the counties with their townships and school dis 
 tricts. Why, men, just think of the vast number of all 
 these sub-divisions ! I will sell rights State, county and 
 townships. I will establish a great manufacturing plant 
 in the East and live like a king. You must all feel at 
 home in the palace I will build." 
 
 The author was little less enthusiastic. His book 
 would cost but twenty-five cents, and sell readily at a 
 dollar, as every one in the whole land would be unhappy 
 without a copy. The sale in consequence would be limit 
 ed alone by the capacity of his great presses. Both of 
 these men left shortly after. I used often to wonder why 
 I never saw the book or heard of the invention; but one 
 day, long after, I was passing through Ann street the 
 dumping ground for genius and on two of the little 
 push-carts I saw the book on the one and the invention 
 on the other, offered but not selling at five cents 
 apiece.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " Swat him one, Ike swat him one! And that pesky 
 boy up and threw the ivhole pot of paste over me, as 
 I left the editor s office four steps at a time." 
 
 I was much entertained by the newspaper reporter who 
 sat at my left at table. He always had so many things 
 to tell me that he had seen from day to day. I asked him 
 how he got things to report, and if it was hard work. 
 "No," said he; "you see an occurrence and simply write 
 it up. The more important it is the more money you get 
 for the story." Everything was a "story" with him. I 
 thought at the time that this was possibly why I 
 had so often heard the newspapers spoken of as so full 
 of untruths, but I have since learned that I was wrong, 
 and that this was not the reason. After that I, too, used 
 to watch for "stories," that I might tell him and help him 
 in his business. 
 
 One day I went over on the top of the Palisades, which 
 the Statesman had told me \vas a fine trip to take, as 
 the view was so beautiful up and down the Hudson river, 
 with New York lying just across, to the east. While go 
 ing through the wood, over an unfrequented foot-path, 
 I found a man who had hung himself. "Here," said I 
 to myself, "is a story that will startle them." I remem 
 bered what a time there was when old Swisher hung him 
 self at a place back in the mountains, about ten miles from 
 Highmont. Farmers stopped plowing, the blacksmith left 
 
 6 4
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 65 
 
 a horse only half shod, the postoffice closed up its doors, 
 and even the "sewing circle," which met that afternoon at 
 "gramma" Kurd s, stopped its gossip about the new doc 
 tor, while everybody who could get a vehicle or a horse got 
 quickly ready to go and see the sight of a man hanging. 
 Those who had no other way walked. When we got to 
 the wood where the old man was hanging, waiting for 
 the coroner, you would have thought it was a Methodist 
 camp-meeting, or a county fair on "racing day." People 
 kept coming until, I am sure, there was nobody left at 
 home to look after the children but for that matter, there 
 must have been few left to look after. "The Swisher 
 suicide" was an event from which dated many an incident. 
 And here I had found a man who had left the world by 
 the same "line." "This is too important," thought I, "to 
 give to the Reporter. I will write it up, and it will bring 
 some more easy money to* loan (?) to the poor preacher. 
 Yes, I will write it up I won t miss a single point." I 
 wrote it as graphically as possible, making it as long a 
 "story" as I could. The Reporter had told me that they 
 paid by the length as well as for the importance of the 
 "story." 
 
 I picked out the paper that always boasted that "what 
 you saw in it was so." I did this that I might know that 
 my first "story" would be believed. 
 
 "Is the editor in ?" I asked. The office-boy who was 
 pasting something in a big book pointed with his brush 
 to a man sitting at a desk, to whom I approached with : 
 "Do you buy stories here?" 
 
 "Yes," said he, eager-like, "if they are good ones." 
 
 "Well, I have a great one for you," I replied, almost 
 feeling the money in my pocket already. 
 
 He got up hurriedly and asked : "What is it ? what 
 is it?" I gave it to him, and stood waiting. He looked
 
 66 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 it over, sat down, then looked at me with a sort of a 
 "where d - you - drop - from - anyhow" sneer, and said : 
 "Young man, you re new; this thing is worth nothing 
 to us." 
 
 "What ! a man hangs himself, and you are not glad 
 to hear it !" 
 
 "No; we can t use this stuff." And he went back to 
 his writing, paying no attention to me no more than if 
 I had been a mere spring poet. Well, I was possibly a 
 little hasty, but I could not help telling him in rather a 
 high key: "Hereafter, sir, every time I find a man who 
 has hung himself I will just let him hang; and, sir," as I 
 sidled off toward the door at the head of the stairs, "I 
 hope you will be the first one I find." 
 
 He called, quick like, to the boy: "Swat him one, Ike 
 swat him one !" And, do you believe it, that pesky 
 office-boy threw a whole bucket of soft paste over me 
 as I went down stairs four steps at a time. At the bot 
 tom of the steps I fell into the arms of the Reporter, who 
 wanted to know : "Whatever in the world is the matter, 
 Ruben?" 
 
 "I have been to see the Editor with a story/ " said I. 
 
 Would you believe it, while I was in a barber-shop pay 
 ing two dollars to get that tarnal paste removed, that en 
 terprising Reporter was "writing up a story" about how 
 "Ruben saw the Editor." He told me at supper that he 
 had sold his "story" for six dollars. I have done no news 
 paper work since.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 "Being of an unselfish nature, I wanted to know if there 
 were many people killed in the wreck." 
 
 Ever since the evening I told of my experience with the 
 wrestler at the museum, one of the boarders who had not 
 spoken to me before had been very pleasant toward me. 
 He was a quiet young man so much so that he reminded 
 me of the Preacher and I wondered if he, too, were not 
 a "medal man." He must have been, for once when his 
 coat front was thrown back, I could see two or three 
 gold medals. I liked him, for he was so agreeable in 
 manner, and used very pretty language. He was not thin 
 like the other preacher, and then he never missed a meal. 
 He even looked prosperous, so that I didn t feel sorry for 
 him as I did for the other. 
 
 One evening after supper, while the Statesman was tell 
 ing about some more mistakes the President had made 
 these errors on the part of the President were no end of 
 worry to the Statesman this young man came up to us, 
 and asked if we would take a walk with him. We ac 
 cepted his invitation and started out together. 
 
 When we came to a large building all lighted up, the 
 young man said it was a club-house, and that he was a 
 member of the club, with the right to take us in. (I 
 didn t fully appreciate those last three words until later.) 
 We went in. I had never before seen anything so fine 
 as that club-house. It was a revelation of beauty to my 
 
 67
 
 68 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 inexperienced eyes. Everybody seemed to know our 
 friend and treated him with such marked deference that 
 1 could but wonder: "Who is this man that all should 
 treat him with so much respect?" He showed us through 
 the library, then took us through the various rooms, where 
 I saw more queer things than I had ever seen in one house 
 before. There were swords, and little wire baskets, big 
 clubs with stripes all around them, and mittens nearly as 
 big as baby pillows, and many strange things I knew no 
 names for. I asked the young man what those "baby 
 pillows" were for, as I could see no possible use for such 
 great clumsy mittens. He said they were used 011 the 
 hands while boxing." I told him that when we boxed at 
 Highmont we used only our hands. He then asked if I 
 ever boxed at my town. Well, I felt so much like laugh 
 ing that I could hardly keep my face straight, I wanted 
 to laugh so much ; but I kept quiet and smothered my 
 mirthful feelings as best I could until I finally told him 
 to "Ask the boys back home!" 
 
 "How would you like to put on the gloves with me?" 
 he asked. Now, while I felt my boxing blood beginning 
 to boil, I somehow 1 liked this young man so well that I 
 sort o hated to hurt him, and I told him as much. "No; 
 when I get excited I forget myself and strike very hard. 
 I might hurt you unintentionally, and this I would after 
 ward regret but too late. No, I don t think we had 
 better put them on." He did look so frail alongside of 
 my big, awkward frame that I just couldn t have the heart 
 to risk hitting him one of my sledge-hammer blows. 
 
 "Come, now, Ruben, you need have no fear. I am 
 used to hard hits." 
 
 "Well, I will put them on and will try very hard not to 
 forget myself; but remember if I do hurt you, it will be 
 because of my becoming unduly excited."
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 69 
 
 It \vas so different with the professor at the museum. 
 Now, when I threw him so hard that he nearly broke 
 in two I had no feeling whatever for him ; but this \vas 
 a different case. Here was a fine young fellow whom I 
 was living with saw him every day member of my own 
 family, as it were ; then he was so gentle and meek that 
 I felt almost mean to thus take advantage of him, but he 
 insists and he must take the result of his rashness. By 
 this time there were a good many in the room watching 
 us, and still more coming from all parts of the house. 
 It was quite a good show to see a frail little man standing 
 up before a big fellow like me a man who could out-box 
 any one in all our country. These people must have ex 
 pected a good show, the way they did crowd into that 
 room. I began to weaken when I saw the way they kept 
 coming. I didn t mind boxing when there w r as no one 
 around but the Statesman, but to make this fine youth 
 appear insignificant before his friends I just would not 
 do it, and went as though I were going to take off the 
 gloves, when just at that time a man whom I had not 
 before noticed called out, "Ready!" and the young man 
 was up before me. I had thought that the professor in 
 the museum was quick, but this one could go four blocks 
 before the other one had started up the pike. Just as I 
 had feared, I forgot myself and struck a terrible blow 
 right at the young man s head. Strange to say it didn t 
 hurt him even a little bit for he wasn t there. Every 
 time I struck I hit him just where the first blow had 
 landed. 
 
 All at once there was a bolt of lightning struck that 
 beautiful building and seemed to fairly shatter things. 
 I didn t come to for more than a half-hour; and when I 
 did, being of an unselfish nature, I wanted to know if 
 there were many people killed in the wreck. I was great-
 
 70 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 ly surprised when I saw that the room had not been shat 
 tered. I learned two things that night first, that the 
 meek young man was the boxing professor of the club, 
 and the other was that country boys had better confine 
 themselves to wrestling.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 "The worship of gold has akvays been more devout with 
 me when I could carry the idol in my oivn pocket." 
 
 L/ike Mr. Knickerbocker, the young Frenchman at my 
 left two seats at the table had been so quiet that his pres 
 ence was hardly noticed. 
 
 He came and w ? ent without a word. He never joined 
 in the conversation, and yet he seemed ever intent on 
 listening to the others talking. 
 
 He broke the silence one evening when the subject of 
 "inherited fortunes" was being discussed. The Reporter, 
 that day, had interviewed a man who \vas the prospective 
 heir to a vast fortune in England. 
 
 "He is sure to get it, too," said the Reporter. "He says 
 there is no doubt, as he has a record that reaches back 
 over a hundred years to the landing in America of his 
 great-grandfather." 
 
 "Ze gintleman nevair ze fortune veel receive," was the 
 broken comment of our Frenchman. All eyes were at 
 once upon him. The doubt cast upon the Reporter s 
 confident assertion was a challenge which that gentleman 
 took up with : "Why do you think he will not come into 
 the inheritance?" 
 
 "I have much travail in ze beautiful Americk; I find in 
 ze litteel village and in ze grate citie peepil who high 
 fortunes veel inhereet from ze Inglish, but I nevair zee 
 ze peepil who hav a franc yet inhereet. Evair one hav ze 
 
 71
 
 72 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 no doubt, same like ze gintleman you meet zis day. All 
 hav ze grate confidanz, but none gets ze fortune. 
 
 "If ze millions, ze peepil of Americk zay veel com to 
 zem von day, vould com, zen ze greate banque of ze Ing 
 lish vould pe empt and all ze land zold and ze gold zent to 
 Americk in many sheeps. 
 
 "Ze inglish like ze gold verai much and no let ze gold 
 com to Americk. Ze Inglish make ze law to keep ze gold. 
 No, ze gintleman you meet veel nevair ze fortune 
 inhereet." 
 
 The Reporter must have known that there was much 
 truth in what the Frenchman said, but he turned the argu 
 ment by asking: 
 
 "Why is it that vou French are so jealous of the Eng 
 lish ? Why do you always speak ill of them ? Why do 
 you think that nothing good can be done by that nation?" 
 
 "If ze truth be ill and I speek ze truth I speek it 
 with no jealous. If many peepil expect ze vast fortune, 
 and no peepil get ze von franc, zen zair must be ze grate 
 wrong. Ze Inglish make ze law to keep ze gold. My 
 own La Belle France make ze law zat ze gold shall be 
 distribut. Ze great fortune always ees expect from ze 
 Inglish and nevair from ze French. My countrie make 
 ze honeest law. Yen ze reech tie een France ze heirs vas 
 all hunt out from evair place een ze vorld, and ze gold 
 honeest distribut. 
 
 "I hav ze von reech aunt, vera old. Eef she tie zis 
 veek ze conzul all ovair ze vorld vincl me and dell me, and 
 I ged my part zoon, and no hav to expect alvays and 
 nevair ged." 
 
 Strange to relate, that very week the Reporter came 
 home one evening greatly excited. He had seen in a 
 paper an advertisement which quite accurately described 
 our Frenchman. It had been inserted bv the French
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 73 
 
 consul, asking information that would lead to the finding 
 of one M. La Fetra. 
 
 When the paper was shown to the Frenchman he read 
 the advertisement and handed it back to the Reporter 
 without comment, simply thanking him. 
 
 The next evening we learned that the "reech aunt" had 
 died and that M. La Fetra was one of the heirs. 
 
 I never could have believed that prospective fortune 
 could so change a man in the eyes of people who had be 
 fore scarcely noticed him. The good fortune changed 
 M. La Fetra less than any one else at the house. 
 
 Uncertainty as to the amount of an inheritance never 
 places the prospective fortune anywhere this side of 
 "vast." 
 
 The Reporter was the first to reap the benefit of the 
 "find." He wrote "stories" for all the papers and sold 
 them at his own price. In less than a week plain M. 
 La Fetra was Count La Fetra," and was "traveling in 
 America for his health." Only the rich "travel for their 
 health." The rest of the world are simply "travelers," 
 from the ordinary citizen down to the tramp. 
 
 What a change all this ado must have been to M. La 
 Fetra, "the prospective heir to a vast French fortune." 
 Tailors vied with each other in arraying him in their 
 finest importations, and were only too delighted to have 
 him open an account with them. Florists kept him sup 
 plied with their rarest flowers, and seemed almost 
 offended when he spoke of pay. Ere long the carriages 
 of society began stopping at our door, and Count 
 La Fetra was the attraction of many a social event. 
 
 The Actor set about getting up what he called a theatre 
 party for the "Count," and went so far as to* engage a box 
 and order a fine supper at "Del s." The only thing that 
 prevented its success was that I refused to loan him the
 
 74 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 money "till next week." The worship of gold was always 
 more devout with me when I could carry the idol in my 
 own pocket. 
 
 Why prolong this story? It would be but a recital 
 of the honors and courtesies thrust upon a stranger by 
 people who had no interest whatever in the "man," but in 
 what they thought the "man was to get." 
 
 The end came. M. La Fetra "Count" no longer 
 got his "fortune." The dear old aunt had willed most of 
 her wealth to the Church, and his portion amounted to 
 just thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 "The Bargain Day Fighting Battalion has much to do 
 with the condition of things." 
 
 And there was the one they called the Anarchist. 
 When the Statesman told me that this man was an anar 
 chist I could scarcely comprehend it. My notion of an 
 anarchist had been so entirely different from what I found 
 this man to be. Tom was quiet, and even courteous. His 
 language was cultured and his voice soft and gentle, and 
 yet there was that earnestness about his manner that 
 always commanded instant attention. He had been an 
 editor in his own land, which he always spoke of as "The 
 Land of the Midnight Sun." While he was yet a young 
 man he had been banished from his country for some of 
 his sentiments. Since coming to America he had spent 
 much of his time in working for the betterment of the 
 poorer classes. He had traveled extensively, had seen 
 nearly all of our cities, and made a study of our customs, 
 our laws and our people. "You think of me," said he one 
 evening at table, "as an anarchist or as a socialist, and 
 why am I so called ? I look about me on the human race ; 
 I see that God has given to all equal natural rights, has 
 given to all the desire to live. When I see the lesser por 
 tion bearing down upon the greater, by reason of the laws 
 which they, with superior minds, have been able to make ; 
 when I see each year these laws being made more burden 
 some than before ; when I see the poor being made poorer, 
 
 75
 
 y6 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 and the rich more domineering ; when I see men with 
 aspirations to lead a better life ground down until they 
 lose all hope and become thoroughly bad ; when I see the 
 faces of little children pinched and wan by reason of pre 
 natal care of a starving mother ; when I see these little 
 children grow up amid surroundings that tend only to 
 make them worse even than their parents; when, I say, I 
 see all this awful condition, with a tendency to going con 
 tinually lower, then I cry out in utter despair, and in my 
 effort to change the conditions I am called an anarchist." 
 Just here the Statesman broke in with : How would 
 you change the existing conditions?" 
 
 Said the Anarchist, now becoming thoroughly wrought 
 up with the subject : I would have equitable laws not 
 one law for the rich and another for the poor. I would 
 not have the money power continually changing the laws, 
 governing finance, to their own advantage and to the 
 detriment of labor, as you know they are doing, year after 
 year. Money is being made too valuable for the cap 
 italist, and labor and labor s product too cheap." 
 
 "We want things cheap," spoke up one of the lady 
 boarders, one who, the Statesman said, was a regular 
 "Bargain Day Hunter." 
 
 Whether the Anarchist meant it for her or as a general 
 proposition, I do not know, but he said : "The bargain 
 day fighting battalion has much to do with the condition 
 of things. They buy only at unprofitable prices to the 
 producer; the merchant must buy at a low price, and, in 
 turn, the manufacturer must cut down his labor (it always 
 ends at labor) that he may produce the article for this 
 cheap counter. This is becoming to be a bargain- 
 hunting nation, which is not wise. Fair prices build up, 
 while prices below living value degrade. I bought a 
 bargain to-day, translated into human language means :
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 77 
 
 I bought a few drops of the life s blood of a starving 
 fellow-being". 
 
 "If you could see what I am at times compelled to look 
 upon you would not be surprised at these sentiments." 
 
 "Oh, there are too many Dagos coming to this coun 
 try, said the Statesman, who is thoroughly American. 
 "We can t help it if they have to work for low wages and 
 live on a crust in a hovel. Why, for that matter, they 
 were so used to low wages and hovel living in their own 
 land that they would not know what to do if we changed 
 their condition." 
 
 "My friends," replied the Anarchist, earnestly, "I had 
 hoped not to speak of what I have seen this day, but when 
 America is mentioned I cannot keep back the story."
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 "The flying wheels of the great factory zvere stilled, and 
 the grass grew in the streets where once trod the con 
 tented workers. 
 
 "You know that my work is among the poor of the 
 East Side. They all seem to know me over there. The 
 little children are never too much taken up with their play 
 not to notice when I come among them. About a year ago 
 I noticed a bright little girl for the first time. The other 
 children told me that she, with her mother, had just moved 
 into the neighborhood. She was soon one of my friends, 
 and was always glad to see Tom, as they all call me. 
 They had rooms, plain but neatly furnished, and kept 
 them so clean that they seemed out of place amid the sur 
 roundings. I learned, from time to time, bits of the 
 mother s story,, until I must have had it all. The record 
 of her family began at the very beginning of your country 
 as a nation. Her great great grandfather was a captain 
 in the War of Independence, and her grandfather was 
 with Perry on Lake Erie in the War of 1812. Following 
 the record of the family, her father went with Scott to 
 Mexico, and, when the Civil War broke out, he was 
 chosen and went as colonel of a Massachusetts regiment. 
 For each point of this record she had conclusive, proof to 
 show. She married a young man in her home village, 
 which was supported entirely by a great manufacturing 
 company. This company shortly after closed its doors, 
 having been absorbed by a trust specially protected by 
 
 78
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. -g 
 
 your laws. This trust had millions of capital and could 
 dictate what it wanted your law-makers to pass for its 
 particular benefit. If perchance these laws were not en 
 tirely favorable to its interest, an opinion could be pur 
 chased, as one would purchase anything else in open 
 market, for money will buy all things in your land, from 
 the raw material up to an opinion that will sap the very 
 life s blood of your working people. The flying wheels 
 of this great factory were stilled, and the grass grew in 
 the streets where once trod the contented workers. There 
 was nothing to do in this pretty little village, with its 
 schools and churches. This once prosperous community 
 must seek its bread elsewhere must seek its life in some 
 other already overcrowded town or city, and by compe 
 tition make the loaf ever smaller. And why? In order 
 that, by concentration, capital might produce a fraction 
 of a per cent, more for the lesser portion of your people. 
 Not that this lesser portion needs the fraction, but your 
 laws make it possible for the fraction to be taken, no 
 matter if the bread of the greater part is taken to make up 
 this increase of the small per cent. 
 
 "No work for the young husband in the home of his 
 childhood, where every tree and plant had for him a sacred 
 memory, he must find elsewhere a support for himself 
 and his young wife. They removed to New York. For 
 a time the husband found work and the wife took in 
 sewing that she might eke out the necessities of their new 
 home. Edith came, but she did not bring that joy with 
 her that is seen in the home of the rich, for her arrival 
 meant another life to support. The condition of the very 
 poor seldom grows better. The husband, who, at the old 
 home, had been a temperance worker, took to drink, as he 
 said, to drown his troubles, and died, a low drunkard, 
 when Edith was scarce two years old. The struggle for
 
 go MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 bread was now an earnest one for the young mother. As 
 long as she could get steady work to do at the factory, and 
 with what sewing she could do at night, she made out to 
 live fairly well, but of late I had seen Edith very seldom. 
 Each time her sweet little face, so bright and cheery when 
 I had first seen it, seemed more wan and pinched. Did 
 you ever watch a rose, see it bud and bloom and fade? 
 Edith of late had faded fast. I had missed her from 
 among her playmates for several of my late visits. To 
 day I asked : Where is Edith ? 
 
 " Oh, don t you know, Tom, that Edith is very sick? 
 asked one of the little girls. My mamma was there this 
 morning, and she says that Edith cannot live at all. Did 
 you know that they had moved? Yes, Tom, the man that 
 owns the factory made them get out yesterday. He was 
 awful mean. He said he couldn t keep paupers. Tom, 
 Edith wasn t a pauper, was she? Why, all of her grand 
 papas were, soldiers, and made this country free, my 
 mamma says. How- could she be a pauper, when that 
 factory man, who only came when the country was free, is 
 so rich? My mamma says when that man came he only 
 had a pack on his back; now he makes everybody work 
 nearly for nothing and fines them if they are a minute late, 
 and makes lots of money. Edith s mamma worked for 
 him a long time, and when he turned her off she couldn t 
 pay her rent any more, and then he turned her out, and 
 she went to live away upstairs in the next house,, in a little 
 room what another very poor woman lets her live in for 
 nothing. Tom, my mamma says Edith was awful sick 
 this morning; she cried real hard and said: I w T ant Tom. 
 He is the only man who is kind to us, mamma. Every 
 body is so wicked but Tom. Tell him to come. I want 
 to see him before I go. You must go to see her, won t 
 you, dear Tom?
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 81 
 
 "I needed no urging after that. The little girl led me 
 up a dark, rickety stairway to the very garret of an old 
 house, and there, on some rags, lay the grandchild of a 
 long line of soldiers, dying, starving, in a country her an 
 cestors had made free, enlarged, saved and always de 
 fended. If the rich man made rich by legal robbery 
 could have seen that sight, I know that his riches would 
 not have had for him their glitter or their wonted value. 
 
 " Oh, Tom, I am so glad you have come. I was afraid 
 I would have to go without seeing you; She could say 
 but a few words at a time. She was but the shadow of 
 the Edith I had seen a year ago. She was sinking fast 
 when I reached her. I shall never forget the end. 
 Mamma, I am so hungry. Will I be hungry in heaven? 
 Will God give all the bread to the rich factory man and 
 let us starve? Will the rich sit in the great hotels there, 
 listening to the sweet music, with so much to eat that they 
 will never be hungry, while we look in at the window, 
 without a crust? Will God love the factory man there 
 and give everything to him and nothing to us? She 
 grows delirious ; her gaze seems far away, and upward, 
 as she continues : Mamma, listen. Do you hear the 
 drums beating? See, there s a long line of soldiers, 
 dressed up so queer more and more of them coming. 
 There, mamma, watch ; they are fighting. A big man 
 leads a company. See, quick he drives back the other 
 soldiers, who have red coats on. There, the great general 
 is thanking him, and everybody is throwing up hats. 
 Mamma, look at the big ships on the water. Oh, how the 
 cannons roar ! See, the masts are flying in splinters. 
 There one of them is sinking. A great man is on it. 
 Oh, mamma, his ship will sink with him no there s a 
 boat oh, look quick, one of the men in the boat looks 
 like the picture of grandpa. Now, see, he is going with
 
 S2 MY FRIEND PILL. 
 
 the great man to another ship. There, see, mamma, some 
 of the ships are running away and the great man is fol 
 lowing them. They stop. There is no fighting now. 
 They are all going away together, and the great man is in 
 the front ship. Our flag is the only one flying; all the 
 others are pulled down. Mamma, why don t I see any rich 
 factory man fighting? Oh, look; here s fighting on the 
 land again. See the awful hill those soldiers are climbing 
 up and there, mamma, there s grandpa on top of the hill, 
 waving a flag, and a lot of queer little soldiers running 
 away. Won t the fighting ever stop, mamma? Grandpa 
 is fighting again. He is older now, and has pretty 
 clothes on, and with, oh, so many soldiers behind him. 
 Ah, I am so glad it is all over now no more shooting. 
 Listen ! There is more music, but there is no drum. We 
 thought that she was gone, but in a few moments her 
 eyes opened wide and her face shone with a radiance I had 
 never before seen, and, with her little hands extended, she 
 feebly cried : Yes, grandpa, here is your little Edith. She 
 is so tired so tired. 
 
 "And yet, my friends, I am called an Anarchist." We 
 silently left the table, no one caring to speak.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 j 
 "Thirty days! Next!" 
 
 I think it was the second day after I had found the 
 boarding place when Tom, the "Anarchist," for whom I 
 had taken a great liking, came to me just after breakfast 
 and said he would help me to hunt for my friend Bill. 
 
 I was glad to have him go out with me, as, when I 
 went alone on the street, even the small boys said things 
 to me and followed me about just as though I had been 
 the elephant in a circus procession. 
 
 I. never could have believed that there were so many 
 different kinds of people in the world as we saw that 
 morning. 
 
 We went clown to where I had found so many of the 
 newspaper offices the day I put in the advertisements, and 
 just stood there and watched the people go by, for all 
 the world like bees in white clover season. 
 
 Nobody seemed to be going anywhere, yet they all kept 
 moving, except some very tired-looking men, who sat 
 on the benches in the little park. 
 
 I asked Tom what so many fat soldiers \vere doing in 
 town that day, but he said : "Why, they are not soldiers. 
 They are policemen." 
 
 I watched them with great interest. They didn t seem 
 to have a thing in the world to do but to whirl a stick 
 which they had tied to their wrists with strings, and to 
 eat apples and peanuts from little wagons that stood along 
 
 83
 
 84 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 the road. When they would get tired eating, they would 
 scold at the man w ? ho pushed the wagon for them, and 
 make him move to the other side of the road, where an 
 other policeman stood whirling his club and waiting for 
 him to come. 
 
 Tom pointed out to me a dark, fierce-looking man, who, 
 he said, had been a bandit before he came here from Italy. 
 
 I had often read of those desperate men and felt like 
 moving off from where we stood, as he came over from 
 the other side of the way, not that I was at all afraid of 
 him, but, then, I just felt that it would be safer to be on 
 the further side of the little park, but Tom said that there 
 was no immediate danger, so we remained. 
 
 He had scarcely located his little wagon of fruit when 
 a policeman, who seemed to be expecting him, reached 
 down and took the largest apple off the pile. I trembled 
 for that officer, for I knew there would be trouble and 
 there was but not for the policeman. Instantly he had 
 taken the fruit the ex-bandit said, fierce-like, as he 
 straightened up to his full height: "Xoa taka da Ap !" 
 That policeman, who had before seemed so lacking in 
 animation, was instantly a whirlwind of action. He 
 rained blows on the bandit s head and was soon leading 
 him off to the station. 
 
 The wagon was overturned and the small boys gathered 
 up the apples and were making off with them, while other 
 policemen looked on smiling. 
 
 Tom and I followed the brave officer and the desperate 
 bandit, to see what was to be done with him the bandit. 
 
 He was taken before the judge, who wanted to know, 
 "What is the charge?" Rough like, "Mea maka no 
 charge, judge. He noa aska de price. He just taka da 
 ap !" said the now thoroughly excited bandit. 
 
 "Keep still ! Officer, what is the charge?"
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 85 
 
 "Disarderly konduct and rezisting ahn afficer ov the 
 lah, yerronner !" 
 
 The judge looked at the battered up Italian and came 
 to the same conclusion that I had reached, that it would 
 take him at least a month to get over his bruises, so he 
 said : 
 
 "Thirty days ! Next !" 
 
 I was greatly surprised \vhen Tom told me that the 
 judge had sent the bandit to prison for a month. 
 
 "What for?" I asked. 
 
 "I don t know," said Tom; "but that is the way the 
 law is administered here, if the prisoner be a poor devil." 
 
 I couldn t help thinking that the Italian had better re 
 mained at home and kept at his banditing rather than to 
 have come over here to be civilized, where other foreign 
 ers do the civilizing with a club.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 "For real, downright, frugal politics, commend me to your 
 country districts." 
 
 "Why do the citizens allow their affairs to be run in this 
 manner?" I asked that evening, as Tom and I sat in his 
 room, after dinner. 
 
 "Ruben," said he, "the citizens have very little to do 
 with the matter of running a city. The politicians look 
 after it for them. But of this I will some time tell you." 
 
 "I am sure," said I, not wishing to drop the subject 
 so abruptly, "that our country districts have a greater care 
 about their affairs than to allow the politicians to manage 
 them as they are run in the cities." 
 
 "Ah, Ruben, I see that you know nothing about how 
 your own native land is governed. Why, my dear boy, 
 for real, downright, frugal politics commend me to these 
 same country districts. 
 
 "Years ago, when there was not so much enlightenment 
 as now, your counties had but little use for law. Your 
 people were happy and lived in peaceful quiet. Your 
 county officers were usually men who had their own af 
 fairs to look after, and were paid a nominal salary by the 
 public. But how do you find it at the present? New 
 offices have been created and the salaries of the office 
 holders have grown in proportion as the prices of the land 
 and its products have fallen. Offices which were once but 
 a name are now held by men who, though they could 
 
 86
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 87 
 
 make but a poor living outside, are growing rich at the 
 expense of your patient farmers. Some country lawyer, 
 who finds existence a serious problem, will get himself 
 sent as a representative or Assemblyman to your law- 
 making halls, and there, by a series of log-rolling, will 
 have the salary of some county office raised, or, for that 
 matter, have a new office created, and at the end of his 
 term come home and get himself elected to that office. 
 
 "He will thereafter be known as Honorable, a word 
 more often dwhonored by the holder than any other in the 
 English language. 
 
 "I have in mind, Ruben, a certain county whose poli 
 ticians, led by one of the above-mentioned Honorables/ 
 have reached such a degree of perfection that, if it were 
 not so serious, it would be a most humorous subject for 
 a comic play, or even opera bouffe. 
 
 "If I were gifted in that line I would be tempted to 
 write such a play. 
 
 "Just think of the various acts that could be worked in ! 
 not least among which would be the law that the county 
 Honorable had log-rolled through, where all knights 
 of the road were to be arrested by the constables, taken 
 before the justice of the peace, who 1 must in turn commit 
 them to the county jail, where the sheriff boards them at 
 a big profit to himself. The knights from all surround 
 ing counties (less charitable to both knights and their 
 office-holders) know of this, and when cold weather sets 
 in come in to be arrested, get their winter s board free, 
 and go out in the spring in fine condition. The poor little 
 county pays all expenses and the office-holders become the 
 wealthy men of the district. 
 
 "Here would be some of the acts and scenes that could 
 be put into such a play: 
 
 "The caucus of leaders; the primary for nominations;
 
 88 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 the patriotic speeches before election, in which the gifted 
 orators could draw pictures of how the country would be 
 ruined if Sam Wiggins were not elected as constable, in 
 stead of Phil Jinkins ; or the scene in the cross-roads 
 grocery store, where the adherents of different factions 
 fight over the fine points of their several candidates ; and 
 then, after the election returns are all in and the country 
 is saved or ruined (to be determined from which side 
 you view it), the successful candidates meet to arrange 
 their plan of attack on the public treasury." 
 
 "Hurray ! hurray ! Go on, Tom. I ll be the congrega 
 tion. I was getting enthusiastic as he laid out the plot. 
 
 "Act 2, Scene I, we will place in the sheriff s office. 
 This high official calls the roll and finds all present. He 
 being the dean of the officers, takes the chair and gives in 
 structions to the newly elected. He addresses those 
 having supervision : Here, men, start work at once in 
 every section of the county, that you may put in as many 
 days this year as possible. Place as few men on each 
 bridge or road as can well be, that the time may be ex 
 tended for the completion of the work, lest it cost the 
 people too small a sum. Go at once and lose no time, as 
 winter will soon be upon you. Exit those having super 
 vision. 
 
 "Sheriff continues : Here, Keeper of the Keys ! 
 Where is that dolt? Ah, there you are. How many 
 boarders have w r e in the Safe? 
 
 "Keeper: Ten, me lord ! 
 
 "Sheriff: Ten! Only ten, and winter so nearly upon 
 us ! Where are mv Procurers of the Road KniHits 
 
 * o 
 
 Send them in! 
 
 "Enter six Procurers trembling. 
 
 "Sheriff: You villains, why this emptiness? 
 
 "Spokesman for Procurers : Tis the heat, me lord !
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 89 
 
 The Knights refuse to come into the county until the 
 winter hath set in cold. We have abundant promise 
 from them that when the snow doth fly that they will 
 come into the county. So many promises have we, me 
 lord, methinks you must needs enlarge the Safe. 
 
 "The Sheriff, in fine humor, bids them depart, each to 
 his county, to work up the winter business. Exit Pro 
 curers. Sheriff gives instructions to the assembled Con 
 stables, Justices of the Peace and other officers, and the 
 curtain is rung down. 
 
 :jc :; ^ ^ ^; :jc * * 
 
 "The Constables have given up their trades or other 
 occupations for the more lucrative one of holding office, 
 and have purchased each a horse and carriage on time ; 
 the Justices have each fitted up an office ; the Sheriff has 
 had partitions put into the larger rooms of his Safe, and 
 all are ready for the next scene. 
 
 "Act 2, Scene 2. Same as preceding. Sheriff s office. 
 Fine, old-fashioned fire-place piled full of burning wood ; 
 table in centre, on which are seen boxes of cigars and 
 bottles. Wind blowing a gale outside, with snow beating 
 against the window. 
 
 "Enter Keeper of the Keys, left centre. 
 
 "Keeper: Sam Wiggins is at the door, me lord, with 
 a carriageload of Knights. 
 
 "Sheriff: Bid him enter. 
 
 "Enter Sam Wiggins : Cold night, me lord, to be 
 abroad. 
 
 "Sheriff: From whence the load of Knights, Sam? 
 
 "Sam: From the very edge of the county, me lord! 
 These Knights do grow full proud and refuse to walk. 
 We must needs drive for them ! 
 
 "Sheriff: Wherefore and why this complaint, when 
 the county pays the mileage? What is the number?
 
 90 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "Sam: Six, and lusty fellows they are, all from the 
 adjoining county, where there is much wood to saw, but 
 no friendly welcome, and no generous keep as in our own 
 hospitable borders. 
 
 "Sheriff: The hour grows late, Sam. Away, and to 
 the Justice, that you may have them committed before 
 the stroke of twelve, that I may date their arrival from 
 this day. 
 
 "Sam lingers, as his eye falls upon the bottles on the 
 table. 
 
 "Sam: Tis a cold night, me lord. (Shivering.) 
 
 "Sheriff: Yes, Sam, but the night is passing swift! 
 
 "Sam: Tis a passing cold night, me lord! Backs 
 toward the table. 
 
 "Sheriff: Will you be off? (Rises and goes to the 
 window.) 
 
 ""Sam (who now stands with his back to the table) : 
 Yes, me lord, but me spirits run low and I would take 
 with me some of the fire that burns so cheery. 
 
 "Sheriff: Fill full your pockets with the fire and be 
 gone. ( Still looking out of the window, while Sam puts 
 into the pocket of his great coat two of the bottles.) 
 
 "Sam: Yes, me lord ! Exit. 
 
 "Scene 3. An hour later. But, Ruben, as this is not a 
 very nice scene, I will leave it out. Sam has returned 
 with two very empty bottles, but with six lusty Knights 
 in quite the other condition. 
 
 "The subsequent scenes of the play would be much of a 
 repetition of the foregoing. In them you would note the 
 Sheriff s Safe, very much crowded, but you would see 
 few changes, as when a boarder would be discharged he 
 would simply needs go down to see Sam Wiggins, who 
 would forthwith rearrest him, take him before the Jus 
 tice, who, as was his duty, would commit him for another
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 91 
 
 term, and so would run the play till spring. 
 
 "You would see Sam a much better-dresed man,, and he 
 might tell you that he had already paid for his horse and 
 carriage, as each arrest means a fee and mileage for car 
 riage hire/ patient farmers paying all bills. Sam might, 
 however, not deign to> notice you, as he is now a man of 
 much importance. 
 
 "When the end of the year had come around, you might 
 see gathered the same county officers very much im 
 proved in appearance since doffing the old and putting on 
 the new suits given them by the tailor who had gotten the 
 contract at a paying figure for clothing the county poor. 
 
 "If you would come to watch this scene you would see 
 again me lord, the high Sheriff, several thousand dollars 
 richer and correspondingly prominent. When you had 
 listened to the report of the Treasurer and heard the Sher 
 iff commend those who had had supervision of the county, 
 you would conclude that they had followed his instruc 
 tions to the letter, but you would no doubt wonder where, 
 in one poor little county, they had found so many roads 
 and bridges to look after. 
 
 "If you should want to know how well these officers, 
 had succeeded in spending the money of the hard-working 
 farmers, all you need do would be to compare the reports 
 with other counties, and you would note a vast difference 
 in the expenditures." 
 
 "But, Tom, what sort of people are those of this county 
 who would allow their affairs to be so conducted?" I 
 asked in wonderment. 
 
 "Oh, they are a fine enough people, but their politicians 
 have worked so smoothly along for years that they really 
 believe that the country would go to ruin if they did not 
 send these same men right back into office, simply because 
 they belong to our party, and our party is always the
 
 02 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 patriotic party/ managed and run by patriots for 
 revenue only. 
 
 "Oh, yes, Ruben, for real, downright, frugal politics 
 commend me to your country districts."
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 "Sometimes everybody would sing. I joined in once, and 
 zvas thinking what a beautiful voice I had, when the 
 man at my side stopped short and looked at me. At 
 that moment I heard myself, and didn t blame him. 
 I stopped, too." 
 
 One Sunday, shortly after reaching the city, I went to 
 church. I had never dreamed that a church could be so 
 fine. It far surpassed my conception of Solomon s Tem 
 ple. Everything was so new and strange to me. 
 
 I had always loved music, but I felt that day that I had 
 never before heard music. The whole end of the house 
 was filled with gold and silver pipes which reached nearly 
 to the ceiling-, while a man sat in front odt them and played 
 on an organ. It looked like a very small instrument, but, 
 oh. the music that player could get out of it ! 
 
 Four people did the singing. One would sing until he 
 was tired, then another and another would start in and 
 help him. Sometimes they would all four sing at once; 
 then it seemed that the whole house was full of music. 
 
 My mind ran back tx> the little corner in the "meeting 
 house" at Highmont, where old "Uncle" Brunner used to 
 lead the singing. He would often try to carry all parts at 
 once, but it was a failure, as he would invariably run out 
 of breath on the high notes ; but he would keep right on, 
 although you could only tell that he \vas singing by sight 
 your own. 
 
 93
 
 94 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 Toward the last some of the young people felt it their 
 duty to help him to lead, but he could never be induced to 
 accept their assistance. He thought it was an innovation, 
 and said : "For forty year hev I dun ther leadin , and I ll 
 keep it up to ther end !" And he did. He was a good old 
 man, and we all loved him. But, then, I was telling" about 
 the music in this great city church. 
 
 Sometimes everybody would sing. I joined in once, 
 and was thinking what a beautiful voice I had, when the 
 man at my side stopped short and looked at me. At that 
 moment I heard myself, and didn t blame him. I stopped, 
 too. 
 
 It must have been missionary Sunday. The minister 
 preached the most eloquent sermon I had ever heard. He 
 drew a picture of the benighted condition of the heathen 
 in foreign climes, and told how it was the duty of every 
 one present to give their money if they could not go them 
 selves to alleviate the sad condition of their less fortunate 
 brothers and sisters in distant lands. 
 
 I noticed how he dwelt on the "distant." Several times 
 I thought of the Bowery, and wondered how far distant 
 they would have to go to find a riper field for work. 
 
 His sermon was most affecting. Many ladies \vept, 
 and the way the men threw in their money, I was sure 
 they were touched, too. 
 
 I stayed around in the back part of the church after the 
 sermon. I wanted to get acquainted. I knew that these 
 people would be anxious to gather in strangers. I knew 
 if they could weep over some poor heathen whom they had 
 never seen and only knew in the abstract, that they would 
 welcome me, who had come in without any effort or tears 
 on their part ; but they didn t. None of them even noticed 
 me, and when I spoke to one good man whom I had seen 
 thrown into the plate a large bill of money, he looked at
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 95 
 
 me and said : 
 
 "Well, what is it!" in a cold wave-like tone that froze 
 me as solid as though it had come from "Greenland s Icy 
 Mountains." 
 
 I came away thinking that New York congregations 
 preferred saving the "fig-leaf" variety of heathen, and 
 even them at long range. 
 
 When I told my experience at the dinner table our 
 Heathen smiled and said I would learn more the longer I 
 stayed in New York. 
 
 "I was a member of church myself when I came here," 
 said he, "but I got frozen out. I was reared in the coun 
 try, where not to go to church was to be looked upon as 
 very wicked indeed. 
 
 "At home I knew everybody, and had become so used 
 to cordial greeting on preaching day that when I came 
 to the city I looked for something of the same spirit of 
 welcome. But, oh, the change ! Sunday after Sunday I 
 went religiously. I even took a Sunday-school class of 
 children, thinking that in time the frost might thaw out 
 of the hearts of the good people, but it never did. There 
 was that cold formality found in no other body of people 
 in the world. I used often to wonder what would happen 
 to the old fishermen and net-makers of nineteen centuries 
 ago should they chance to drop in to listen to the texts of 
 which they were the origin. I could, in mind, see the 
 fashionable usher pompously telling them that there was a 
 little chapel away off on some side street built and main 
 tained for such as them chapels built and maintained by 
 the fashionable rich, who no doubt look forward to a re 
 ward for the building. 
 
 "After many months I gave up my class and stopped 
 gr>5ns: to church entirely. It has been years since I was 
 inside of one.
 
 96 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "I find that the cities are full of young- men who have 
 had the same experience as mine, and yet the freezing 
 goes right on. 
 
 "The churches of the cities ever gain form, but lose in 
 that cordiality that will draw to them new life. 
 
 "As you have seen to-day, Ruben, great interest is man 
 ifested in the heathen of distant lands. If this same in 
 terest were shown in trying to hold young men who find 
 their way into the churches, far more good would be clone 
 and the congregations not so lacking in men. 
 
 "How could a change be made? you ask. Nothing 
 easier. There should be in every congregation a com 
 mittee of welcome, whose duty it would be to see, as far 
 as possible, that no stranger came and went without carry 
 ing in his heart a desire to come again. 
 
 "This committee would be of far more real worth to the 
 upbuilding of a church than all the money of the million 
 aire membership, who often, though correct in every form, 
 are as lacking in true worship as an iceberg of warmth. 
 
 "Do you mean that every one who came should be made 
 welcome?" asked the prim boarder, the old lady with the 
 curls, over there at the side table. "How would we know 
 who they were. We might not want them in our church 
 society. They might not be proper people." 
 
 "My dear lady," replied the Heathen, with a question : 
 "Does it follow, then, that none but the proper are to be 
 received? What did the net-maker know of such when 
 he preached to all? But that was long ago, before the 
 days of the proper. 
 
 "In my country home, the poor old widow who lives in 
 the cabin on the mountain side sits beside the best people 
 in our community, who, in their simple worship, never 
 ask if it is the correct form. : 
 
 "What church did you attend, Ruben?" some one
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 97 
 
 asked. 
 
 "I don t know the name of it," said I, "but it is that one, 
 you know, that has the undertaker s sign out on the front." 
 There was nothing humorous in my answer, yet every 
 body about the table laughed.
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 "She smoothed my cheek with her chubby little hands, 
 and said in the sweetest child voice I had ever heard, 
 Oh, poor mister, are you Jiurtcd much? I is so 
 sorry I rurid across the street. 
 
 One afternoon, while I was taking- my usual walk on 
 Fifth avenue, always looking for Bill, I watched the 
 crowds of people driving, walking or talking together on 
 the sidewalk. Suddenly there was a great commotion 
 two or three blocks away. I looked in the direction and 
 was horrified to see a horse hitched to a grocer s wagon 
 "running off." He was coming right to\vard where I 
 was standing, coming, as \ve used to say, "like the wind." 
 Everybody ran for the housesteps, while the carriages in 
 the road gave him a wide berth. 
 
 I don t know how it happened, but it must have been 
 the natural perversity of young children that caused a 
 beautiful little girl to start to run across the street almost 
 in front of the "runaway." Women screamed,, while the 
 men stood as though they were paralyzed. I never get 
 scared until after the danger is past. At the time I need 
 my senses I usually have them about me. 
 
 I ran out from the sidewalk and with a quick rush got 
 the child beyond the wheel line, but was less fortunate 
 myself, as one of my long legs got in the way and was 
 broken just below the knee. I tried to get up ; then I 
 found what had happened to me. When I saw that the 
 
 9 3
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 99 
 
 little girl was safe I didn t mind my own hurt, especially 
 when she smoothed my cheek with her chubby little hands 
 and said in the sweetest child voice I had ever heard : "Oh, 
 poor mister, are you hurted ? I is so sorry I run d across 
 the street." 
 
 By this time I was surrounded by a dense mass of peo 
 ple. All they did was to shut out the air, which I needed 
 more than I needed their interest. 
 
 Long before the wagon from the hospital came for me 
 as many as six different men gave me their cards or the 
 cards o<f some friend. Every one was "the best lawyer in 
 New York city," and "made a specialty of just such 
 cases." 
 
 I was afraid I was getting "out of my head." What 
 were these men talking about lawyers for? I needed a 
 doctor, not a lawyer, so I asked : "What has a lawyer to 
 do with me? He can t fix my leg." 
 
 "No, no. We don t mean that. You have met with an 
 accident; careless driver; very rich grocer owns the 
 wagon. Sue him and get big damages. Won t cost you a 
 cent. We ll collect and give you half." 
 
 And this was New York city ! "Leeches, parasites," I 
 cried, in anger, "do you suppose I could take money from 
 a man who lias the misfortune of having a careless driver? 
 a man who would not intentionally hurt me for anything? 
 Away; get me a doctor," for my leg was beginning to 
 pain after the numbing shock had worn off. 
 
 The wagon, with a big, clanging bell, came, and with it 
 two very young doctors. 
 
 They examined my leg and thought it was broken, after 
 much unnecessary twisting. They were not real certain, 
 but were pretty sure that it was. 
 
 For my part I was quite certain ; but, then, I was not a 
 young doctor.
 
 100 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 They took me to a fine hospital just west of the avenue, 
 carried me upstairs by means of a little movable room 
 called an elevator, and laid me on one of a long row of 
 pretty little white cots. 
 
 The doctors, when they learned how it had occurred, 
 treated me very kindly, and in a short time had my leg 
 set, and left me feeling quite comfortable. 
 
 It could not have been two hours after the accident 
 when a young man came hurriedly into the big room and 
 asked : "Where is he ? Where is he ?" And when I was 
 pointed out by the nurse, he came with extended hand 
 and with such a cordial smile that I quite forgot the pain 
 for the moment. 
 
 "My dear friend," as I must call you, "we owe you a 
 thousand thanks. It was my little sister whose life you 
 saved at the risk of your own." Then turning to the doc 
 tor who was with him : "Come, place this young man in 
 the best room you have in the hospital, and spare nothing 
 for his comfort. 
 
 "I cannot express what we feel toward you. Helen 
 would surely have been killed had you not risked your life 
 for her. If you but knew the bright little sunbeam that she 
 is, you could then know the full weight of gratitude we 
 owe to you. But I will not talk too long now. I will 
 come again to-morrow. 
 
 "Is there any message you would have me send to your 
 family ?" 
 
 "No," said I, "my family must not know of my acci 
 dent. It would terribly frighten them and would do no 
 good. I would, however, like if you would write to my 
 landlady." 
 
 The nurse went for paper and pen, and I told him to 
 send the following note : 
 
 "Mv DKAR MAD.-UI : I am verv sorrv, but I find I will
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. IOI 
 
 be compelled to change my boarding place for a while; 
 not that I am displeased with your house, but circum 
 stances cause this change. 
 
 "Kindly take care of my carpet-sack and my umbrella." 
 
 The young man smiled and said : "The landlady will 
 think you are spending a few days with the captain of 
 the precinct. !; 
 
 The Statesman told me, when I got well, that that was 
 what they did think, especially the Heathen, who said : 
 
 "I am not surprised. I thought he was that kind !" 
 But when they saw it in the papers, written up foolish 
 like, just as though I was a real hero, even the Heathen 
 remarked : 
 
 "Well, you can t always tell !" 
 
 As the young man left me he gave me his card : 
 
 EDWARD S. DEHERTBERN, 
 
 - Fifth Avenue. 
 
 "We will soon have you out again," and went, as he 
 came, with a smile. 
 
 1 had never met so fine a young man as he. Tall, yet 
 so well proportioned that his six feet two stature seemed 
 just right. He had brown hair and eyes and a ruddy 
 color that indicated great vigor. 
 
 The room into which I was removed was large, scrupu 
 lously clean and with just the necessary furnishings. 
 Nothing whatever of a gloomy character, as one never 
 having been inside of a hospital would expect, from the 
 nature of the place, to find. 
 
 And the nurse. Well, I am not going to describe her 
 further than to say that she was the kind of which they 
 make angels. She all but made me forget that I was 
 hurt, and to almost hope that mine would be a lingering 
 case. It was not what she said, for she spoke very little,
 
 102 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 but the kind, gentle manner in which she did everything, 
 from the smoothing out of a pillow to administering the 
 drops to keep down my fever. I could not but feel that 
 of all noble callings in the world none could compare with 
 that of the nurse. She gives up home and all pleasures; 
 casts behind her everything dear to the heart of woman, 
 and devotes her life to the ills and sufferings of her 
 fellow-beings. 
 
 Here was I, a great, awkward young man, with no cul 
 ture or city polish, and knew very little aside from what 
 I had learned in the far-removed community of the moun 
 tain, where to gain the bare, necessities of physical life 
 was the chief aim of existence, and yet this woman was 
 treating me as gently as though I had been a king. 
 
 It is the humanity and not the man to which they 
 minister.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 "Oh, the kiss of a child! How it thrills!" said I. 
 "Yes" said Edward; "and the older the child the greater 
 the thrill, especially if a girl child!" 
 
 It was with great pleasure that I looked forward next 
 day to Edward s promised visit. 
 
 The pleasure of his coming was even greater than I had 
 hoped for, as he brought Helen with him. 
 
 "She would come with me," said Edward. 
 
 "Yes, dear Mister Ruben ; and see the flowers I bringed 
 you. Mamma says if I am very, very good I may come 
 often. Do you want me to come often, Mister Ruben? 
 I won t be in the way. Tousin Wallie always says he 
 likes to have me come to see him." 
 
 "There, there, Helen, you must not talk so much. You 
 will tire Ruben, and he will not want you to come any 
 more." Then to me Edward turned and said: "She is a 
 great pet at the office, where I often take her. Tousin 
 Wallie, as she calls him, is one of the young men in the 
 office, who always makes over her a good deal." 
 
 I just couldn t help saying. "You little angel, you can 
 never, never come too often to please me." 
 
 "I ain t a angel, Mister Ruben, but mamma says if it 
 hadn t been for you I would be one by now, though. Say, 
 Mister Ruben, can angels come back when they go away? 
 I wouldn t want to go away ever if I couldn t come back 
 to see mamma and papa, and Beatrice and Edward, and 
 
 103
 
 104 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 oh, yes, Tousin Wallie, too. Would you, Mister Ruben? 
 Now stop, brother Edward. Mamma said I might talk to 
 Mister Ruben a little bit of a bit/ and she prattled on in 
 her sweet, childish way till I was wild with joy, for I am 
 never happier than I. am with children around me. 
 
 "Have you any little girls at your house, Mister Ruben? 
 What s their name? Have they pretty dollies like I 
 have? How do they play? Do they always have to be 
 dressed? Does their nurse always say don t, don t ? 
 
 I told her that 1 had two sweet little sisters, Pauline and 
 Eveline May, who were near her age. 
 
 "Helen," said I, they do not always have to be dressed 
 up/ but can put on dresses they do not have to be careful 
 of, and can play in a beautiful little brook that runs near 
 the house. They can make mud pies and can even go 
 barefoot in warm weather. They have real rag dolls, 
 and are so happy with them. They have little cousins to 
 play with, and two very big black dogs, Carlo and Brutus, 
 who play ball with them. The children throw the ball 
 and the big dogs run, oh, so fast, to get it and bring it 
 back, and almost ask to have it thrown again. The chil 
 dren can hitch Carlo and Brutus to a little wagon and ride 
 to the village store for candy. And Helen, their nurse, 
 never says Don t ! for they have no nurse." 
 
 "Oh, Mister Ruben, do they live in heaven? That 
 sounds just like it! I never, never can do anything like 
 that. I always must be dressed up, and nurse is al ays 
 saying Don t ! Don t ! I never can do anything I want, 
 like Pauline and Eveline May. I want a rag doll, brother 
 Edward, and a brook to play in, and old clothes, and 
 cousins, and big black dogs like Carlo and Brutus. I 
 don t like mean little city dogs, for they won t do a thing 
 but sit around." 
 
 "Yes, yes, Helen. We must not stay too long. The
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 105 
 
 nurse said that Ruben should not talk too much." 
 
 "He don t have to talk too much. I won t let him. Do 
 I, Mister Ruben? Now we are going, but I will come 
 back again ever single time mamma will let me. Say, 
 mister, may I kiss you good-by? Sister Beatrice says 
 only the little wee girls may kiss the big young men, but 
 I saw her kiss Tousin Wallie one day, and she is a way, 
 way big girl so big." And her little hands were held 
 away up. 
 
 "Oh, the kiss of a child ! How it thrills !" said I. 
 "Yes," said Edward. "And the older the child the 
 greater the thrill, especially if a girl child!" He was so 
 cheery that day.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 "You know, Ruben, the country widow is gregarious, and 
 seldom travels except in pairs." 
 
 As Helen talked of her Tousin Wallie, I could not but 
 think of my Bill. What had become of him? Would I 
 ever find him in this great city, which seemed greater 
 every time I went out and found new parts of it ? 
 
 When I wrote home for his address, his mother was 
 away. She had gone to the West somewhere and would 
 not return for months. 
 
 Sister Anna attended to the letter writing for the family. 
 "Ruben," she wrote, "we all think that you had better 
 come home at once, if you do not find Bill, as we are so 
 afraid you will get lost. 
 
 "You did not write for so long after you reached New 
 York, and besides, your letter was delayed somewhere, 
 that it was nearly three weeks before we heard from you. 
 
 "You may think the condition of the family mind was 
 in by the time we did hear ! 
 
 "What made matters worse, all the old maiden ladies 
 and lone widows for miles around Highmont came to see 
 mother, to cheer her up, as they said, and then stayed to 
 tell her about young men who had gone to that great, 
 wicked city and had never been heard of again. Then, 
 when they were ready to go, and had said good-by so 
 many times that I had quite forgot what the word 
 
 106
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 107 
 
 meant, they would begin all over again. They would 
 settle down and say: But then, Mary, you must not give 
 up hope. Ruben may not be real bright, yet he will find 
 his way. 
 
 "If there were more than one and you know, Ruben, 
 the country widow is gregarious and seldom travels ex 
 cept in pairs they would sit out the afternoon, starting in 
 with you as the lost boy and ending up with how their 
 own dear companions had suffered toward the last, 
 each one trying to outdo the other in the graphic recital. 
 
 "Oh, Ruben, that was a cheerful time, I assure you ! 
 But I never want them to think of you as lost again. 
 
 "If you do get lost, don t say a word about it, as I never 
 want the old maiden ladies and lone widows to hear of it. 
 They might again come to cheer us up. 
 
 "The only thing that could stop the doleful recital 
 when they once got fairly under way was for some old 
 maid to say that a certain widower had called to see her 
 Sunday night. At that the dearly departed ailments 
 and all were forgotten and merged into the one subject, 
 for the moment, that certain widower. 
 
 "You say, Ruben, that New York is so large that you 
 can stand at one end and cannot see the other ! You do 
 not mean to tell me that there are houses all the way, do 
 you ? 
 
 "You had better come home at once, Ruben. Oh, if 
 anything should happen to you, or you should get sick ! 
 I don t dare let my mind dwell on it." 
 
 And this was the situation when the "anything hap 
 pened" to me, Fortunately, I had written the morning 
 of the accident and said that I had a number of good 
 friends who had promised to see that I did not get "lost." 
 
 I did not need to write until I had a reply to my letter,
 
 108 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 when, by that time, I hoped to be able to write, if but a 
 few lines, and keep them from being unnecessarily wor 
 ried about me. 
 
 I did not think it wise, in any event, to tell of my acci 
 dent, as, should the old maiden ladies or lone widows hear 
 of it, they would go in delegations to tell mother of cases 
 they knew about where the patient had died of measles, 
 all from a broken leg. No, I would write very short but 
 very cheerful letters for a while. 
 
 What with Helen s daily bouquet of flowers and the 
 choice fruits with which Edward kept me so well sup 
 plied, I felt I was indeed a favored invalid. 
 
 Helen had kept her word. She did come "every single 
 time mamma would let her, which was nevei to often for 
 me. 
 
 Her bright sayings and sweet ways quite endeared her 
 to the nurse and the doctors, especially to Dr. Xeill, a 
 jolly, bald-headed bachelor. He would often say : "Helen, 
 you ar^e my little girl, ain t you? 
 
 She was very playful with him and enjoyed his romps 
 with her. 
 
 One day he was "mussing" her hair, \vhen she said : 
 
 "Doctor, don t muss my hair. Xurse will scold if I get 
 rats in it!" 
 
 "Helen," said he, "you know you said you were my 
 little girl. If you are my little girl, your hair is mine, 
 too." 
 
 "Well, doctor, if it is yours, you better cut it off and 
 put it on, and then you wouldn t be bald-headed." 
 
 The doctor never "mussed her hair" again after that.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 "A thousand years, more or less, to a mummy is of little 
 matter to the mummy." 
 
 When the nurse allowed me to read a little each day I 
 quite prized the books that Edward brought me from his 
 library, and none of them more than the books of travel. 
 
 When he saw that I was interested in other countries, 
 he said that we were kindred spirits. 
 
 He was interested in reading about them, but far more 
 so in visiting them. 
 
 When I found he had traveled in many of the lands 
 about which I had read, I soon had him telling me of his 
 wanderings. You know there is nothing that \vill so 
 please a traveled man as to listen to his story. 
 
 "Ruben, of all the countries about which you have 
 read, which one interests you the most?" asked Edward 
 one day, when I could see that he was in a reminiscent 
 mood. 
 
 "They all interest me," said I. "Some of them for one 
 reason, some for another. I like Egypt because of its 
 strange unraveling history. \Ve know so little about it, 
 but are ever learning more. New birds tell some strange 
 old story each year. They tell us of a civilization so far 
 in the past that we wonder at our not being further ahead 
 now. 
 
 "I never could understand why the world should have 
 gone backward, with all the knowledge it once had. It 
 
 109
 
 I10 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 was as though we should now deliberately break our 
 watches and time pieces of all kinds, and eat and sleep by 
 the sun dial, and yet that was what the nations all seem 
 to have done after Egypt s brilliant sun of civilization 
 had gone down. They groped in darkness a long while 
 before even a little ray of dawn shot up again." 
 
 "It is very odd, Ruben, that you should speak of Egypt. 
 And from merely reading of it form almost the same 
 opinions of it that I have formed by much travel in that 
 strange country. 
 
 "\Yhen I stood in the presence of those vast pyramids, 
 looked upon the silent Sphinx, visited the great temples 
 built to gods of stone, or groped my way through the 
 rock-hewn tombs, deep in the earth, the awe in which 1 
 held the ancient builders of all these giant works was 
 greater than I have felt in any other land. 
 
 "What makes the feeling deeper, is to look upon these 
 enduring piles of stone, and then see around one the 
 children of the builders a race so degenerate, that one s 
 most acute imagination cannot even dimly see the face of 
 the sire in the offspring. 
 
 "I spent four months last year in Egypt, and was for 
 tunate in having as a companion Prof. Blake, a rising 
 young Egyptologist. 
 
 "It was like going through college with a pony. I 
 had all the pleasure of knowing, without the labor of 
 study. 
 
 "The professor could read the inscriptions of birds and 
 figures, cut into the stone, as you would read a book. 
 
 "He was so bright and genial that those months seem 
 now as a pleasant dream." 
 
 I asked if Egypt was not a very hot and dusty coun 
 try, and if he did not at times grow tired of seeing noth 
 ing but ruins, and black people who cared only for the
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. Ill 
 
 money they could beg, my notion of them being that they 
 were a race of beggars. 
 
 "Oh, no," said he, "there are always many tourists in 
 Egypt, and they are not long in attaching themselves to 
 one who can read the hieroglyphics for them. 
 
 "The Professor always had people around him, so that 
 we were never, or seldom, alone." 
 
 This opened up the way for a new line of conversation. 
 
 I could see his face light up and he began as though to 
 tell a story. 
 
 "I shall never forget," said -he, "one of our excursions. 
 A new tomb had just been discovered some miles up the 
 Nile from Memphis. We were among the first to visit 
 it. 
 
 "We left the small steamer at early dawn. There were 
 on the boat, besides ourselves and our guides, a gentle 
 man and two ladies, with their guides. 
 
 "We had spoken casually to the gentleman, but had not 
 seen the ladies. We told him that we were going to the 
 newly-discovered tomb, and always glad of company, 
 were pleased to learn that their destination was the same. 
 
 "Just before leaving the steamer the two ladies, heavily 
 veiled (the sun is so hot that ladies, to protect their faces, 
 must go veiled), came on deck and joined the 
 gentlemen. 
 
 "We saw but little of them until we reached the tomb ; 
 but, Ruben, do you know that all the way I continually 
 found myself wondering about those ladies. What do 
 they look like? Are they the typical women tourists 
 as uninteresting in face as they are bright in mind ? Are 
 they old or young? were some of my mental questions. 
 What I had noticed as they walked across the deck was 
 that one of them had the most graceful figure and car 
 riage I had ever seen. She was rather tall and bore her-
 
 H2 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 self like a queen. 
 
 "I knew by the gentleman that they were of aristo 
 cratic birth. 
 
 "One gets in the way, while traveling, of trying to 
 analyze the nationality of the people one meets, but I was 
 at a loss to determine the nationality of the only one of 
 this party I could see. In some ways he seemed to be 
 English, and yet again there were mannerisms that were 
 purely American. He was below middle life, tall, and 
 had the air of a soldier. I knew by his manner of speak 
 ing to his guides that he was used to giving commands. 
 
 "No doubt had I seen the faces of the ladies as they 
 came on deck I would not have given them a second 
 thought, as I seldom am attracted by a face, unless there 
 is something very striking in it. But those veils ! What 
 was behind them? And so my mind ran on, all the way 
 to the tomb, which we reached not far from the middle of 
 the day. 
 
 "Being more used to donkey train than their party 
 who, we noticed, were not desirous of joining us we 
 were possibly an hour ahead of them. 
 
 "This particular tomb was much like others we had 
 explored. Great heaps of fresh sand lay all about the 
 mouth of the excavation, showing that the work had but 
 recently been completed. 
 
 "Our attendants lighted the lamps and made ready the 
 ropes to lower us down into the main shaft of the tomb. 
 
 "Three of the guides were let down w r ith the ropes and 
 the Professor and I followed. The darkness, a few feet 
 away from the bottom of the shaft, was oppressive, but 
 \vhen the lamps were turned on full we could see very 
 well. 
 
 "The guides led the way through many galleries, until 
 we had come to a large octagonal vault-like room, which
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 113 
 
 we entered through a high, narrow opening at a right 
 angle with the gallery, of which this was the end. 
 
 "We had never seen one so constructed before. On 
 close examination the Professor found the walls covered 
 with hieroglyphics. 
 
 "These walls were as smooth as polished glass, and the 
 hieroglyphics, deeply cut, could be followed readily by the 
 Professor, who was soon absorbed in their translation. 
 
 " Wonderful! wonderful! he exclaimed. This is the 
 tomb we have long sought. From other wall writings we 
 knew it must exist, but never until now was there the 
 faintest knowledge of where it was. This discovery will 
 set the tide of Egyptologists to this spot. I must be the 
 first to herald it to the world. And he was. 
 
 "No seeker for gold, on striking it rich/ could be more 
 wildly elated than was he at this moment. 
 
 " The old king, said he, who built this tomb, must 
 have been a poetical lover. Listen to this tribute to his 
 Queen, whose mummy lies in this crypt. I could not see 
 much poetry about the tribute, but the Professor said 
 that we would have to fill in certain words. I couldn t 
 but think that much of our own poetry is built on the 
 same lines. If the right words are filled in and enough of 
 them in their proper places, the poetry might be good. 
 
 "As he read on he would occasionally stop to comment. 
 Cleopatra must have descended from this queen, whose 
 beauty, through all the generations followed down, with 
 out loss to form or face, as no description of Cleopatra s 
 rare beauty could excel this tribute. 
 
 "Then he told me her points of excellence, and had me 
 so wrought up that I forgot where I was, forgot the 
 veiled ladies, forgot everything, and traveled back 
 through all the thousands of years to where this queen 
 stands in the flesh. I see her on the throne beside her
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 lover king ; see her receive the acclaim of her millions on 
 millions of willing worshiping subjects. See her ruling 
 Egypt in the zenith of its splendor her ships are carry 
 ing the commerce of the world and all the world is paying 
 her tribute but hold what is that ! Is it a fancy, or is 
 it true ? See, she stands before me in the tomb ! there 
 there in the narrow doorway! Ah, even more beautiful 
 than the tribute. My senses leave me, and all the world 
 is a blank. 
 
 "When I came to my senses again, the vault was full 
 of people. Edward, begged the Professor, what has 
 come over you ; here, a drop of this will bring you around 
 all right. 
 
 "As I open my eyes, there is the gentleman of the 
 morning and the two ladies, but they are not veiled now. 
 
 "I was much embarrassed and excused myself, laying 
 my faintness to the closeness of the vault. At sight of 
 the younger lady, however, I felt a return of the weak 
 ness, as her face was a true likeness of the queen. Ruben, 
 I have never before or since seen woman so beautiful as 
 she. 
 
 "All were pleased with the Professor s translations and 
 g-ave me but scant notice. I was glad of this, for I could 
 the better watch the face which had but a moment be 
 fore robbed me of my senses. 
 
 " Father, mother and daughter, was my mental com 
 ment. I wondered at my sudden loss of interest in 
 hieroglyphics ; I could see but little in them. What did I 
 care for a queen who had been a mummy for three or 
 perhaps four or five thousand years. A thousand years, 
 more or less, to a mummy, is of little matter to a 
 mummy and less to me, so long as certain other queens 
 can walk about. 
 
 "I really began to have a distaste for hieroglyphics,
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 115 
 
 seeing the great interest this unknown family took in 
 them and through them, in the Professor. I snapped my 
 watch case several times, and although it rang out in the 
 close vault loud and clear, the Professor did not seem to 
 hear it once as he came sailing along down the ages, talk 
 ing about Dynasties. As he was getting along about the 
 Sixth, I knew if I did not stop him, that it would be as 
 dark outside as it was in the tomb by the time he had 
 reached the Thirtieth, so I just spoke up and said: I 
 am sorry to stop this highly edifying discourse on Mum- 
 myology and dynastical research, but if we expect to 
 reach the boat and dinner by dark, we had better set out 
 at once. Would you believe me, Ruben, they all looked 
 as though I had done them an injury, so much were they 
 interested in the Professor s talk, but when we got out 
 to the shaft of the tomb and tried to make the guides 
 above hear us, and draw us up, then it was my turn for a 
 little of their attention. 
 
 "All our calling and shaking of the rope had no effect. 
 We tried to make some one of the guides climb up, but all 
 shook their heads. Me no sailor, me no climb rope. 
 
 "I knew that the Professor could talk about birds and 
 things, but when it came to action, he was as helpless as 
 a child. It devolved upon me to bring them out. It 
 had been three years since I left college, but the way I 
 went up that rope you would have thought I was still a 
 college boy well up in gymnastics. 
 
 "When I got to the top of the shaft I found the guides 
 as sound asleep as their donkeys, lying in the sun as 
 though they had not a care in life. Only the dogs of 
 Constantinople can beat an Egyptian tomb guide when 
 it comes to sleeping he comes by it so naturally his an 
 cestors have been asleep so long. Ruben, this is an 
 Egyptian joke."
 
 Ii6 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "Yes," said I, "it is a little dark!" 
 
 "I soon had the party safely out of the tomb, and we 
 made haste to return. 
 
 "Do what I could, while in the presence of the queen 
 as she has ever been to me there was that foolish boy- 
 like in love at first sight sort of feeling, that showed out 
 so plainly that she must have thought me a very weak 
 young man, indeed. And that, too, at a time when I 
 wished to appear at my best. It is always that way. 
 Ruben, were you ever in love?" 
 
 I made as though I did not hear him, and he went on 
 with his story, which had become most intensely interest 
 ing to me. 
 
 "Long before we reached the steamer that night," con 
 tinued Edward, "they must have wished many times that 
 they had not been so interested in Egyptology. 
 
 "We lost our way in the darkness and did not reach 
 the steamer until midnight. 
 
 "It was a mystery to me why those guides had 
 missed the way, but one day in Memphis, shortly after, I 
 met one of them, rather a bright fellow, and asked him 
 for an explanation. At first all he would say was that : 
 All sand, no path, very dark. Lose way. His manner 
 was so mysterious in saying these few simple sentences, 
 that I led him out of hearing of any passerby and slipping 
 into his hand the open sesame of every Egyptian lip, he 
 told me in substance that the chief guides of the two 
 parties had arranged with another chief to fall upon us 
 and rob us, but that for some reason their plans had mis 
 carried. I shuddered to think of what might have been 
 the result, as these treacherous fiends, who care only for 
 money, might have murdered us there in the dark. 
 
 "It was so late when we reached the boat that we were 
 all too tired and hungry for anything but something to
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 117 
 
 eat, and then off to sleep. 
 
 "Next morning, as we awoke, we found ourselves in 
 Memphis. The ladies had not yet come on deck when 
 we left the steamer, so all we could do was to bid the 
 gentleman a tourist s good-by and seek our hotel. I 
 hoped later to meet this interesting family, but they 
 dropped out of my world almost as soon as they had en 
 tered it. 
 
 "We remained in Memphis a week longer, but I never 
 before took so little interest in sightseeing. There was 
 nothing pleasing in anything I saw; in fact, I scarcely 
 saw anything. I was ever watching, watching for a face. 
 I might be in a temple or a tomb, to see which others have 
 traveled thousands of miles, but I saw no beauty in them. 
 
 "I was like the lone mariner, being tossed about with 
 out sun or compass, who had seen on a broad ocean a 
 beautiful ship. He sought the ship, but it had passed out 
 of his sight and he had lost it forever without learning 
 its name or whence it had gone. 
 
 "We took a few excursions up and down the Nile, but 
 I soon saw that I had lost all desire for travel. 
 
 "Wherever I went I found myself watching always for 
 that unknown face, but it had gone from out my world 
 as completely as had the ship of the lone mariner. 
 
 "We stopped at Rome, at Paris, and spent some weeks 
 in London, but I never again saw the one object of my 
 search. 
 
 "Almost a year has passed since then, and yet scarce a 
 moment but what I feel the same longing desire to see 
 again the only woman I have ever loved."
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Jack s heart beat wild with joy. 
 
 In all his wayward years, 
 
 How low so ere the course he led, 
 
 A little child was ever wont 
 
 To touch the one sweet chord 
 
 Of all his dark life s ivay, 
 
 And bring him back to better self. 
 
 Having a strong, rugged constitution, unfitted for in 
 valid purposes, I was soon sitting up in the most com 
 fortable chair I had ever sat in one that Edward had 
 sent a day or two before. 
 
 The DeHertburns had been most kind. They had all 
 been to see me, to express their gratitude. 
 
 "We can never repay you," said Mrs. DeHertburn one 
 day. 
 
 "My dear lady, you have already done far more than 
 my simple act could merit. Besides, you forget what an 
 hourly joy it is to me to feel that I was permitted to save 
 the life of Helen, who has crept into my heart as no child 
 has ever done before. No, Mrs. DeHertburn, I am the 
 one to feel grateful." And I really felt so. 
 
 My experience with this family was a revelation to me. 
 Somehow I had always thought of the very rich as a 
 people who cared only for outward show, people who 
 were devoid of true heart sentiment. But here was a 
 family whose place (I have since learned) was in the 
 
 nS
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 119 
 
 inner circle of the city s best people, with hearts brimming 
 full of human feeling. 
 
 One day the nurse had wheeled me into the large room 
 next to mine. It was a sort of parlor. As I sat reading 
 I heard the tiniest knock on the door and called to the 
 nurse to open it. As she did so, in ran Helen with an 
 "Oh, Mister Ruben, I cumbed almost by myself. No 
 body cumbed with me but Beatrice," who just then came 
 in with a "Good-morning, Ruben." 
 
 "Yes, Mister Ruben, I bringed Beatrice with me, 
 cause she is awful lonesome, cause Tousin Wallie went 
 away off on the big water in a big ship, for papa, that 
 day what you kept me from being an angel, and he won t 
 cumbed back for a long, long time." 
 
 "Now, Helen," said Beatrice, with a faint little blush, 
 "you promised mamma you would not talk so much to 
 day. We call her our little phonograph at home." This 
 to me. 
 
 "I ain t a fonygraff. I on y say what I fink myself. 
 Am I a fonygraff, Mister Ruben? Beatrice is a fony 
 graff, cause she says lots of things what Tousin Wallie 
 says." More little blushes. 
 
 "Mister Ruben, ain t you well now? You said when 
 you got well you would tell me a story about that man 
 what was a nice little boy when he was little, but a bad 
 man when he growed up to be a man, but what always 
 loved little children, and one day he was in a theatre and 
 killed himself for them, because there was a fire he didn t 
 want them to know about, and then all the little children 
 put flowers on his grave and loved him ever since. You 
 know, Mister Ruben, what I mean." 
 
 "If he does, Helen, he is a very bright young man to 
 know from that mixture of yours. Ruben, does she al- 
 wavs run on like this?"
 
 120 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "Ah, Miss Beatrice, if you knew how it pleases me to 
 hear her child-talk you would not say a word to prevent 
 her saying it as she wishes. She fills my heart with sun 
 shine every time she comes." 
 
 "Now, Beatrice, you mustn t talk a bit, cause Mister 
 Ruben is going to tell all about that good little boy what 
 was a bad man, but loved little children." 
 
 "Is that the poem you wrote called Some Deed of 
 Worth ? " asked Beatrice. "I heard brother Edward 
 speak of it." 
 
 "Yes," said I, "if poem it may be called, but I had better 
 tell it in prose, as Helen can scarcely understand it in my 
 verses." 
 
 "I can understand it, Mister Ruben. Tousin Wallie 
 often tells things to Beatrice in poetry, and I understand 
 it real good." 
 
 I recited it for them, but will not ask you to listen to it 
 here, as it is quite too long. 
 
 The story was a true one of a young Englishman, the 
 son of an aristocratic family, who had high expectations 
 for his future. The mother died praying that he might do 
 "some deed of worth," but, like many another, he took the 
 wrong course, and we know too well that : 
 
 "From palace to the wayside lane 
 
 Is but a step, 
 
 If led by Bacchus luring hand !" 
 
 "Jack" became a song and dance actor. The company 
 with which he was connected was giving a performance at 
 one of the great manufacturing cities of England to a 
 thousand children. While "Jack" was on the stage, doing 
 his act, fire broke out behind the scenes, and but for him 
 there would have been a panic. The curtain was dropped,
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 121 
 
 and he renewed his efforts to amuse. His efforts were too 
 great, for: 
 
 "A something broke, right here 
 I heard it snap," 
 
 and he died on the stage, but he had held them while 
 those behind had "fought the fire." He was buried at 
 that city, and to-day: 
 
 "No hero s grave more honored 
 
 Or more loved than Jack s ; 
 
 Kept white with flowers 
 
 Strewn there by loving little hands. 
 
 The first blooms of Spring, 
 
 The last of Autumn s bloom, 
 
 Are gathered for his mound, 
 
 The Mecca of a thousand little ones 
 
 Who hold his memory sweet. 
 
 They love him for his love for them. 
 For all this love, let no one say 
 His life a failure proved, 
 But in that life 
 That he might count 
 Some Deed of Worth." 
 
 I could but wonder at the interest with which this little 
 child drank in the story, and was surprised to see how 
 well she had understood it. 
 
 "Mister Ruben, ain t he a angel now? He didn t have 
 to go to that Bad Place cause he was bad sometimes, did 
 he? He was so good to save all the little children.
 
 122 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 Wouldn t they all feel sorry when they are angels if they 
 can t find Jack in heaven? 
 
 "Little children love people what saves them. I love 
 
 yon, Mister Ruben,, oh, lots more than this much " 
 
 and she spread her little arms as wide as she could, mak 
 ing my heart fairly bound with joy.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 "Ruben, were you ever in love?" asked Edward. 
 
 "Yes; once" said I, "but I lost." 
 
 "Cheer up; you ll win her yet." 
 
 "I hope not!" 
 
 "Why?" asked he. 
 
 "Because she married the other fellow." 
 
 "Ruben, I once asked you if you were ever in love, but 
 you did not answer me. Were you?" 
 
 "Yes, Edward, once; but I lost." 
 
 "Cheer up, my boy, you ll win her yet." 
 
 "I hope not," said I. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because she married the other fellow." 
 
 "Come, now, Ruben, you must tell me all about it, if 
 it is not too tender a subject. One s own misfortunes 
 seem easier to bear if they can hear those of others." 
 
 He had been so kind to me that I could but begin my 
 story, which I did at once : 
 
 "Alice was the daughter of the big Squire of the Coun 
 ty. Although she lived many miles from Highmont, she 
 used often to visit our village, where she had a married 
 sister. I shall never forget the first time I saw her. She 
 may not have been beautiful, but my young fancy painted 
 her as such. Her sister lived near the village school-house. 
 While on these various visits I cared little for the games 
 at recess or the noon hour, preferring to hang around 
 
 123
 
 124 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 and watch for Alice. She smiled on me one day ! The 
 world seemed to bloom anew^ and after that we were 
 friends. We grew older, yet both were very young when 
 she went away to school. At this school was my sister. 
 They were good friends, Alice and Anna. How I did 
 prize the letters that Sister Anna wrote me from there! 
 How the lines in which Alice played the principle part 
 did make my little heart beat beat as nothing could make 
 it beat now, for older hearts are harder, truer mayhap, but 
 harder. 
 
 "Years passed. When I was grown I met Alice and 
 her husband. Not the dainty, black-eyed, mischievous 
 Alice; not Alice, the coquette, but just good, zealous, 
 homely Alice. I met her on the train that brought me to 
 New York. I kissed her couldn t help it, for old time 
 sake my rival was there, but he only smiled. 
 
 "Alice talked of the old days, and I listened. She 
 wasn t pretty any more, and I didn t love her any more, 
 but do you know I was, oh, so glad, to see her and hear her 
 talk? I forgot she wasn t pretty; I forgot she wasn t 
 Alice of the old days, when to crush a heart was a joy to 
 her. I just listened and was glad to hear her voice. It 
 brought back happy memories of days, when life was not 
 the hard, real life, but the flower life of childhood. 
 
 "When I looked at Alice I thought of the ring she sent 
 back, with I was only in fun ! How happy it made me 
 feel to remember that only in fun ! I thought of what 
 might have been had she not been only in fun, and kept 
 the ring. Well, I looked at Charlie, and said a silent say 
 in my heart : Old boy, I m glad she s yours. : 
 
 Edward seemed greatly interested in my one love story 
 and was quite amused when I told him that the serious 
 part of it all occurred between the tenth and fifteenth year 
 of my life. The ring having been returned at fourteen.
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 12$ 
 
 "Your love," said Edward, "was that of childhood, not 
 the real love of maturity." 
 
 "Ah," said I, "mine was real. When Alice sent back 
 my filled ring which I had worked so hard to pay for (it 
 cost two dollars at the village store), I felt there was 
 nothing left for me to live for. It was a sad blow to my 
 little heart, but I must confess that the point where the 
 blow struck is now entirely healed." 
 
 Edward was ever sad of late. He always seemed to be 
 thinking of that "face." I would defend my young love 
 and try thus to draw his mind from his brooding, hoping 
 to get him to forget, as I had forgotten, so I said : 
 
 "You have only the face to remember. I had face, 
 friendship and, as I thought, love, and lost all. You have 
 only the face ; had you known the character, it might have 
 been one entirely uncongenial to you unsuited to your 
 nature." 
 
 "A face like hers," returned Edw r ard, "was but the in 
 dex of a character so pure and gentle that I could always 
 love. Though she returned a thousand rings, my heart 
 could not but go out to her. I have had many fancies 
 which I thought were loves, but never until I saw that 
 face in the tomb did my heart tell me what real love 
 meant." 
 
 I fain would have continued but he seemed more sad 
 as he talked of the "face," and I thought to turn his mind 
 by asking him how long the doctors intended to keep me 
 shut up, away from my outdoor life. 
 
 "Ruben," said he, "Dr. Whipple says you are doing so 
 well that in a week s time I may take you for a drive in 
 Central Park, which you say you have once seen." 
 
 "Yes," I said, "once from the outside." I smiled as 
 I recalled that "once."
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 "Stopping in front of a tall, rough-looking stone, Ed 
 ward said: 
 
 " That is Cleopatra s Needle! 
 
 " Where s her thread? I asked, thinking to jest away 
 that look of sadness from his face." 
 
 One week from the day that Edward had promised to 
 take me driving through Central Park he, with Beatrice 
 and Helen, were at the hospital. 
 
 Dr. Whipple said it was quite safe for me to be out for 
 two or three hours. 
 
 Helen was very happy that morning. "Mamma said I 
 would be in the way, but I told her you said I was never 
 in the way. Am I ever in the way, Mister Ruben? 
 
 "No, Helen, and you never will be. I will always be 
 happiest when you are near me." 
 
 "Beatrice, you must tell mamma what Mister Ruben 
 said and then she will always let me come. 
 
 "Mister Ruben, I call this carriage my Victory. Mamma 
 says I have too many, but I don t only this one. 
 
 "Mister Ruben, are you glad to get out doors? I 
 would be if I staid in a long, long time like you did." 
 
 Not far from the "Rizervoy" Helen said : "That s our 
 house, Mister Ruben. Oh, there s mamma at the win 
 dow," as she waved her little gloved hand. "And see, 
 Mister Ruben, here s where you saved me. Are you 
 sorry I run d across the street?" 
 
 126
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 127 
 
 If ever a man was really happy in thinking of an acci 
 dent I was that man. I felt if it ever came in my way to 
 do a good turn to the grocer, whose horse had caused it, 
 I would do it with a whole heart. 
 
 Edward, during the drive to the park, kept pointing 
 out the various places of interest, but none of them were 
 new to me. 
 
 Beatrice seemed unusually happy that morning. I had 
 never seen her in such fine spirits. 
 
 I attributed it to the fresh bracing air and the beautiful 
 park through which we w r ere driving, but that could not 
 be the reason, for she said they drove through it nearly 
 every day. 
 
 I had never noticed her so closely before. Of course I 
 could not help noting that she was very pretty the first 
 time I had seen her, but now that I could study her face 
 I was surprised at its great beauty. 
 
 She had a mass of light brown hair, large, lustrous eyes 
 and the prettiest pink and white complexion I had ever 
 seen. Her face was a type one seldom meets with, but 
 once seen the picture of it remains fixed in the mind. Her 
 manner was as sweet as her face was pretty. There was 
 no affectation. She was open and frank in her speech, 
 and withal I found myself quite envying "Wallie" before 
 we returned to the hospital. 
 
 "Oh, Mister Ruben, I clear forgot to tell you the big 
 news. Tousin Wallie s coming home to-morrow on the 
 big ship, and Beatrice is, oh, so happy !" No white in the 
 face now ; pink predominates. 
 
 "Why, Helen," said I, "you told me that Wallie would 
 not come back for a long, long time !" 
 
 "Well, I know, but that is what Sister Beatrice said. 
 She said it would be an age!" 
 
 "Helen, Helen, you know what I told you before we
 
 128 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 started ?" said Beatrice, with reproving look. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know ; you told me I should not say Wallie 
 once and that you would give me all the bonbons I could 
 eat if I didn t. Oh, I am so sorry" (patting Beatrice on 
 the cheek), "dear, sweet, lovely sister Beatrice that I said 
 that because because I love bonbons so much." 
 
 "Yes," said Edward, "Tousin Wallie returns to-mor 
 row. Our firm had a very important transaction in Lon 
 don that really required one of the firm to look after, but 
 neither father nor I could possibly leave at the time, and 
 we were compelled to trust it to one of our men, and we 
 chose Wallace." 
 
 "No," broke in Helen, "he s Tousin Wallie, Tousin 
 Wallie he ain t Wallace never." 
 
 "Well," resumed Edward good naturedly, "Tousin 
 Wallie then. It was a great risk on our part as he is 
 quite young just turned of age but he is remarkably 
 bright for one so young. He finished the work in an in 
 credibly short time, and to our entire satisfaction. The 
 London firm with which the business was is an old house 
 and considered very shrewd in the market, but Wallie 
 was quite able to protect our interests. We are greatly 
 pleased with him." 
 
 I thought that Beatrice was going to throw her arms 
 around her brother s neck right then and there, as she 
 seemed so happy. 
 
 At one place in the park Edward had the driver stop. 
 
 I glanced about to see what there was to look at, but 
 saw nothing to be compared with other parts where we 
 had not stopped. In fact, all that I saw was a big, tall, 
 rough looking stone set on end, but Edward sat there in 
 the carriage and looked a long \vhile at that stone. I 
 could see that his face was more sad than I had ever seen 
 it before. Even more sad than when he told me about
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 129 
 
 the lost "face" in Egypt. 
 
 "Ruben," said he finally, "do you know what that stone 
 is?" 
 
 "No," said I, "why should I ? I have never even seen 
 the park before except from the outside." But the way 
 he asked me, and the way he looked, I felt sure he was 
 going to tell me that it was a "gravestone" erected to the 
 memory of some dear friend, and yet I could not think 
 it possible that any one should be buried in a public park. 
 
 "That," said he, "is Cleopatra s Needle." 
 
 "Where s her thread?" I asked thinking to jest away 
 that look of sadness from his face. 
 
 He did not smile, but sat there silent. 
 
 "Brother Edward, why do you always stop at this stone 
 and look at it so long, and then all the way home never 
 say a word?" and Helen cuddled her little head on her 
 brother s shoulder and looked up into his face, so sweet 
 like, that I could scarcely believe he could resist her af 
 fection, but he never noticed her at all. 
 
 The driver, without being told, turned and drove out 
 of the park. 
 
 ***J|s>|*#>l 
 
 I wrote a long letter to sister Anna that afternoon. I 
 told her of the drive through the beautiful park. "It is 
 larger," I wrote, "than our whole farm at home, and full 
 of flowers and trees ; with wide driveways, and winding 
 walks and bridges that we drove under; with little lakes 
 on which boats floated and geese with the longest necks I 
 had ever seen swam about. There were more animals than 
 we ever saw at a circus, and the queerest animals ! Some 
 of them I had never heard of. One big fellow in a tank of 
 water, when he ate hay, opened the whole front part of his 
 head and seemed to enjoy it. I would tell you his name 
 only that it would make my letter too long. I never could
 
 130 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 write of all I ve seen to-day. I could not have believed 
 there was so much beauty in the world, and yet, sister, do 
 you know, the people who live here think very little about 
 it! Really they look at all these surpassing scenes with 
 as little interest as we would look at the woods lot back of 
 the barn. I guess it is because they have had it to look at 
 from childhood. Somebody has said: Beautiful is not 
 beautiful if you have only beauty to look at, but I know 
 that what I have seen to-day will never lose its charm 
 for me. 
 
 "You see, Anna, I did a favor for a family some time 
 ago, and you would be surprised to know how much they 
 all appreciated it. There is in this family the father and 
 mother, one son, a young man pi twenty-three, and two 
 daughters, one a young lady and the other the dearest, 
 sweetest child you ever saw, and the brightest talker you 
 ever heard, for one of her age. What is so nice about her 
 is that she likes to talk, and I never tire listening to her. 
 She says she loves me oh, so much. You know, sister, 
 the litle girls always did like me up to a certain age. 
 Oh, I forgot to tell you the reason the child says she loves 
 me. One day I was going up the street that Bill lives on 
 you know it is called Fifth Avenue when there was a 
 grocer s wagon going along and I just pushed Helen 
 (Helen s her name, Helen DeHertburn) to one side so 
 that the wheel of the wagon would not touch her as it 
 passed, and the family seemed to think I had done some 
 thing great. Why they would often send me fruit down 
 to the big house where I have been stopping temporarily, 
 I having changed my boarding place for a while, there 
 were so many people at the other house. What I liked 
 even better than the fruit were the flowers that Helen 
 bringed me every day. Not having done enough, the 
 three took me in their carriage up Fifth Avenue and
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 131 
 
 through the park that I ve been telling you about. I have 
 to smile to hear Helen tease her sister Beatrice about a 
 young man whom she calls Tousin W allie. I often 
 think, at such times, of our Bill, whom I ve never yet seen 
 or heard of. He must be different from Beatrice s Tousin 
 Wallie, for he is in the employ of her father, while our 
 Bill simply works for somebody. 
 
 - "Must stop, with best wishes to the whole community, 
 not forgetting the lone widows. Tell em I am not lost 
 yet. I am your loving brother, A. RUBE;N/ > 
 
 "P. S. I nearly forgot to say that when I pushed 
 Helen away from the wagon that one of my legs somehow 
 got broken a little. Don t worry or tell anyone about it, as 
 it was only a trifle. It was nothing but those two bones 
 below the knee, but they soon got well. You can t im 
 agine what a fine time I have been having since it oc 
 curred never have had so good a time in all my life ! 
 
 "When you see Joe Yong tell him that I wish he was in 
 New York. I could introduce him to a real live pro 
 fessor. I am sure Joe would like him. He is not much 
 of a talker, but I found him quite lively the one time I 
 met him. It was at a place they call a "club." People 
 who saw us meet remarked that we were like two old 
 friends, almost like brothers some brothers."
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 // it were not out of place to moralize at this point, I 
 would say that tJic teacher zvho has to use a switch 
 is not a fit person to teach. If I could say it here, it 
 would compensate me for the dailies I used to get. 
 
 When Helen and Beatrice came the next afternoon, 
 Helen was in great glee, and Beatrice was all smiles, for, 
 as Helen said: "Tousin Wallie has come back and he 
 bringed me the most pretty things you ever saw, and to 
 morrow I am going to make him come to see you." 
 
 "Yes ; but, Helen," said I, "he may not want to come. 
 I am of no interest to him ; he does not know me." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Ruben, you don t know Tousin Wallie. He 
 alays does just what I ask him. He knows if he don t I 
 will say things, and he says I know too many things to 
 say, so he does anything I ask. I w T ould not tell him who 
 you are, or anything. I on y said you were my little beau. 
 Won t he be fooled when he sees how big you are? Oh, 
 it will be such fun ! When you hear us coming you must 
 jump behind the bed, then when we come in I will say 
 Boo! and you must jump up quick, and won t he be 
 scared?" And the little darling was so delighted with 
 the prospect that it did me a world of good to see her, as 
 she planned the morrow s meeting. "Air. Ruben, see this 
 pretty pin Tousin Wallie bringed me!" and then, in a 
 whisper, watching Beatrice out of the corners of her 
 eyes, "and, oh, Mr. Ruben, he bringed Beatrice the beau- 
 
 132
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 133 
 
 tifulcst ring you ever, ever saw, but don t tell anybody 
 at all." 
 
 "Helen, what are you saying to Ruben? You know 
 you promised !" 
 
 "Yes, Sister Beatrice, but I on y just whispered 
 that don t count, does it, Mr. Ruben? No, Sister 
 Beatrice, that don t count. We must go now. We 
 on y had time to run in a minute, and tell you. Now, re 
 member, Mister Ruben, when I say Boo! And I 
 watched for them to get into the carriage, and as they 
 drove away Helen was waving her little hand up to my 
 window. 
 
 Such had been my fate all my life. The little girls had 
 always seemed to love me, but love me only as they would 
 a good, gentle old family horse, that would allow them to 
 caress and fondle it. Would this be my fate always? 
 Would there never come a time when they would not 
 outgrow their childish affection for me? I feared not, 
 and in my happiness I was really sad. 
 
 "To-morrow" often seems ages away. I must have 
 spent hours at the window, watching, watching. 
 
 Why should I take so much interest in the coming of a 
 stranger ? What was he to me, or I to him, that I should 
 look forward to his coming as though he were a friend, 
 or my own Bill? I had begun to lose all interest in Bill! 
 Here I had been weeks in New York, and with my name 
 in the paper a number of times (he certainly must 
 have seen it and known I was in the city) and he had 
 not sought me out. He is ashamed of his old friend 
 Rube. Good enough at home, but not good enough for 
 Fifth Avenue ! 
 
 And thus I was brooding myself into a most unhappy 
 state of mind when I saw a carriage turning in, as though 
 to stop in front of the hospital.
 
 134 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 It is Helen and Beatrice, and with them a fine-looking 
 gentleman. Can that be Wallie? How odd the name 
 sounds when applied to that tall, elegant-looking young 
 man with them ! They are out of the carriage, coming 
 up in the elevator. I mentally count the stories. Now 
 they are in the hallway, but I am safe behind the bed, so 
 arranged as to quickly jump out. They are in the room. 
 I can hear, but cannot see them. I hear a little laugh, a 
 little voice cries out "Boo!" I jump out. 
 
 "Bill!" 
 
 "Rube !" is all we can say, as we stand watching each 
 other. 
 
 "What s the matter, Mister Ruben ? what s the matter, 
 Tousin Wallie? Who told you each other s names? 
 Beatrice, you told them and spoiled my fun." and she 
 was nearly crying from disappointment ! But we were 
 soon a happy, merry party when explanations had been 
 made. 
 
 "Why, Helen," said I, "your Tousin Wallie is my Bill." 
 
 "Yes," said Bill ; "and, Helen, your Ruben is my Rube, 
 too." 
 
 "W here did you know \Vallie, Mister Ruben? You 
 never saw him, did you? You never told me he was 
 yours! Oh, Beatrice, ain t it jolly?" and she jumped up 
 and down for joy. Then Bill and I told how we had 
 been born and reared in the same little town away off 
 among the mountains. 
 
 "Helen," said I, "there are only a few houses there, and 
 all of them so small that you would wonder that people 
 could live in them ; but we never knew about the great 
 houses in the city, and were very happy in our homes. 
 We went to a little school ; only one room. The big boys 
 and the little boys, the big girls and the little girls, all in 
 that one little school-house ! It kept the teacher so busy
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 135 
 
 whipping that he never had time to teach. 
 
 "You never got whipped, did you, Mister Ruben?" 
 asked Helen, but Bill was so overcome with the question 
 that I could not reply, giving him a chance to exclaim 
 "Did he ?" with much emphasis on the "did." 
 
 "Rube," asked Bill, "do you remember how Hoard 
 whipped you every day all winter just to make you cry, 
 and didn t bring the tears until one day in the spring?" 
 
 It was my turn to exclaim, "Do I ?" 
 
 It was a revelation to Helen and Beatrice to hear of 
 children being beaten with sticks and struck upon their 
 little hands with ferrules by big, grown men, who had 
 not education enough to occupy their time at teaching! I 
 told them, however, that the teachers of the present day 
 are becoming more civilized and less barbarous. 
 
 "I would fight em !" exclaimed Helen, and this was 
 the first time I had seen her show any temper. I could 
 not but think that what was once looked upon as absolute 
 ly necessary in the training of children in making them 
 do what was the right, only resulted in bringing out and 
 nurturing the evil in them. If it were not out of place to 
 moralize at this point, I would say that the teacher who 
 has to use a switch is not a fit person to teach. If I could 
 say it here, it would in a small measure compensate me 
 for the "dailies" I used to get. 
 
 "On y the big men were bad and whipped little chil 
 dren ; the nice lady teachers didn t whip, did they, Mister 
 Ruben?" 
 
 "Ask Bill !" said I, to even matters up with him. 
 
 "Do they, Tousin Wallie?" 
 
 "Oh, yes ; they used to whip Ruben often !" and still 
 Bill was ahead. 
 
 "I am so sorry, Mister Ruben !" That evened them up. 
 
 The time passed so quickly that the hour for my friends
 
 136 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 to go had come long- before I had begun to realize my 
 good fortune in the strange manner in which Bill and I 
 had found each other. He promised to come again on 
 the morrow, and they left me a very lonely young man.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 The bad boy of a village became the great man of a city. 
 
 That was a happy week for me. Bill came nearly every 
 day to visit me. He had not been at the old home for 
 two years ; and while his mother had written him often, 
 there were many things she had not told him, and I had 
 to tell something about nearly everybody for miles around 
 Highmont. It made little difference what I told. Bill 
 said the bare mention of a name gave him pleasure. He 
 did not care, he said, if Jake Mitchell had painted his barn 
 blue or green, just so he heard Jake s name, and was glad, 
 too, that I had mentioned the barn, for it brought up 
 happy memories of the day he had helped raise it. 
 
 "You helped! What could you do? You were only a 
 child then." 
 
 "Oh, yes. I helped Elenora wait on the table at noon !" 
 
 It all came back to me then. I had heard of his help 
 ing on that memorable occasion, and how he had put salt 
 in all the old ladies tea, and the trouble he caused. Bill 
 may be all right now, but at barn raisings he had to be 
 watched. 
 
 "And what has become of bad John Woodman?" asked 
 Bill. John had been the worst boy who had ever lived at 
 Highmont. His was the name that made the small boy 
 tremble. "I ll tell John Woodman on yer, if yer don t 
 gimme the core of yer apple!" always produced the core 
 and as much of the apple as was left at the time the threat
 
 138 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 was made. And now Bill, who I knew had lost many a 
 "core," wanted to know what had become of this bad boy. 
 
 "What !" said I in surprise, "haven t you heard how he 
 went to Chicago, became one of that city s great builders, 
 was elected Alderman and is looked upon as one of the 
 great men of that city ? And haven t you heard how that 
 when Libby prison was to be taken down and removed 
 from Richmond to Chicago, it was John who was chosen 
 to do the important work and how well he did it? Yes, 
 Bill, the bad boy of a village became the great man of a 
 city." 
 
 "Oh, I could ask you a thousand questions more," said 
 Bill ; "to hear of that dear old town fairly makes my 
 heart overflow with sweet memories. Oh, yes, and what 
 has become of your old Aunt Racheal, at whose house we 
 used to go to visit at sugar-making time ? You know she 
 lived away down in the valley, ten miles away from 
 town." 
 
 "Poor Aunt Racheal," said I, "she died last summer." 
 
 "And what became of the old barren farm she lived 
 on? She had no children to leave it to." 
 
 "She left it," said I, "to sister Anna and me, but what 
 ever we can do with it I do not know. So far, nobody 
 will take it and pay the taxes for its use, but, Bill, didn t 
 we have fun on those trips ?" 
 
 "One of the sweetest memories of my life was my vis 
 iting at her home. You know she lived in an old log 
 hewn double cabin. Everything about it, even to this 
 day, seems hallowed the gourd we drank from at the 
 well, with its long sweep, the swinging crane in the old 
 wide fireplace the corn pone she made and baked in .the 
 Dutch oven, set before the fire, with ashes and coals 
 heaped around and over it the maple taffy she fed us on 
 the great old-fashioned copper cents she gave me
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 139 
 
 cents whose value has never been equaled by all the dollars 
 I ve had since the stories she told us no writer has ever 
 xcelled ! In a word, Aunt Racheal was my childhood 
 goddess. Why she was so much to me I have never known. 
 She was very old and never a beauty ; I suppose she was 
 quite ugly in reality, but to me no queen of beauty ever 
 held the place in my affections that Aunt Racheal held. I 
 remember going down with father and mother in a sleigh 
 one bitter cold day, and how they sat me on a hot paper- 
 wrapped brick to keep me warm. I did not think of the 
 cold, for I was gohr ter Aunt Rachel s. Bill, I often 
 wonder if the children of the great city have their Aunt 
 Radicals. I know, if they have, that none of them could 
 ever compare with mine. 
 
 "She became very feeble toward the last. Father 
 brought her to our home and gave her of the best we had, 
 making her later days as happy as possible."
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 A wrong cannot be changed into a right by words, be 
 they never so cunningly arranged. 
 
 "And now, Bill, you have much to explain to me as to 
 how you have succeeded so well in New York in the few 
 years you have been away from the village. How did you 
 gain the friendship of this great family with whom you 
 seem to be on such intimate relations ? I have not heard 
 of your saving the life of any of its members?" 
 
 "Well," he began, "you may remember of my once tell 
 ing you of a distant relative of my mother s who had made 
 a vast fortune in the West and had removed to New 
 York. Well, Mr. DeHertbern is that relative. We had 
 lost track of him for years. When I came here a boy of 
 sixteen, full of enterprise, I thought that all I need do was 
 to go into an office, ask for a position and be shown to a 
 cushioned seat and given a gold pen to write with. The 
 first day here caused me to drop both cushion and pen. 
 The second day I had begun to grow a bit discouraged. 
 No one wanted any help. It was either the dull season 
 or we want a boy with experience or a dozen other ors. 
 My country notions of the easy paths of the city were 
 fast clogging up those paths, and as one after another 
 dropped, I found all the paths entirely blocked. I had 
 reached that point where I would have taken anything 
 offered, yet I still sought for a place among the offices 
 down town. By chance I saw on a great office the name 
 
 140
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 141 
 
 DeHertbern, and, like the country boy I was, I thought 
 of that distant relative, and sent in my name. By the bar 
 est chance it reached Mr. DeHertbern himself. He sent 
 for me to come to his private office. 
 
 " Well, my young man, what can I do for you ? 
 
 " I am hunting for a position. 
 
 " What can you do? 
 
 "I had not thought of that, never having reached so 
 far up toward a position before ; but I answered, I came 
 here from the country. I do not know that there is a 
 single thing I can do, but I am strong and and will try 
 to do what I am given to do. 
 
 " From the country ! Van Alden! Odd name ! He 
 sat meditating aloud, seeming entirely to forget that I was 
 there. I never knew but one of that name before. A 
 dear cousin of my mother s she married a Van Alden 
 I have not heard of her for years dear .Cousin Mary! 
 
 " Why, my mother s name is Mary. 
 What was her maiden name? 
 
 " Mary Wallace ! 
 
 " What, Mary Wallace, of , Kentucky ? now all 
 
 attention. 
 
 " Yes, and daughter of Thomas Wallace. She mar 
 ried my father, William Van Alden, after whom I was 
 named. 
 
 My boy, I have a place for you. If you are a son of 
 Mary Wallace Van Alden, you come from one of the best 
 families of Kentucky, and I will try to help you make 
 your way in New York. Your grandfather once did me a 
 favor when I was a poor boy, and I then said I would 
 some day return it. It has been a long time unpaid but 
 I will repay it ! What did you say your first name is ? 
 
 " William Wallace. 
 
 " Well, Wallace, I am going to make you work. You
 
 I 4 2 - MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 will think cutting cord wood, or thinning corn on a hot 
 day very easy work, but it will do you good, and if you 
 can stand it you will thank me for making it hard at the 
 start. If I find you capable and quick, and you should be 
 both with Wallace blood in your veins, I will advance you 
 from time to time, but I will not advance you from one 
 position to another until I am more than convinced that 
 you know the first one well. I will take pride in mak 
 ing you a man worthy the name your mother bore. I 
 shall call you Wallace. I like that better than William, 
 besides the boys can t nickname you Bill. I wanted to 
 smile as I thought of Bill as the only name I could ever 
 remember of having to answer to. 
 
 My son, Edward, continued Mr. DeHertbern, is 
 now away at college. I shall not mention your even dis 
 tant relationship to my family until you have proven your 
 self worthy, therefore this shall be an incentive to you to 
 do well. 
 
 "I cared very little wether he ever mentioned it, so far 
 as his son was concerned, but when his pretty little daugh 
 ter used to come down to the office, oh, how I did wish 
 I had the right to call her Cousin Beatrice, and as year 
 after year she grew more and more beautiful I worked 
 harder and even harder to deserve that right. About a 
 year ago Helen began coming to the office. I soon made 
 friends with her, as I was where I had more leisure and 
 less of the office drudgery to do. At first she would 
 speak to me as Mr. Vain Allen, then as she would hear 
 her father call me Wallace, she came to calling me Wal 
 lace. One day she told me, Mr. Wallace, when I like 
 people awful much I call em "Tousin." I m going to 
 call you "Tousin Wallie." Won t that be fun? Tousin 
 Wallie ! And after that she would call me by no other 
 name. It was about this time that Mr. DeHertbern in-
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 143. 
 
 vited me to his house to dinner the very first time in the 
 four years I had been with him. In all that time I had 
 never spoken of the relationship to any one save to my 
 mother, who was overjoyed to hear of my good fortune in 
 getting a place with Mr. DeHertbern. 
 
 "That evening, after dinner, and when we were all seat 
 ed in the large family room, Mr. DeHertbern began and 
 told a very entertaining story of his younger days, when 
 he was poor. He told how that a man by the name of 
 Thomas Wallace had given him the money with which 
 he was enabled to reach California. I was fortunate, 
 said he, in meeting with success from the very start. I 
 soon returned the money several times the amount I 
 had been given but I never felt that the debt was can 
 celled. Years after I had come to New York, a young 
 man applied to me for a position. I gave it; he proved 
 worthy, as I felt he would. Thomas Wallace was my 
 mother s cousin. 
 
 "The family were now all attention as Mr. DeHertbern 
 continued his story. And the young man, (speaking 
 very slowly) was the grandson of Thomas Wallace, and 
 that young man is your cousin, William Wallace Van 
 Alden. Rube, I tell you it was worth four years waiting 
 to get the reception I was given at that moment. Little 
 Helen nearly cried for joy. Oh, mamma, she said he is 
 really and truly "Tousin Wallie." : 
 
 "I m afraid in the cousinly kisses they forgot dis 
 tance altogether, but I did not remind them of it, especially 
 so Beatrice, who seemed quite as happy as Helen. Since 
 that time I have not only been advanced rapidly in the 
 business, but I am always given a welcome in their home. 
 
 "But, Rube, you have had enough of my story. Tell 
 me your experience since coming to New York," and I 
 told it during his several visits.
 
 144 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 Bill called it "Rube s continued story." He laughed 
 over my many mistakes. 
 
 "I ll wager," said I, "that no city boy who had never 
 been outside of his own town in his life; one who had 
 never heard of the country except as a place where grass 
 grows, could have done any better in Highmont than I did 
 in New York. Don t you remember, Bill, the two preach 
 er s boys, Walt Heaver and Wilbur Cannon, who used to 
 come with their fathers quarterly meeting time ? Oh, the 
 fun we had with them ! You mind how Walt wanted 
 some specimens of last year s bird s nests to take home 
 and how we got behind the trees while he pulled down a 
 hornet s nest that was still in business? Wasn t lie a 
 sight the next day ! He said afterward that it looked just 
 like the picture of an oriole s nest. And don t you mind 
 the day we taught Wilbur the half bushel trick and how 
 he had to stay in bed for two clays afterward ! I may 
 be very ignorant of city ways, but so far I ve not picked 
 any last year s birds nests or tried to kick a half bushel 
 with my heels higher than somebody else. Walt and 
 Wilbur were simply ignorant of things about which they 
 had not heard. Such may have been the case with me. 
 I may have been pretty green, but I guess the professor 
 with the baby pillow mittens, is about the only one who is 
 ahead so far, except the cab driver, and I will get along 
 up his way before I am through. With the professor, you 
 notice, I have no spirit of revenge. I simply am satisfied 
 to allow him to wear the belt, as they say here. I have 
 no desire to get anywhere near even with him. But say, 
 Bill, when I wrote sister Anna I told her to tell big Joe 
 Long that if he came to New York that I would intro 
 duce him to a friend of mine, a real live professor. If 
 Joe comes well, Bill, you know big Joe was the only one 
 who could out box me. and he has a notion that he knows
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 145 
 
 the manly art by heart. I thought I knew it, too, but 
 went clear asleep trying to prove it to the professor." 
 
 "Do you know," asked Bill, "that Edward understands 
 the art of self defense? In fencing with swords he dis 
 armed a French professor from Paris who wore cham 
 pionship medals, and as a pistol shot he has few equals. 
 He is so non-communicative, however, that one never 
 would know from him what he can do. He is power 
 fully built and his muscles are like finely tempered steel. 
 Unlike too many rich men s sons, he has the constitution 
 of a yeoman. Have you heard him sing, accompanied on 
 his guitar? You have not? Well you have that pleas 
 ure in store. I have never heard so fine a voice as his." 
 
 And as Bill ran on I wondered if there were anything 
 Edward could not do. 
 
 Just then the subject of our conversation came into the 
 conservatory, where I often sat after I could walk about. 
 
 "Well, well," said he in his most cheerful manner, "and 
 so the invalid is walking about ! Glad to see you improve 
 so fast, but Ruben, remember there is no hurry ; you must 
 give the bones plenty of time to knit !" 
 
 "Dr. Whipple says it will be safe for me to leave the 
 hospital in one week from to-day." 
 
 "So soon ?" asked Edward. "And Ruben, that is what 
 brings me here to-day. Father and I have been talking 
 the matter over and we feel an interest in your future. 
 What do you purpose doing when you have bidden good 
 bye to your good gentle nurse and faithful Dr. Whipple ?" 
 
 "In the first place," I replied, "Bill has promised to take 
 me out to see the city and 
 
 "Keep you off the Bowery," broke in Bill. 
 
 "We will take a few trips around, and I will then have 
 to go back home, as it has taken me a long time to do 
 what I had come for to find my friend Bill."
 
 146 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "I do not mean your immediate intentions. What 
 have you laid out as a life work ?" 
 
 "I suppose I shall go back and run the farm, that is 
 about all I am fitted for, and I am sure it is the only thing 
 I can afford to do, as I have not the necessary education 
 for a profession and cannot afford to gain such an edu 
 cation." 
 
 "That is just the point of which I wish to speak," said 
 Edward. "Father and I have both noticed that you have 
 a turn for a profession." 
 
 I thought again of the only two I had had much experi 
 ence with since I came to the city, neither of which I 
 would choose as a life work. 
 
 "How would you like medicine?" 
 
 "No. I never liked medicine even as a child !" 
 
 "How would you like the ministry ?" 
 
 "Bill, think of Rube as a preacher! No, Edward, 
 there are already too many preaching without a call. 
 
 "The law, then?" 
 
 "There," said I, "is the only one I care anything 
 about. In it I could fight, contend, argue and never stop 
 till lightning strikes the building. I don t want any lit 
 tle damage case law, or the defending of a man who has 
 deliberately done a wrong, but in defense of a principle 
 or a downtrodden fellow being I could fight to a finish and 
 never tire." 
 
 "Bravo, Ruben ! You talk like you were in the court 
 room already. Yes, Ruben, law should be your life s 
 work, and we want you to begin at once its study," said 
 Edward. 
 
 "I might myself wish to begin it, but my reason would 
 tell me to go back home and run the farm, that being the 
 only calling I know how to run without capital. It takes 
 money, Edward, to fit one s self for the law, and money
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 147 
 
 sufficient I have not." 
 
 "That is the smallest item in the whole matter," said 
 Edward. "If you will agree to go to all the trouble to 
 study and it will be hard work years of it why, we 
 will look after the money part, and be most happy for the 
 privilege." 
 
 "W hat ! you pay for my schooling, my education ! Why 
 should you ? 1 have no right to accept so great an offer. 
 I have already been too long a care to you !" 
 
 "You forget," he replied, what we owe to you. But 
 for you Helen s life had been destroyed and our home 
 made desolate." 
 
 "Then you would pay me in money for doing that 
 which I had been a craven coward not to do? No, Ed 
 ward, 1 am repaid a thousand times already, and as long 
 as memory lasts the payments will run on, growing 
 sweeter as the years come and go. I appreciate your kind 
 wish, and thank you for it, but I can never accept money 
 in any form for doing a duty." 
 
 He seemed hardly to comprehend my refusal. I feared 
 I had been too abrupt in it, and put it in other words less 
 emphatic, but with the same meaning. He remained but 
 a short time. He said to Bill afterward that he had never 
 before seen a man so determined as I. He could not see 
 why I had thrown away an opportunity to reach the ob 
 ject of my ambition. 
 
 "Why," said he, "there are single days when we make 
 more money than Ruben s course at college would cost 
 and yet he would not allow us to work just one day for 
 him." It is so strange how words can be used. To look 
 at Edward s sentence to Bill, I had been ungrateful not 
 to allow them to w r ork that one day for me, and for a 
 long time I w r as puzzled to know why it had looked that 
 way, but then this thought came to me : A wrong cannot
 
 148 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 he changed into a right by words, be they never so cun 
 ningly arranged. 
 
 "It would have been a pleasure to the DeHertberns/ 
 said Bill, "to have sent you through college." 
 
 "But then/" said I, "it is not their pleasure, but my 
 own self-respect which must govern my own actions. I 
 have no financial claim on them, however grateful they 
 may feel toward me, and to have accepted what I had no 
 right to accept would have made me feel as though I were 
 being educated as a child from the almshouse, and they 
 would always have looked upon me as a possession and 
 not as a self-respecting man. No, Bill ; 1 will go back 
 to the hills and plow, sow and reap, but I will take back 
 with me an unbroken spirit." 
 
 When Bill had told me of the quiet good the DeHert 
 berns were continually doing, I could more fully ap 
 preciate Edward s surprise and disappointment at my 
 refusal to accept the law course at college. 
 
 "Nobody," said Bill, "knows the good that family does 
 during each year. They always refuse to do anything 
 through the organized charities, for, as Mr. DeHertbern 
 says, it costs two dollars to distribute one dollar, and the 
 real needy might starve before help would reach them. 
 He says the men who run these organizations are usually 
 a lot of broken-down politicians, who would be paupers 
 themselves did not their party look after them, and yet 
 the arrogance with which they conduct the affairs of the 
 organizations is almost enough to drive the self-respect 
 ing poor to the river dock, rather than to ask for assist 
 ance at their hands. 
 
 "I have often gone with Edward in our slumming 
 suits, and quietly helped some poor family. We personal 
 ly investigate each case, for, Ruben, the city is full of 
 imposters. We have often found a family drinking and
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 149 
 
 feasting which we had been told was on the verge of 
 starvation. I have often heard Edward say that the posi 
 tion of the very rich is a trying one. If one give/ he 
 would say, in a way that the public knows of it, then one 
 is giving only for show. If one give quietly, so that the 
 public knows nothing of it, then one is close, miserly, 
 stingy, and don t deserve the smiles of fortune. Again, 
 if one give and the public knows of it, then one is overrun 
 with the most beseeching letters, calls are made at one s 
 office, at one s home, on the street, everywhere, until life 
 is a burden, and so they let the public think of them as 
 close and miserly, and go on selecting their own charities."
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Ten thousand human beings cast out upon a cold, selfish 
 zvorld that the feiv may make a little larger per cent.! 
 
 I never knew how far-reaching a simple story could be 
 until one day Bill asked me about the Anarchists story of 
 "The Death of Little Edith." I had almost forgotten 
 that I had told Helen and Beatrice about Edith, once when 
 Helen had begged me to "tell her a tale." 
 
 "Well," said Bill, "Helen told the story when she went 
 home; told it and cried as though her little heart would 
 break. That very day Mr. DeHertbern had had a long 
 conference with a syndicate of men about organizing a 
 trust to control the manufacture of a great product. The 
 papers were all in shape, ready for signing the next day. 
 Mr. DeHertbern was the one man who could put the 
 deal through. If his signature was obtained, the com 
 bination of fifty plants was assured ; if he refused, the 
 plants remained as they were. Next clay every member 
 of the syndicate was present. They were in high spirits. 
 They were about to consummate that which they had 
 worked years to gain. I was at the meeting. The chair 
 man was in his seat, and the assembly was called to order. 
 
 : Gentlemen, said he, we have very little more to do 
 the work has all been done, but the signing of a few 
 papers. Mr. DeHertbern, you examined this paper yes 
 terday. Just sign here please -there, on that line. 
 
 " One moment, began Mr. DeHertbern. I did not
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 151 
 
 quite understand yesterday how, by this combination, we 
 would gain that extra per cent. In fact, I did not think 
 of it further than that it would be gained. 
 
 " Mr. Secretary, said the chairman, you perhaps 
 known more about that than any one else. Kindly ex 
 plain to Mr. DeHertbern. The secretary, a man of very 
 great importance, from a certain standpoint his own 
 arose with : 
 
 " Mr. Chairman and assembled gentlemen : I have 
 given this matter very deep study. In fact, it was I who 
 conceived the thought. It was born in my brain, and, as 
 the chairman wisely said, I should know more about the 
 matter than any of you; and I do. By this combination 
 we will eliminate competition among the various com 
 panies and thereby gain higher dividends ; but, gentlemen, 
 the great source of gain will be in the cutting down of 
 plants. Where we now have fifty, we will be able to do 
 the same work with forty. Think of it, gentlemen. Ten 
 plants cut off will mean a dividend that will place our 
 stock among the best paying in the land. (Cheers and 
 rubbing together of hands among the members of the 
 syndicate, who are now all smiles.) 
 
 " One word further/ said Mr. DeHertbern. How 
 many mill hands will this save us ? Looking over the list, 
 the secretary said : 
 
 " Well, taking the ten mills I will close, I find they 
 have an average pay roll of one thousand each thus I 
 will cut the pay-roll down ten thousand people. Think of 
 it, gentlemen, ten thousand that we won t have to pay! 
 
 " Yes/ quietly spoke Mr. DeHertbern, but what will 
 become of these ten thousand ? 
 
 : Ah, there it is again ! replied the secretary, his face 
 in a wreath of smiles. I had forgotten to speak of that 
 point. A very important point it is. These ten thousand,
 
 152 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 not knowing how to do any other kind of work, will have 
 to follow us to our forty remaining factories, and with 
 this extra number of idle hands we can get labor at our 
 own price, and I will make a still greater per cent, for 
 you. Gentlemen, the more I think on the subject, the 
 more I see the greatness of my conception. 
 
 " I am glad to hear your explanation,, Mr. Secretary/ 
 said Mr. DeHertbern. You make it indeed plain. I 
 had not looked upon the matter in that light before, and 
 I warrant that few gentlemen in the room have. Who of 
 you want an extra per cent, for your money gained at the 
 terrible price ten thousand human beings cast out upon 
 a cold, selfish world in order that we few here assembled 
 may make what we do not need a little larger per 
 cent, for our money. Gentlemen, I will not sign. And 
 no one urged him. The meeting adjourned. The various 
 members quietly left the room, and went back to their fifty 
 plants."
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 "Then tell me, I begged, how can you distinguish the 
 gentlemen from the waiters?" 
 
 "You can t very well at the beginning of a dinner, but at 
 tlie close it is not at all difficult, as the sober ones are 
 the waiters. This may not be original, but original 
 things are not looked for at a banquet." 
 
 The day came for me to leave the hospital. For 
 many reasons I was almost sorry to go. When I look 
 back upon those weeks I cannot remember a thing I would 
 now have different. Even the pain is forgotten in the 
 pleasure. Dr. Whipple said I had been a most obedient 
 patient, while the nurse, when she bid me good-bye, 
 seemed even sad, and hoped I \vould come back some 
 time but not as a patient. 
 
 Bill came for me and we went away together. The 
 reception I got at the boarding-house that evening was 
 what Bill called an "ovation." Even the Heathen seemed 
 glad to welcome me back. The landlady said that old 
 Mrs. Crowley had taken the best of care of my carpet 
 sack and umbrella. "An , yis, Misther Rubing, I lit naw 
 wan sa yer buke. I hid it awa far ye." I was thankful 
 to her, for one never likes their writing to be seen until 
 it reaches the printer. No doubt, at this particular point, 
 some reader will stop long enough for a mental : "Ruben, 
 there s where you made a mistake. Had you shown your 
 manuscript, I might not now be a reader." 
 
 153
 
 154 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 In selecting my boarding- place, by a queer coincidence 
 I had gone but just around the corner from where Bill 
 lived on Fifth avenue. He kindly offered to share his 
 room with me, but I was well situated and liked my fel 
 low-boarders. Besides, I couldn t go over on to the 
 avenue all at once. I would have to get there by easy 
 stages. Bill says : "You mean a cab." Bill never will 
 get through talking about Rube s first cab ride, or "Rube 
 on the ahvnu hunting for Bill." He thinks he is an artist, 
 but the pictures he draws of that ride would not be any 
 sort of a guide for a detective if he were looking for me. 
 
 The acciden: had all but ruined my Sunday suit of 
 clothes the only one I had. The first thing, therefore, 
 to do after I left the hospital was to get an entire new 
 suit. Oh, how r I did then wish for my own tailor at 
 home ! I could not find anything in the whole city to 
 equal his "cut." In desperation I had to get some clothes 
 like Bill wore, and I was a sight when I got them on ! 
 When I looked into the glass I had to have Bill introduce 
 me to the fellow who looked back at me. I didn t know 
 him, although Bill said it was myself. What made it so 
 much worse was that as soon as I got the clothes on I 
 had to get my hair cut the first time for two or three 
 years and get a new hat and shoes. I don t know how 
 I appeared to other people, but I certainly looked like a 
 "sight" to myself. But, then, as people did not look at 
 me any more, as they had at first, I began to think it 
 might possibly be all right, but I could not help dreading 
 the time when I would have to face my own tailor at 
 home ! 
 
 By sitting up late and getting up early, I soon got used 
 to myself, and began to think a good bit of the "New 
 Rube," epecially when the DeHertberns told Bill, after 
 we had been there to see them, that "thev had no idea that
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 155 
 
 Ruben was so fine-looking. I could not help feeling the 
 compliment, even though I knew it was the clothes they 
 were admiring all the time. I was finer looking in the 
 old, but if they liked the new better I would be content. 
 
 I make it a point to always fulfill a promise. I had 
 promised the great man I met the day I came to New 
 York that when I found Bill I would let him know. I 
 therefore wrote to him this great man, the after-dinner 
 speaker that Bill and I had found each other, but that 
 it was a question as to which of us had really done the 
 finding. "At any rate," I wrote, "we are found, and are 
 very happy." I told him I had had a number of adven 
 tures since the day I met him ; wrote him a long letter, as 
 he had been so sociable that day, that I knew he would 
 be real glad to hear from me. When I told Bill all this 
 he looked at me for a minute or two without saying a 
 word. And then all he said was : "Rube, you will learn 
 if you stay long enough ! Do you suppose 
 will remember even having seen you? No, Rube. He 
 may remember the stories, but has long ago forgotten the 
 teller of them." Well, the next clay, when I got a letter 
 from this great man, written by himself instead of by 
 machinery, Bill looked at me for two or three more min 
 utes, when I told him about it, then stopped short with : 
 "Rube, you ll do ; you ll get on in New York !" 
 
 "His Highness," as I called him, had not only remem 
 bered the "teller" of the stories, but had remembered his 
 own promise, that he would invite me to a dinner that I 
 might learn how after-dinner speaking was done. He 
 said that the "Hilarious Sons of Kamskatka," of which 
 country, among numerous others, he was a descendant, 
 during a part of each winter season, would give a grand 
 dinner on the following week, and that he had secured 
 tickets for mvself and a friend. "Would I come?"
 
 156 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 He had a part of the alphabet in one corner of his 
 letter, the bottom left-hand corner, "R. S. P. V." I could 
 make out the first three without any trouble "Rite Soon, 
 Please," but the "V." I stopped on. I could not decide 
 what he meant. I rote, however, at once, and when I 
 saw Bill he said I had done just right, but would not tell 
 me w r hat the "V." meant unless it was the price of the 
 ticket." Bill had a way of saying these things. After a 
 long while it occurred to me that he had said, when he 
 invited me to come to New York : "Yes, Rube, come to 
 the city. I will show you the sights, and have fun with 
 you!" Was his manner of replying to me "having fun"? 
 It made me think very carefully whenever I conversed 
 with him, and he had very little "fun with me" after that. 
 Bill is a good fellow, but he does see the "fun side" of 
 life, if any man ever did. I used often to wonder if he 
 could be a good business man, and yet be so fond of a 
 joke. I only wondered, however, up to the day I first 
 called on him in his office, why he was so cold and busi 
 nesslike that when I started in on a joke he froze it solid 
 right in the middle. I never yet have finished that joke 
 nor even started one in his office since, 
 
 I invited Bill to go with rne to the dinner, but he had 
 an engagement for that evening. I then asked the Re 
 porter, as Bill had told me that reporters never refuse a 
 dinner. He accepted. He said he was used to dinners 
 and would tell me how to act if I needed any instructions. 
 
 "In the first place, you will need a dress suit, which you 
 can hire for the occasion. There are places in the city 
 where you can hire a suit for one night or as long as you 
 want it." 
 
 "You don t mean," said I, "that one man will wear a 
 suit of clothes which perhaps a hundred other men have 
 worn before, do you?"
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 157 
 
 "Oh, yes, that is very common." 
 
 "Well," said I, "it is too common for me. If I have to 
 wear a dress suit and cannot wear my own, then I will 
 not go out where dress suits are required." I might not 
 need such a suit again in my life, but I was so set on go 
 ing to the dinner of the "Hilarious Sons of Kamskatka" 
 that I would go and have one made. 
 
 "But," said I, "it will be impossible to have it finished 
 in time. The dinner is only one week off." 
 
 The Reporter seemed much amused at this, to me, in 
 surmountable obstacle. 
 
 "Why, Rube," said he, "there are places in New York 
 where you can order a suit one day and get it the next." 
 
 This was a revelation. My own tailor, at Highmont, 
 would think he had done well to- finish an ordinary suit of 
 clothes in four weeks, but, then, much of his time is taken 
 up with his barbering and horse doctoring. 
 
 I was quite busy after the suit came, trying it on, and 
 getting used to it. I had never even seen a dress suit be 
 fore, and felt so strange that I was sure I never could feel 
 easy in it, but before the night of the dinner I was sur 
 prised how comfortable I felt. T was sure I would have 
 difficulty in proving my identity to the great after-dinner 
 speaker, as I looked no more like the Rube he saw than 
 the old Kamskatkans did like their hilarious sons. 
 When I am utterly at a loss to know how to describe any 
 thing, I make it a point not to describe it. This dinner 
 was one of those "anythings." I was bewildered. I had 
 never seen a dinner like it. It was not what there was to 
 eat for that matter, there was nothing like as much as 
 Elenora has for an every Sunday dinner, but the decora 
 tion of the hall, the glare of lights, the music hidden away 
 behind a bower of ferns and flowers, the elegant-looking 
 men who surrounded the tables, and a hundred other
 
 158 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 points of interest that made it seem so strange to me. 
 When all the tables were filled a large number of other 
 gentlemen came in, but when I saw this last number carry 
 ing dishes and bottles, and helping those seated at the 
 tables, I turned to the Reporter and asked him why they 
 should do this, "Why are they not seated, too?" I asked. 
 
 When the Reporter had finished a smile which he had 
 started in on at my question, he told me that this last num 
 ber were the waiters. 
 
 "That cannot be," said I, "for see, they are wearing 
 dress suits, too. Waiters do not dress like gentlemen, do 
 they?" 
 
 "Oh, yes!" he said. 
 
 "Then tell me," I begged, "how can you tell the gen 
 tlemen from the waiters ?" 
 
 "You cannot very well at the beginning of a dinner, but 
 at the close, it is not at all difficult, as the sober ones are 
 the waiters." 
 
 He also said : "This remark is not original, but original 
 things are never looked for at dinners." 
 
 I was glad when the dining was over. It was the after- 
 dinner part for which I had bought my dress suit. 
 
 The chairman said many good things, which the diners 
 applauded most heartily. He was followed by a number 
 of speakers, but every one seemed impatient to hear the 
 great man of the evening, my friend on whose invitation 
 I had come. He was applauded the moment his name 
 was mentioned. He arose, smiling, and began talking so 
 easy and went along so smoothly that I, who knew noth 
 ing of the art, could see why he was known as a great en 
 tertainer. It was when he began illustrating his points 
 with stories that the company seemed in its best humor. 
 Imagine my surprise, though, when I heard him relating 
 my own stories, the ones I had told him the day he in-
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 159 
 
 vited me into his house on Fifth avenue. They were 
 mine, but so changed, in dress and locality, from the time 
 I had heard old Uncle Dave Carter and Dave Stoner tell 
 them, in Carter s tavern, that I would scarcely have 
 known them if I had met them alone. A number of those 
 around me seemed quite as surprised as I. One man at 
 my right said, "That s the first time I ever heard him tell 
 that story. I wonder where he got it !" 
 
 "Yes," said another, "I had remarked the same thing." 
 
 "It s the first time I ve heard several of his stories. And 
 do you notice, he tells them as though he knows they are 
 new." 
 
 He kept the company so constantly engaged applauding 
 that they must have been tired, in body but not in mind, 
 by the time he had finished. He did talk so readily that 
 after-dinner speaking just then seemed to me the easiest 
 thing in the world to do. When he sat down the chair 
 man arose and said : "Gentlemen, we have to-night with 
 us a stranger from a neighboring State. He is, no doubt, 
 unknown to most of you, save possibly by casual news 
 paper mention, but that matters little. Even the greatest 
 among us were once unknown. We welcome to our city 
 the young Pennsylvanian who is destined to make his 
 mark in New York." 
 
 At this point I was glad to hear that there was another 
 from my ow r n State. I felt I must meet him, as some 
 how one loves his ow r n people best when he is in another 
 State, far from home. 
 
 "This young man is quite an original character, and is, 
 moreover, a poet. Yes, gentlemen, a poet." 
 
 I was more desirous now than ever to meet him, for I 
 always had a kindly feeling toward poets, as they do seem, 
 by the newspaper writers, to have such hard lines in this 
 world. Just then I saw, for the first time, Edward De-
 
 160 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 Hertbern sitting behind the chairman. Even then it did 
 not occur to me what was coming, and it was fortunate 
 that I did not know, else I had not had the strength to 
 get up, as I do get scared weak so readily. Those were 
 my running thoughts as he talked. 
 
 "You will now be entertained by our young poet friend 
 from Highmont, Pennsylvania, Mr. A. Ruben Hicken- 
 looper; gentlemen, Mr. Hickenlooper." 
 
 I must have "lost my head," as they say, for I was up 
 on my feet talking before I knew where I was or what I 
 was doing, but once up, I would never back out. 
 
 "Gentlemen," I began, "I would, indeed, have to be a 
 most original character to be able to respond to a call for 
 an after-dinner speech at the first meeting of this kind I 
 had ever heard of, much less attended. I came to-night 
 to have my curiosity gratified. I came as a guest, not as 
 a victim. I came to listen, not to talk. The chairman 
 has spoken of me as a poet. His opinion is sadly at vari 
 ance with that of my father. My father, a highly edu 
 cated man for his locality, but whose education runs en 
 tirely in a prose direction, once said to me, Ruben, poets 
 are of no use to the world. They are a shiftless, weak 
 set. A poet is always poor. Rather than have a son of 
 mine a poet, I would see him for the last time. I would 
 feel like disinheriting him. My reply was at least char 
 acteristic of a poet, if naught else. While a poet may not 
 care what is said to him, he will never disclaim his muse. 
 Father, do you not know that I write poetry? The look 
 that came over his face ought to have stopped me right 
 there, but it did not. Yes, I continued, I write poetry, 
 quite pretty verse. I will show you a poem I have just 
 completed. I am sure it will please you. It was very 
 fine. It was on The Raven Locks of Lily Ann, a near 
 by neighbor s daughter. I brought the poem from the
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. l6i 
 
 next room. He took it, looked it carefully through, 
 smiled, and opened his arms. My son, my dear, dear son, 
 Ruben ; come to your father s arms. I came quickly, oh, 
 so pleased to think 1 had \von him over, but no wonder, I 
 thought the poem was so fine. I got to his arms, but he 
 kept right on talking when I thought he had quite fin 
 ished. Yes, my boy, my own Ruben, that (he didn t 
 name it, only called it "that"), lifts a load from my heart. 
 It shows me that you are no poet, and never will be. I 
 shall never disinherit you for poetical reasons. My little 
 heart was so crushed that the Muse did not dare look me 
 in the face for a long while. When she did, my sister got 
 the benefit. Anna was one of those sweet, gentle sisters, 
 whom the small boy loves to go to with all his cares and 
 joys. It was the joys that took me to her on this one 
 particular occasion. I had written another poem, written 
 it and wept over some of the more pathetic verses. I did 
 not dare show it to father, for this time I knew I would 
 not get O ff, as I had before ; this was a real poem one of 
 the disinheriting variety. No, father should not see this 
 one. I would read it to Sister Anna alone. I did. I 
 read it to her, or rather began it. I reached the third 
 verse of the thirteen, when I saw a sadness come over the 
 face of dear sister Anna. I knew the pathetic part was 
 having its effect, but much sooner than I had expected. 
 
 Brother Rube, dear brother Rube. Do you love 
 me? Gentlemen, I have heard that question many times 
 since and under various circumstances, but it never 
 sounded as it did then. 
 
 "I said : Yes, sister Anna, I do> love you ! I did and 
 do yet. 
 
 "She said, with tears trickling along down the sides of 
 her voice: 
 
 " Well, Ruben, my sweet, kind brother, if you love me,
 
 162 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 and love me truly, please don t read any more of that 
 stuff. And yet, gentlemen, your chairman has intro 
 duced me to you as a poet. It will show you how little 
 chairmen know about things in general, and poets in par 
 ticular. Some of the stories told us this evening reminds 
 me of " and then I, having gotten started and warmed 
 up by kindly applause, went on and told them a number of 
 stories which I had, fortunately, not told to the great 
 man. I never will know how I did it, but I talked in 
 fairly good voice and without any hesitation or break 
 from start to finish. When I was through, Edward 
 came over and said he had only asked the chairman to 
 call on me to see if I could even get on my feet. 
 
 "I had not the least notion of your being able to talk at 
 all, much less make one of the best speeches of the 
 dinner." 
 
 The great man came up while Edward and I were talk 
 ing, and said he would have to look to his laurels or I 
 would pluck them. As I had expected, he was greatly 
 surprised at the change in my appearance. I thanked 
 him. 
 
 "It shows," said I, how great a speaker you are, that 
 a boy newly arrived from a remote village could, by the 
 inspiration of your words, be able to make his first after- 
 dinner speech without failing from very fright." 
 
 The Reporter wrote up the dinner, and to compensate 
 me for the invitation, I suppose, he spoke very well of my 
 speech. I sent the paper, with the notice of it marked, to 
 sister Anna. Bill said to me next day, that when Ed 
 ward told at home about my speech, that Mr. DeHertbern 
 remarked : 
 
 "Edward, Ruben must stay in New York." As usual, 
 however, I cared more for what Helen said than for all 
 the other compliments.
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 163 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Ruben, Edward said that you said you were 
 not a poet, and you are a poet. Don t you know about 
 that bad, good man what saved the little children ? That 
 was poetry, wasn t it? Course it was. And he said you 
 told some awfully funny stories, and made everybody 
 laugh all the time. He said he only had the man ask you 
 to speak just to get a joke on you, but he said he was 
 glad it was on him. My papa wants you to be a lawyer 
 won t you be a lawyer, Air. Ruben?" 
 
 "I may some time, but not now. I will have to go back 
 to the mountain country in a very little while, and I may 
 never come back to New York, but I will often think of 
 it." 
 
 "You don t mean never never ! You don t mean that 
 you will go away off and not come back to see us in all 
 your whole life? If you go away, I will make Edward 
 or my papa take me to see you ; then I can see Pauline and 
 Evelyn May and the cousins. Oh, yes, and the big dogs 
 and the rag doll, and I will make you come back to New 
 York with me, cause you saved me, and now you are my 
 Mister Ruben, and I won t let you stay in the mountains. 
 Tousin Wallie says I am a little fairy, and you know little 
 fairies make big men mind just what they tell them, if 
 they don t, the little fairies just turn the big men into 
 elephants. You don t want to be a big elephant, do you, 
 Mister Ruben? -Then you must not go back to the 
 mountains." 
 
 "Why, Helen, you would not turn your Ruben into an 
 ugly big elephant, would you?" 
 
 "I only mean for a little bit of a while, till you would 
 say you would stay in New York. Oh, Mister Ruben, 
 I don t want you to go away," and she was almost crying. 
 So I told her I would not go away for a whole week.
 
 164 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "But, Mister Ruben, a week is such a little while. I 
 want you to stay forever," and she could scarcely be in 
 duced to let me go, for fear, as she said, I would run away 
 to the bis mountains.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI II. 
 
 / see strange men, many of them. They bear the maiden 
 away. They conduct the man and woman to the foot 
 of the mountain. 
 
 Two very important things occurred that one remain 
 ing week of my stay in New York. Rather, Edward and 
 I heard of them that week. Both of them were of vast 
 import, as they changed the course of our two 1 lives. Ed 
 ward had from time to time received letters from 
 Professor Blake, his hieroglyphical friend. The professor 
 would often write a whole page of birds and figures for 
 Edward to translate. He would consult with an old 
 Egyptologist, whom he had met through the professor, 
 and if there were parts he could not translate, this old 
 man would read it for him. This last week of which I 
 speak Edward received a long letter from the professor, 
 who was then in Milan, Italy. He had been there but one 
 week at the time, he wrote. "Here is a matter which 
 may interest you," and then, instead of writing it as he 
 should have done, he put it in hieroglyphics. He did not 
 know how important it was to Edward, else he would 
 have written it in the plainest of w r ords rather than in 
 the most difficult. Edward puzzled for a long while 
 over it and could make out but little further than : "Have 
 seen queen, tomb, beautiful, in Milan." He had to write 
 this last word, as, of course, no sign could represent it. 
 "What could he mean by queen, tomb ?" 
 
 165
 
 166 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "I see, I see!" said Edward. "He has, as is his cus 
 tom, been through the museums of Milan. The mummy 
 of the beautiful queen of the tomb had been brought to 
 that city and is now in one of its museums. Really, Ru 
 ben, this hieroglyphical writing is not all bad. It is like 
 working out word puzzles. One word helps you on to 
 another. Now look, Ruben. You see this figure? Well, 
 it means queen ; but wait a moment. What word is this 
 before queen ? It has the sign of the possessive, but 
 what can that figure mean?" and he sat buried in deep 
 thought. His eyes must have fallen to the bottom of the 
 page, where the professor had signed his name, which 
 he always did with "Your Friend." There was that 
 same word, "Your." Edward seemed startled. "What! 
 Your yes, it is : Your queen. Ruben, what can he 
 mean ? But, then no that cannot be. He must mean 
 that, as I was the first to find this mummy with him, he 
 calls it mine, my queen. No, Ruben, he may claim the 
 honor. I care not for it. My queen I will never find. 
 She is lost to me forever." I w ould write the professor 
 never again to say a word that would in the least way 
 call up in Edward s mind the woman he had met in the 
 strange tomb. Nothing I could do or say would bring 
 him back to himself after one of these words had been 
 spoken. On every other subject Edward was clear and 
 remarkably bright and quick, but the moment his mind 
 was called to the queen/ as he called her, that moment 
 he was a changed being, and it was often days before he 
 would be himself again. All this time, while I was think 
 ing to write to the professor, Edward sat brooding over 
 the letter. He suddenly started up. "Look, Ruben, 
 look ! Here is a word before the one which I know 
 means beautiful. What can it mean? It may be the 
 key to the story. It is, Ruben, it is, for it means more.
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 167 
 
 Oh, I see it all all. If it is only true, the world for me 
 will again have its brightness. It has been a dark world 
 since I lost my queen. Listen, Ruben, here is what I 
 learn : Have seen your Queen of the Tomb. Even more 
 beautiful. In Milan. More beautiful can only apply to 
 a living queen, and my friend knows that there is for me 
 but one living queen, and he has seen her in Milan. I am 
 wasting time. I will hurry to my old Egyptologist, and 
 find if I have translated aright." 
 
 He was away but a short time. When he returned, his 
 face wore a strange expression. His translation had in 
 the main been correct, but the old scholar had made it 
 smoother and even more plain, that the professor had 
 seen the lady whom they had met in the tomb. This old 
 man I had seen once with Edward, who had gone to him 
 with some hieroglyphic writings. He was a strange man. 
 His skin was almost like parchment. He was very old, 
 he looked a hundred years, but his eyes seemed strangely 
 penetrating and even brilliant. He seemed to look far 
 away at times, as though he were reading things not yet 
 known to us. On this last occasion, Edward told me, the 
 old man was strangely impressed by the professor s let 
 ter. "When he had read it, he sat long and looked away 
 off, as you know he does, Ruben, and, turning to me, he 
 said: She is not in Milan now. I see her away in a 
 deep mountain pass. A man and a woman are with her ; 
 the man has a military bearing. I see strange men, 
 many of them. They bear the maiden away. They con 
 duct the man and woman, bound, to the foot of the 
 mountain. They release them, and when the man would 
 turn back, as though to follow and bring back his child, 
 the leader of the strange men, a powerful fellow, but with 
 kindly manner, persuades him that it would be useless. 
 The man and woman return in their carriage to Milan. I
 
 1 68 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 see a young man. He is going toward the mountain pass, 
 as though to rescue the maiden. At this point," said Ed 
 ward, "the old man stopped, looked at me for fully a 
 minute. There seemed almost sadness on his face as he 
 looked away, shaking his head. Then he continued : 
 The powerful fellow meets him ; they fight with swords ; 
 the young man is slain, and but all now is black. I see 
 no more. Xor could I get him to talk further. He 
 would only say : I see nothing. 
 
 "Ruben, a steamer sails to-morrow. I have cabled the 
 Professor that I will go on it." 
 
 I tried to dissuade him. Tried to show him that the 
 old man could not see any more into the future than we 
 could, but all to no purpose. "Suppose, again," said I, 
 "that he could read aright. Did he not as much as say 
 that you would be slain by that powerful fellow?" 
 
 "Ruben, you do not know me. Did I know I would 
 be slain, yet would I try." 
 
 He sailed the next day, as though to visit a friend in 
 Milan, a count whom the DeHertberns had entertained at 
 one time in their home.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 A loan is even worse than a gift. A gift carries zvith it 
 no hope of a return, whilst a loan dishonors the man 
 zvho fails to repay it. 
 
 It was now the evening before I was to go back to my 
 home. I would change from the never-ceasing noise and 
 hurry of New York to the quiet, peaceful solitude of the 
 mountains, where, no doubt, I would remain, a good, law- 
 abiding citizen, for the rest of my years. My friends in 
 the city would think of me for a while, and then forget 
 even my name. Little Helen might cry herself to sleep a 
 few nights, as for a favorite pony gone, but her heart 
 would soon go on loving some other creature. Young 
 hearts so soon forget. I would not forget. The life of 
 solitude, which I must hereafter live, would have so little 
 in it of a pleasant nature, that each moment of my stay in 
 the city would be a picture fixed indelibly on my memory. 
 And often in the after days I would turn to those pic 
 tures, as a mind relief from the prosaic drudgery of a 
 farmer s life. Bill, whose life \vork was laid out before 
 him, would remain in New York. In two years he would 
 marry Beatrice, and become one of the great firm of De- 
 Hertbern & Co. I might even visit him, but no return 
 to New York would ever be like my first remembrance of 
 it. I could never take another "first cab ride/ the full 
 length of Fifth avenue, hunting for that avenue; the 
 museums of the Bowery aye, the Bowery itself would 
 
 169
 
 I/O 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 be an old story. The friends of the boarding-house would 
 all be scattered and gone, leaving only my memory of 
 them, and no others would ever be like my first friends 
 there. I would never again meet with an accident tinder 
 such pleasant auspices. Helen might be a grown young 
 lady on my return, and grown young ladies had never 
 cared for me. She might look upon me as a vague dream 
 of childhood, or, at most, as Bill s friend. No, this last 
 night of my first sojourn among the friends and the 
 pleasures of New York would to a great extent end all the 
 real joys of the city. No after visit would be the same. 
 I would ever compare it with my first, and subsequent 
 visits always lose by comparison. At times, during this 
 retrospect, I would ask myself: Has this visit been a 
 profitable one to me? Would not my life have been a 
 happier one had I not known the joys of this new exist 
 ence? Would not the mountain home of my boyhood, 
 which had ever seemed bright, with nothing to contrast it 
 with, seem dull and lonely? Would not the good but 
 commonplace friends of Highmont lose by my knowledge 
 of a people wholly different from them by reason of su 
 perior advantages ? Would not the laughing brooks bab 
 ble on less musically to my ear than they had of yore? 
 Would not the once great things of Highmont lose all 
 their greatness now? Aye, my brain was in a whirl. I 
 thought, and yet could think no thought to a conclusion. 
 I fain would cease trying to solve the problem. I would 
 go back to the old home, and make the best of the life I 
 would have to lead there. I would think of the new 
 friends, and try to go on loving the old. I would try to 
 show them no change. I would do my duty as I saw it, 
 and at the end lie down in the old church-yard, and be 
 forgotten with the rest. 
 
 Bill and I were due at the DeHertberns for dinner. I
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 171 
 
 sat so long in thinking over my home-going that I had 
 but little time to dress before he would call for me. I 
 was getting all the good out of my dress suit that I could, 
 as I would have no use for it at Highmont. Bill would 
 not let me wear it except in the evening, else I had got 
 ten more good out of it. In some ways, I used to think, 
 Bill had peculiar notions, but in the end I found he had 
 learned much. 
 
 That dinner was the most agreeably sad one I have ever 
 sat down to. The more I enjoyed myself, the worse I 
 felt. Agreeable from their kindly manner toward me, 
 and sad in thinking it was the last I might partake with 
 them. Mr. DeHertbern, ever courteous, had never shown 
 the same consideration for me before. I could not but 
 think that he must respect me for the refusal to accept his 
 offer of a course in law school. I scarcely expected him 
 to speak of it, but he did. 
 
 (> Ruben," said he, "no doubt you will wonder that I 
 again refer to my wish that you should take a course in 
 law, but I cannot allow you to throw away an opportunity 
 to enter the one field for which I think you so well fitted. 
 Had you the means, I would not have offered to assist 
 you, but when I could so easily gratify a wish, and at the 
 same time help you to attain your own desire, I felt almost 
 as though you had done me a wrong in refusing. Now, 
 Ruben, I respect you more than I can tell, and I would not 
 urge you further, but I have thought that you might pos 
 sibly accept my offer as a loan, to be returned at a future 
 time. That will not be accepting money as a gift." 
 
 "Mr. DeHertbern," I replied, "a loan is even worse than 
 a gift. A gift carries with it no expectation of a return, 
 whilst a loan dishonors the man who fails to repay it. 
 Should I accept the loan, and for some reason, possibly 
 one which I could not govern or control, be unable to
 
 172 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 give it back, it would make my life far more unbearable 
 than a life buried away among the stony hills of High- 
 mont. There would be no pleasure in life for me to feel 
 I owed that which I could not pay. The debt might be 
 forgiven, but the humility I would feel most deeply. If 
 I could tell you how much I prize your offer you would 
 not feel hurt at my refusal of it." I shall not forget the 
 strange look he gave me, but he never again reverted to 
 the subject. 
 
 When the dinner was over we went into the music- 
 room, all save Mr. DeHertbern, who went up to the 
 library. It seemed so pretty to see Mrs. DeHertbern 
 seated at the piano, playing accompaniments for Beatrice 
 and Bill. I was pleased to hear how beautifully they 
 sang together. Their voices blended in the sweetest har 
 mony. They sang many songs, but there was one I have 
 so often thought of since. I only remember the last verse 
 and chorus. I am not even sure I have the right name, 
 but I have always called it 
 
 "PRETTY MOTH." 
 "Be content with your lot 
 
 Pretty one, pretty one, 
 And make use of the joys given you ; 
 Do not strive to gain wealth or fame, 
 
 Pretty one. 
 
 If no pleasures they bring unto you, 
 Then take all with joy 
 That you find on life s path, 
 And be thankful, though always not bright. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 "For many things in this world 
 That look bright, pretty moth,
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 173 
 
 Only dazzle to lead us astray. 
 Many things in this world 
 That look bright, pretty moth, 
 Only dazzle to lead us astray." 
 
 It made me feel almost resigned to my having to leave 
 New York. I had seen a good deal of "dazzle" in this 
 great city, and it was possibly well that I was going away. 
 
 Helen had not left my side all the evening. Just before 
 we sat down to dinner she had whispered to me that if I 
 asked her mamma she "might let her eat with the big 
 people, just this once." She promised to be the "goodest 
 girl" and not to "talk even a little bit." It seemed really 
 odd to watch her during the whole dinner. She was quiet 
 the longest time I had ever before known her to be and 
 it wasn t a relief to me, either. She made up for it after 
 we had gone into the music-room. When the singing 
 had ceased, and Bill and Beatrice were seated for a game 
 of chess, Mrs. DeHertbern looking on, Helen said: "Oh, 
 Mr. Ruben, I am so tired being still, when I wanted to 
 talk every little minute. Tousin Wallie says you are 
 really and truly going away to-morrow forever and ever. 
 I am on y a little girl, but I know that means a long, long 
 time. Will I be big like Beatrice when that time comes 
 to the end?" 
 
 "I do not know, Helen, how long it will be. I may 
 never come to the city again. You must not feel bad 
 when I go. You can play with your pretty dollies and go 
 driving in the park, and soon forget about Ruben." When 
 I said this, trying to divert her mind, as though my going 
 was of little importance, it had the other effect. She 
 almost screamed out crying. Her mother ran to her 
 with: "Helen,, what can be the matter?" 
 
 "Oh, mamma, mamma, Mr. r.tiben said I would forget
 
 174 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 him when he goes away, when he saved me and got 
 hurted hisself. I can never, never, never forget him, 
 mamma ; can I, mamma ! No, Mr. Ruben, I will be your 
 Helen forever and ever,, and will never forget you !" 
 And as she threw her little, chubby arms about my neck 
 she cried: "I will love you always," and would scarcely 
 let go when her mother insisted that it was getting late 
 for her and that she must now bid Ruben good-by. 
 
 "Must you go, Mr. Ruben? Won t you stay and be a 
 lawyer? Papa and brother Edward want you to so 
 much, for I hear them talking about you." I could argue 
 with men, but the pleadings of this little child made me 
 helpless. I could not reply. All I could say was : "Good- 
 by, Helen. Ruben will never forget you." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. DeHertbern and Beatrice were very kind 
 in their wishes for my success when bidding me good-by. 
 "Remember now, Ruben," said Mr. DeHertbern, "if ever 
 you need a friend, under any and all circumstances, you 
 must feel free to call on me ! Will you promise me ? 
 
 "I do promise most heartily, and thank you for your 
 wish for mv welfare."
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Poor old Shyiock! The only praise ever accorded him, 
 when lie is gone, is the epitaph found on his tomb, 
 at which all smile as they pass. He may die rich, 
 but seldom mourned. 
 
 No doubt the reason of my fear of money obligations 
 was what 1 had seen at home. Father, always ambitious 
 to own the largest farm of any one in the county, had 
 added one piece after another, until his ambition had 
 reached its goal. He did not own it, although everybody 
 knew it as his. He went heavily in debt in order to secure 
 the land. As long as the crops were good he kept up his 
 interest and reduced the principal, but for three years the 
 crops had regularly failed. The interest on the notes 
 could not be met and the taxes were far over due. The 
 man who held father s notes for thousands of dollars was 
 one of those careful, judicious men found in almost every 
 communitv. He starts on nothing, of which fact he is so 
 fond of boasting, and from that "nothing" grinds out, not 
 only many a dollar of the hard-working farmer, but 
 often the life of the farmer himself. This modern Shy- 
 lock does not begin the grinding until the "grist" is as 
 large as it will grow. 
 
 Take your time. I do not need the money. Why, I 
 have saved up, and can loan vou another thousand, if any 
 accommodation." 
 
 He knows to the very dollar the limit of his victim. He
 
 176 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 will not go one dollar beyond that limit. He is then "very 
 sorry," but he "must have the monev!" When he dies, 
 which is seldom young, he always has a large funeral, 
 everybody attends, that there may be no error as to the 
 depth of the grave. The only praise ever accorded him 
 when he is gone is the epitaph found on his tomb, at which 
 all smile as they pass. He may die rich, but seldom 
 mourned. 
 
 Father was in the grasp of a characteristic member of 
 this class of men. 
 
 Knowing that the three hundred dollars which I had 
 saved up would go into the "grist" if I gave it to father, 
 I felt I would at least have one "good time" in my life. 
 For that reason I had spent my money freely for one who 
 had not yet acquired the art. 
 
 I sat long into the night, thinking of the change the 
 morrow would bring to me. The morrow came, but a far 
 different change it brought from the one I knew of. 
 I was going home. I would settle down to the quiet 
 life of a farmer, and the life of the city would be but 
 a memory. I was resigned, but I was not happy. I had 
 tasted of the city, and it was pleasing. The life of the 
 country was endurable, but that was all. The morrow 
 brought a letter from sister Anna, and that letter bore the 
 change of my life. Wonderful ! It read like the dream 
 of an Aladdin. Could it be true, or was I in a dream mv- 
 self? Listen to the words it bore: 
 
 "Oh, Ruben, I fear almost to tell you, as it may not be 
 true. It is too good to be true. You know our old bar 
 ren farm? Well, Aunt Radical gave us far more than 
 she ever dreamed of. She gave us a fortune. Some men 
 came to see you the other day, and, not finding you, they 
 said they were looking for a farm. Would we sell the 
 old Darnell farm? It is not of anv value, but we can
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 177 
 
 fix it up and use it as a hunting preserve. Now, I knew 
 it was of no use for that. The creek that ran through it 
 might do for trout fishing, but for hun r ng it was not 
 suitable. I spoke to father about it, and told him the 
 reason the men gave for wanting it. The reason was so 
 poor that father at once became suspicious. You know 
 reports have been flying ever since oil was discovered in 
 the State. One locality after another has just struck oil. 
 It had not yet reached our county. Father, not wishing 
 to discourage them away, said that you owned a half in 
 terest, and that he would write you, and if they would 
 come again in a week he would give them an answer. 
 They seemed greatly disappointed, and before they left 
 they made an offer for us to think over, as they said. 
 The offer was so far beyond the value of the land that 
 father was certain there must be something beside scrub 
 oak and blackberry bushes on it. He drove at once to the 
 old farm, and found a number of men going up and down 
 the creek. They were so intent on what they were doing 
 that they did not see him, although he got almost up to 
 them in the underbrush. One of them said : There are 
 all indications of oil ! Now, if we can buy the old place 
 before that boy and girl know what s here, it will be a 
 great bit of business. Father turned and came away 
 without their seeing him. I would have written you at 
 once, but I did not wish to encourage you until we were 
 certain. Since the day they called on me no less than 
 four different men and parties of men have been here, and 
 each time I am offered a higher price, until I am utterly 
 bewildered. Oh, I know not what to do. Oh, Ruben, if 
 we only had some good expert to go over the farm and 
 find what it is worth, it would help to determine what to 
 do. As it is, the sums offered have increased so fast that 
 there is no wav for us to tell its true value. I do not want
 
 178 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 what it is not worth, but we should get near its value. 
 You had hetter come home at once, as this matter is far 
 more important than New York, with Bill and Fifth ave 
 nue thrown in." 
 
 She was so filled with the oil question that every margin 
 of her letter was taken up with it, and not a word about 
 anything else. As soon as I had read the letter I went at 
 once to see Air. DeHertbern, who,, I knew, was in some 
 way connected with a company that dealt in oil. When 
 I got to his office Bill told me that he was at that moment 
 in the oil company s office, where they were holding a 
 meeting, at which a man from Pennsylvania was to make 
 a report on a great "find" that had just been made. I 
 was so excited that I could not wait for Air. DeHertbern 
 to return, but, learning from Bill where this oil company s 
 office was located, I went directly to it. The meeting was 
 just being called as I arrived. Air. DeHertbern seemed 
 pleased to see me and invited me into the meeting-room, 
 explaining to some of the directors that I was a young 
 friend of his. Little did either of us think of the result 
 of that meeting. Preliminaries were quickly gone 
 through and the "oil find" was taken up. The Pennsyl- 
 vanian proved to be the greatest expert on oil lands that 
 this company had. 
 
 "My attention," he began, "was called to this property 
 by some well men who are continually hunting out new 
 fields. Their description of the property w r as so glowing 
 that I went at once to look at it, and I found it even better 
 than they had reported." 
 
 "Did you find who owns it?" asked the chairman. 
 
 "Yes; it belongs to an old man, but he will not sell. 
 At any rate, every time he is approached he puts off the 
 well men with some excuse says his son and daughter 
 own it. But these men always have a way of getting
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 179 
 
 what they want. They soon found that the old man was 
 heavily involved on account of having gone in debt for 
 more farms than he needed. Well, the day I left, the 
 holder of a claim for thousands of dollars against him, be 
 gan suit, and, as they told me, we will soon be in a po 
 sition to negotiate with you ! They offered the old man 
 a price far beyond the value of the old farm, but now 
 they say, since this suit has begun, they can get it 
 much cheaper. Of course, I do not uphold getting prop 
 erty below value, but these well men are too important to 
 us for me to oppose them, so I have to let them have their 
 own way. I have examined the property very carefully, 
 and find, if we can get it for" and here he mentioned a 
 price ten times greater than sister Anna had told me the 
 men had offered her. 
 
 I sat there as one in a dream. I knew what was being 
 said, but I could not realize that I was hearing old Aunt 
 Radical s homestead talked about in connection with any 
 thing of value. What saddened me was to hear that old 
 Shylock had begun suit against father. I would go home 
 and fight the suit as long as possible, in the hope that I 
 could find another buyer for the land, or induce the well 
 men to increase their offer. What I had learned in that 
 meeting I could not use. I had been admitted as a 
 trusted guest, as Mr. DeHertbern s friend, and, moreover, 
 I could not now tell him about sister Anna s letter. Oh, 
 how I wished I had not gone to that meeting. After the 
 expert had finished his report but little more was done, 
 and they left the room. I said nothing about what I had 
 come to sav, but bid Mr. DeHertbern eroocl-bv.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Father urged me not to take so foolhardy a risk, that I 
 had no knowledge of law. At this I whispered: 
 "Neither has the jury." 
 
 I left New York that night and reached Highmont the 
 next day, the stage getting into the village at noon. The 
 family were all so disheartened over the coming trial that 
 they gave me a very poor welcome. 
 
 "Ruben," said sister Anna, "to think that what we had 
 looked upon as a great fortune is now to be our ruin. 
 Since old Shylock began his suit on the notes the men 
 who made us the offer now say it was too high, and, in 
 fact, they think they can find another place that will 
 answer their purpose better. \Ye have told them that we 
 would accept the offer, as I knew you would agree to any 
 thing that will save dear father in his old age ; but they 
 say : No, we are not altogether pleased with the farm. It 
 is too remote. It is too barren ; not enough forest on it for 
 hunting purposes. In short, we hardly care for it, but 
 will see later on about it. 
 
 "And, Ruben, old Shylock is hurrying up the trial all 
 he can. His lawyers, the best in the county, have gotten 
 from the judge nearly all they asked for. He has pushed 
 the trial away forward on what he calls the calendar. 
 Father s one lawyer (all he can afford, and a poor one at 
 that, as old Shylock had secured the four good ones in 
 the county before we knew of the trial) has done what he 
 
 180
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 181 
 
 could, but the judge never hears him talking if any one of 
 the other four have a word to say, and every time our law 
 yer wants to be heard at least two of them are up with : 
 May it please your honor ! and, Ruben, it always pleases 
 his honor not to notice little Bennie, as people call our 
 counsellor. Oh, Ruben, what will we do ? The old home 
 will be sold, and, as nobody will bid against Shylock, he 
 will get all for less than the face of the judgment he cannot 
 but get in the coming trial, leaving nothing for us." 
 
 This was the situation when I came home from my 
 pleasure trip to Xew York. I found how true the saying: 
 The greatest joy and the greatest sorrow are closely al 
 lied." If you see the first, look around, and the second 
 will soon be along. Never had I had as much joy in all 
 my life as I had seen on this visit to Bill, and never was 
 there such a prospect of sorrow as now. 
 
 I was not one to sit down and bewail at my fate. My 
 nature was to fight better as the "under man." I soon 
 found that "Bennie" was well named. He was well 
 enough learned in the law ; in fact, he had been the medal 
 man of his class, but my opinion of medal men by this 
 time was very poor indeed. As I said, he was well 
 learned in the law, but he had no fight in him. He knew 
 what to say, but he had no< force. A jury seldom thinks 
 of what a lawyer says, but how he says it. I once saw a 
 trial in Highmont where this was proven true most con 
 clusively. The law provides that "if an animal is found 
 on the highway unattended by a caretaker the fine for the 
 same shall be 75 cents. If the animal shall do any dam 
 age to field crops, said damage shall be assessed and the 
 animal held until paid by the owner of such animal." I 
 am not a law-book writer ; that is why the above is not put 
 in exact legal phrase, but you will note that I used "said" 
 and "same," which will in a great measure excuse the re-
 
 1 82 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 mainder. Well, to proceed with the story in question : 
 "Hen" Titer s cow, usually a quiet "baste," did get on the 
 highway 75 cents and did get into fanner Crumley s 
 cornfield, and did eat and destroy $4.12^ worth of corn 
 $4.87^ in all. This amount "Hen" Titer by law must pay. 
 "Hen" called for a jury trial, and, by a strange fate, every 
 one of the jurymen was a farmer. It was to their interest 
 to make an example of "Hen" Titer; but "Hen" would 
 say nothing but: "Wait till Id (Ed was his law 
 yer) gits at thim. He is the bye (boy) that will make 
 thim furgit their own grandmithers." And he did. The 
 picture that Ed drew of the poor Titer children crying for 
 their milk while that monster, Crumley, held in durance 
 vile "Hen s" cow was one of the most pathetic appeals I 
 have ever heard. I cried I couldn t help it. I felt ex 
 cused, though, for every juryman was doing the same 
 thing. Verdict : Crumley was fined $5 and costs for 
 taking up the cow. 
 
 While in New York I used occasionally to attend court 
 to hear the lawyers argue cases. What I noticed of most 
 common occurrence was that if a lawyer knew but little 
 law he would devote much time telling the judge "I 
 object," and if the judge would overrule he would then 
 "note an exception," in the hopes that when somebody 
 higher up who did know the law, would by some chance 
 find that his "objections" were well taken and the decision 
 of the judge reversed. At any rate, I would have Bennie 
 "object" from start to finish in this trial. We would de 
 lay everything we could. Bennie knew a good deal but 
 nothing he knew was truer than that "If you have a poor 
 case delay. Delay helps the man who has no case, and 
 often hurts the one with the best case." Yes, we would 
 delay that is, we thought we would delay, but the judge 
 wasn t that kind of a iudge. Bennie told me that Old
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 183 
 
 Shy lock always loaned this judge all the money he 
 needed, and as he spent a good deal of time at the taverns 
 in the different towns where he held court, he must have 
 needed a considerable. It always occurred to me that 
 who ever had the contract for furnishing the fuel for that 
 judge s nose, need not look for many other contracts, but 
 I used to feel sorry for the man who had to pay for this 
 contract, until Bennie told me he thought old "Shy" paid 
 most of it. No, we did not delay. The trial was pushed 
 faster than any trial had ever before been pushed in the 
 county. 
 
 The opening day was almost like a county fair. My 
 father was well known for a long distance around High- 
 mount, and while everybody had respected him in his 
 prosperous days, it was curiosity rather than respect 
 which brought them together at the trial. 
 
 The twelve men were soon impaneled whenever 
 Bennie suggested a man of any intelligence one of the 
 other lawyers would object. "Objection sustained;" and 
 when on the other hand, Shy s lawyer would name some 
 ignorant fellow Bennie would object. "Objection over 
 ruled," then the "gavel" would fall. Well, Bennie may 
 have been too sarcastic, but he spoke of it as a "typical 
 American jury." I cannot tell my readers of the outside 
 world what this jury looked like, as they would only 
 know by some comparison, and I can think of nothing 
 with which to compare it. While as for those of my little 
 inside world, I need not tell them, for they were all there 
 and know for themselves. 
 
 Sister Anna told me that she saw two of the men who 
 had offered to buy our farm. She pointed them out to 
 me. I watched them, and saw them standing near the 
 jury box. They would say something to nearly every one 
 of the jurors as they would walk up to take their seats.
 
 184 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 I told Bennie to object, but he did it so weak- voiced that 
 I don t think the judge heard him. At any rate, he said 
 nothing- and the men continued to smile at and talk to the 
 jurors. 
 
 Country trials are much like those in the city they are 
 long or short as the purse is long or short. 
 
 Shylock having four lawyers on his side meant a trial 
 long enough for each one to earn his money. 
 
 As for Bennie, he was not taken into account. He 
 would have to stay as long as the four chose to keep him. 
 
 The trial was on its second day nothing had been 
 done further than selecting the jury, and the case opened 
 by the leader of Shylock s four law-yers. 
 
 He said nothing about the case. He spent the 
 whole two hours of his speech in telling the "intelligent" 
 jury what he knew about Blackstone and the principles of 
 law and jurisprudence. Those of them who were awake 
 at the time he finished seemed greatly pleased, whether 
 nith the speech or that it had closed I never could tell. 
 
 The next lawyer told the jury what he knew of the 
 obligation of debtor to creditor, and cited a number of 
 cases beginning at Hasdrubal and running on down 
 through past Xapoleon and \Yellington. The other two 
 lawyers followed in the same line of argument. 
 
 The trial had so far been conducted without any sem 
 blance of law. Bennie had "objected," "taken excep 
 tions," was overruled, sat upon, laughed at by the Court 
 until our side seemed in a desperate situation. 
 
 "May it please the Court," I began, after the four law 
 yers had all made their speeches. I could get no further 
 for "Hear! Hear!" from all parts of the court room, 
 drowned even the raps of the old judge. 
 
 Finally, when the room was again silent, I continued : 
 
 "If your honor please, and the four \vorthy gentlemen
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 185 
 
 who have spoken so learnedly ck> not object, I would ask 
 that I may be permitted to say a few words to help our 
 one lone counsellor." 
 
 The judge smiled, the four lawyers said it was entirely 
 no difference to them. So it was agreed that I might 
 speak in place of Bennie. Father urged me not to take 
 so foolhardy a risk, that while I might be heard further 
 than Bennie, I had no knowledge of the law. 
 
 At this I whispered to him, "neither has the jury." I 
 had dressed for the occasion. I laid my city suit away, 
 and donned one of my own tailor s. The very novelty of 
 the situation aided me. The court room was packed with 
 people, most of whom had known me from childhood. I 
 was all alone. Against me was the judge, and four of the 
 best lawyers in the county had spoken to a jury o-f their 
 own selection. As is often the case, in their anxiety to 
 get everything, they had gotten too much. I knew sev 
 eral of the jury. Some of them were under obligations 
 to my father ; two or three of the others were sons of men 
 who had once been in good circumstances, but had lost 
 their all in almost similar cases with ours. Especially was 
 this true of the foreman. When a young man his future 
 was a bright one, but a suit at court, quite similar to this 
 one of ours, had swept away every vestige of their home. 
 His father died from grief, and he had never recovered 
 his spirits enough to get above the life of a common 
 laborer. 
 
 Again the four lawyers in their effort to show their 
 legal knowledge, had all talked over the heads of these 
 jurymen. I knew that, while I might not be versed in 
 the law, I could reach these men through a better chan 
 nel one that they knew more about the arrogance of 
 the rich and the ills of poverty. I began, in slow, meas 
 ured sentences :
 
 1 86 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "Your honor and gentlemen of the jury, you see before 
 you a boy with no knowledge of the law. You have 
 known me from childhood. You know the advantages I 
 have had and know that I am not armed to fight this 
 unequal battle with the giants of the bar ; but, gentlemen 
 of the jury, when a boy is fighting for the gray haired 
 father and mother whose lives he prizes far above his 
 own, then he is armed with a weapon against which the 
 sharp blade of legal learning has no force. 
 
 "You have been most ably told by these four giants of 
 the bar the meaning of words, the certain fine turns which 
 can be made with words. Aye, gentlemen, some of us 
 know too well how that words can be turned to our de 
 stroying. Who knows better their uses than the money 
 lender? He seeks out his victim, who is a man in pros 
 perous condition. He throws around him a spell of low, 
 sweet-sounding words and urges him to accept money 
 at a fair rate of interest. Once the spell is around the 
 victim, and no power on earth can break it. He is led 
 on and still further on. As the bonds become more 
 firmly tightened, the rate of interest increases. But, gen 
 tlemen, this Shylock knows when to stop the use of soft 
 words. It is when he has in his grasp the victim. His 
 words now change their soft, flute-like tones become 
 more terrible than those of the thunder. The poor victim 
 fights on and on the unequal battle, but he seldom wins. 
 The struggle often ends with not only his fortune gone, 
 but his life. The Shylock looks upon his death struggle, 
 and with his coffers swelled out with the hard-earned 
 dollars of his victim, says to the widow and orphaned 
 children : I will rent you the homestead cheap! : (This, 
 I saw, had its effect on the foreman, who seemed to catch 
 every phase of my meaning.) "The work of the modern 
 Shvlock does not end with the death of his victim. It
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 187 
 
 often follows on down through to his children, changing 
 their whole lives, and making them slaves where they 
 should be masters." 
 
 Up to this point the lawyers had attempted many times 
 to stop me, but the more they opposed, the more fire I 
 threw into my pleading. I saw I had the jury nearly 
 all with me, and I would turn in another direction. 
 
 "Who is the Shylock and who the victim in this case? 
 The wrecked homes of the one are all over our country 
 the kind acts of the other are known to all who have 
 ever needed a helping hand. Gentlemen of the jury, it 
 is for you to say if another home shall mark the trail 
 of Shylock ! It may not be known to you all that this 
 trial was timed for a purpose. Had it been deferred, 
 as was promised, Shylock would have had his money and 
 his interest ; but that was not what he wanted. That was 
 not for what he had used soft words. Gentlemen of the 
 jury, what he wanted was the very roof that covers our 
 heads. Shall he have that roof?" 
 
 "No, no!" from all parts of the room. The judge 
 stands up to rap order: the four lawyers turn uneasily 
 in their seats ; old Shylock is out in the vestibule walking 
 back and forth, pale and nervous; several of the jury are 
 wiping their eyes. 
 
 "Gentlemen of the jury, I hold in my hand the proof 
 of most glaring usury on the part of Shylock. I may 
 not know all the fine turns of legal wording, but I do 
 know that usury is a very grave offense." I had said 
 enough, and had but to close. "And now, gentlemen of 
 the jury, friends and neighbors, I have done. I have 
 told you no law. i know no law. I do know, however, 
 that if Shylock adds another victim to his number this 
 day that a grave injustice will be done to an honest man." 
 
 The court-room was in an uproar, and for many min-
 
 1 88 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 utes the judge could not be heard. He charged the jury, 
 but they seemed not to hear him. They were sent out, 
 and soon returned with a verdict in favor of my father. 
 How or on what grounds they could have done so, no 
 one knew, nor could they explain it ; but, as Bennie said, 
 they were a "typical American" jury. 
 
 Friends gathered around and warmly congratulated 
 me. Father and mother embraced me and wept. But 
 imagine my wonder and surprise when before me stood 
 Bill and Mr. DeHertbern. 
 
 "Ruben, nothing in the world can now stand between 
 you and the law. You need not borrow nor accept a 
 gift, for you are in your own right a rich man. Our 
 expert reports the true value of your farm, and I am pre 
 pared to close the matter at once." And that very clay 
 Bennie drew the papers. 
 
 We were to receive a certain sum in cash, which seemed 
 in itself several fortunes. We were to receive another 
 amount in certificates in the oil company, and a further 
 royalty per barrel for all the oil taken from the property. 
 The next day I sent for old Shylock, and when we had 
 counted the just amount due him, Mr. DeHertbern gave 
 him a check in full payment. It took only a very small 
 part of the cash due us. The old man for once in his life 
 wept. Bennie thought it was for joy at receiving any 
 thing, after the verdict of the "typical," etc. 
 
 It was a happy reunion at our old home that night. 
 Bill and his mother were there, and Mr. DeHertbern was 
 to stay over to look at the oil property. I was most 
 curious to know how Bill and Mr. DeHertbern had 
 reached there just at that time. Bill told me that his 
 mother, who had been West, reached home a day or two 
 before the trial. She wrote at once and told him the 
 serious trouble we were in, and how that nothing could
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 189 
 
 save our home. Oh, how I wish we could help them !" 
 she wrote. Well, when Bill got the letter he showed it 
 to Air. DeHertbern. They found that by starting at once 
 they could catch the stage in time. They reached the 
 court-room just as I was beginning my speech, and I was 
 greatly pleased to know that they had heard it, for when 
 one does himself fair credit one likes to have his friends 
 hear him. 
 
 It was a most joyous week that followed the end of 
 the trial. From sorrow to joy, from threatened poverty 
 to riches beyond the dream of to me Croesus. Success 
 makes many friends. Wherever I went, I was met with 
 congratulations, both on the result of the trial and my 
 change from penury to wealth. Possibly nothing that 
 had ever occurred in Highmont created so great a sensa 
 tion as our trial. I have made many speeches since that 
 day. I have spoken in the highest courts of the land, 
 and before the most learned judges; but the one great 
 speech of my life was that I made when an unlearned 
 boy before an ignorant jury in a mountain village court 
 room. That speech is talked of to this day among the 
 people of Highmont. Their good opinion is sweeter to 
 my heart than the applause of a nation. 
 
 Mr. DeHertbern remained two days. He drove over 
 to the Darnell farm with his expert, and was greatly 
 pleased with the prospect. \Vork was at once begun on 
 its development, and it proved a success far beyond their 
 anticipations. The wells are still producing, and our 
 royalty turns in to Sister Anna and me a large yearly 
 income. 
 
 On the day of my arrival from New York almost the 
 first person I met was a poor widow whose daughter 
 Maggie had run away from home four years before. 
 This poor mother had never heard from her child in all
 
 190 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 this time. She had hoped on that Maggie would return, 
 or that she would send some word to tell her that 
 she was yet alive. "Oh, Mr. Ruben ! have you seen, 
 in the great city, my little Maggie? Nobody has ever 
 seen her. My heart is breaking, thinking of her. Oh, 
 she must come back to me some time ! She was all I had 
 in the world. The life of the very poor has little joy 
 in it, but when I had my child with me I did not think 
 of poverty. I thanked the Lord and was happy; but 
 when she went away without a word to me, I have never 
 seen a happy moment since. Mr. Ruben, I did hope you 
 might have seen her, and that you could have told her 
 how her poor old mother is always waiting for her to 
 come back." 
 
 The sorrow and trouble of others affect me deeply. If 
 I can speak a word of cheer or help them in their grief, 
 I always try to do so ; but I could do nothing for this poor 
 woman. Nothing I could do or say would bring Maggie 
 home to her mother,, and nothing but Maggie s return 
 could lift the burden from her lonely life. Before I re 
 turned to the city, Sister Anna had promised to quietly 
 see that this poor woman should never want for any 
 thing. 
 
 Pauline and Evelyn May never got tired listening to 
 my story of Helen. They would ask over and over : 
 "Brother Ruben, tell us again about Helen. Will she 
 some time come to see us? Wouldn t we have fun ! We 
 would let her paddle in the little brook, and ride on the 
 big wagon, and and 
 
 "Yes," broke in Evelyn May, "and get stinged with 
 the bees !" 
 
 "Oh, wouldn t it be fun ! Brother Ruben,, won t you 
 bring- her to see us some time?" 
 
 "Yes, if her mamma will let her come I will bring her :
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 191 
 
 but she is always afraid Helen will get hurt, and is very 
 careful of her." 
 
 Why, Brother Ruben, she mustn t be fraid if she is 
 with you. You never will let her get hurt !" And they 
 never ceased planning what they would do when Helen 
 came. Not for a moment could they be made to think 
 she might not come. 
 
 As soon as I was no longer needed at home, I returned 
 to New York ; as now, with nothing to prevent, I would 
 begin my cherished study of the law.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 They buy their music as they zvould their coal, weighing 
 it out on the same heavy scale. In Europe music 
 is a pleasure in America it is a commodity. 
 
 The day Edward DeHertbern reached the other side 
 he sent a cablegram and a telecablegram on his safe ar 
 rival in Milan, Italy. Wire food is never satisfying to 
 the mind, and it was only when I received a letter from 
 him that I was at all relieved from the strain of very 
 natural worry. 
 
 Edward \vrote: "I have seen the Professor. My 
 translation of his letter was correct. I have met Lord 
 and Lady Alleyn, who do not recognize me as the em 
 barrassed youth they met in the tomb. They know me 
 only as Count Drasco s friend. They are almost distract 
 ed with grief, as what the old Egyptologist told me is 
 true. Their daughter was stolen from them by a band 
 of bandits. Lord Alleyn has offered a large ransom, but 
 word was sent him that, We will name the ransom in 
 due time. 
 
 "In time of action Professor Blake is a very child. He 
 has no plan, can suggest no way by which we can be 
 of service to the stricken father and mother in their 
 grief. I have found my friend, Count Drasco, and have 
 told him my story. This man when in New York had 
 seemed so gentle almost timid, that I feared he would 
 be of small service in time of strong, quick action ; but, 
 
 192
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 793 
 
 Ruben, I had never before been so mistaken in my esti 
 mate of a man as I had been in the Count. The favorite 
 of the drawing-room, the gentle-mannered man of 
 fashion, became a very giant in time of need. He entered 
 at once with me in devising a means of rescuing Miss 
 Alleyn. Said he : This is a most delicate hazard. We 
 dare use no force, and yet must needs be prepared to 
 fight on occasion. If she be in the power of the bandits, 
 they, by long custom, have learned all the ways of at 
 tempted rescue. If force sufficient be sent, these men, 
 who have lost all human feeling by long years of preying 
 on their fellow men, would kill her rather than that she 
 be taken. Only by means of which these bandits know 
 nothing can we hope to succeed. We will dress as be 
 comes most humble strolling minstrels. Ah ! but there 
 w r e will fail. You Americans are not musical. You 
 have, you all claim, a great love for music ; but you do 
 not know true music. The strolling minstrel of our 
 mountains often has more music in him than you will 
 find in one of your so-called music schools. When I was 
 in your country I heard much that pleased, but all the 
 musicians were foreigners. None of your ladies sang. 
 I heard no voice in your drawing-rooms save that of the 
 professional who sang for pay. No, this plan will not 
 do ; although it is the best that could be devised were you 
 a singer, or could play the guitar. 
 
 "Ruben, I felt the criticism most keenly. America is 
 not advancing in music. Our people feel that it is taking 
 a lowly position to play or sing for their guests. They 
 buy their music as they would their coal, weighing it 
 out on the same heavy scale. In Europe music is a 
 pleasure in America it is a commodity. I could but 
 think of the long months yes, even years I had spent 
 trying to learn music, for I love it as few Italians love it;
 
 194 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 and when I thought of my old music teacher, Professor 
 Frenchelli, and how that he used to tell me that my 
 Italian accent was perfect, and that my voice was as pure 
 as an Italian minstrel, I could not help saying: 
 
 " Count, I have studied your music, and play some 
 what on the guitar. He smiled, and reached me that 
 instrument without a word. The moment I touched the 
 chords he was all animation, and when I sang a simple 
 little Italian ballad which Professor Frenchelli always 
 said I sang well, the Count was almost beside himself 
 with pleasure. 
 
 " It is the way the very best. See ! our voices blend 
 together in soft minstrel melody, in plaintive song; and 
 he joined me in the ballad, \vhich he knew. I, too, was 
 surprised at his fine voice. 
 
 I will not be so critical, said he, on the swordsman 
 ship of America until I have seen what you can do in 
 sword play. At that he took down two keen blades from 
 where they hung in his room, and handing me one, took 
 position as though to fence. A very few passes con 
 vinced him that he was no match for my skill. He \vas 
 even more delighted than he was at my voice. 
 
 " Perfect! Perfect! 
 
 But what is the good, I asked, of being able to use 
 a sword, if we dress the part of a minstrel ? We cannot 
 go armed, as a minstrel carries no weapon. He took 
 down a guitar and handed it to me to examine. 
 
 What, asked he, do you see peculiar about this in 
 strument? I took it, looked it over carefully, played 
 upon it, returned it with, I see nothing further than that 
 it has a peculiarly formed head, and that the back of the 
 instrument is somewhat differently shaped ; but I would 
 not have noted any difference had you not called my 
 attention to it.
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 195 
 
 See! said he; and with a quick movement he had 
 grasped the peculiar head of the guitar and stood in front 
 of me, armed with a sword. That peculiar head was a 
 sword-hilt, and the back of the guitar was the sheath. 
 
 No one would suspect this innocent-looking guitar 
 as an instrument of death, and yet you see the blade is 
 a perfect sword/ So great was my surprise that I could 
 make no reply. 
 
 There is but one other guitar like this, and it is 
 owned by a man who is my enemy. I have no means of 
 gaining possession of it, as he prizes it above money. He 
 thinks his the only one of the kind in the world. He 
 knows nothing of this one. 
 
 "While I knew that time was valuable, I also felt I 
 must gain possession of that other instrument. I learned 
 from the Count who owned it. I left him and went direct 
 to our Consul, who, I was surprised to find, knew my 
 father well. He was a young man about my own age. 
 His face and frank manner made me feel I could fully 
 trust him. I told him my story. He entered into our 
 plan most heartily, and when I spoke of the other instru 
 ment and gave him the name of the owner, he smiled and 
 told me to call this evening and he would have something 
 to my interest. I returned to the home of the Count and 
 found he had secured two well-worn minstrel suits. 
 Ruben, could you see me as I sit here dressed in mine, 
 you would not know me. I do not recognize myself in 
 the mirror. The Count says, We look our character. 
 
 "In my interview with Mr. and Mrs. Alleyn this fore 
 noon I learned as much of the particulars of the abduc 
 tion of their daughter as they could give ; as nearly as 
 they could describe the place, the character of the deep 
 cut or pass in the mountain where their carriage was 
 stopped, the number of the men, their dress, and how
 
 196 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 they were armed. Much was vague to them, as it was 
 all done so quickly that they could not note minutely all 
 the circumstances. 
 
 "What had impressed them more than anything else 
 was the character of the leader. They described him 
 almost exactly as the old Egyptologist had pictured him 
 to me. A man of powerful build, with a face that showed 
 no mercy. I could not tell them the full depth of 
 interest I felt in their daughter, nor that I was about to 
 attempt her rescue, but I did counsel them to make no 
 terms until they again heard from me. I have said noth 
 ing to Professor Blake as to my intentions. He would 
 be sure to do or say that which might frustrate our plans. 
 I have given your name and address to the Consul. If 
 anything should happen to me, he will notify you 
 promptly. 
 
 "Later. I have been again to the Consul s. How, or 
 in what manner, he would not inform me, but he has 
 secured the guitar which I so much coveted. We are 
 almost ready to start. Just now when I described the 
 leader of the bandits to the Count he seemed greatly 
 moved. 
 
 Why, said he, he must surely be Lougi Amabilli, on 
 whose head the Government has an offer of 25,000 
 francs ! He has friends all through the mountains. The 
 reward has no effect. He goes and comes among the 
 villages, and no one interferes. I have heard say he is 
 a great favorite, as he spends money with a free hand. 
 His sword has caused many deaths they cannot be called 
 murders, as he always fights fair. Men who excel are 
 ever credited as greater than they are. This may be true 
 with Amabilli, but he is said to be the best swordsman 
 in all northern Italy. 
 
 "Ruben, this was not pleasing to hear, when what the
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 197 
 
 old seer told me is ever running in my mind. If you 
 never hear from me again, do not think that for a moment 
 there was a single regret for what I am about to at 
 tempt "
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 "Gold! A mine of it could not keep you behind that 
 iron door!" 
 
 "WAS HE AN AMERICAN? A YOUNG TOURIST 
 
 FOUND DEAD FROil A SWORD THRUST, IN MOUNTAIN PASS 
 NEAR - , ITALY !" 
 
 The above was the awful headlines in a newspaper I 
 bought only a few minutes after I had finished reading 1 
 Edward s letter. The account was written in the most 
 sensational manner. While it did not name Edward, it 
 had as well done so. The name was all that was want 
 ing to convey to my mind that it was indeed my friend. 
 I had scarce finished the account, with my mind filled 
 with awful forebodings, when I was handed a message. 
 It was from the Consul in Milan. It was very brief 
 "Rumor says DeHertbern assassinated; investigating." 
 There was no longer any doubt. Everything pointed to 
 his death. Had not the old seer as much as said he would 
 be slain in a mountain pass? Had not Edward himself 
 written an hour before setting out to attempt the rescue 
 of his queen that he had forebodings of ill ? I would 
 have gone at once to Mr. DeHertbern and told him all 
 I knew had I thought it would have served any purpose. 
 But why, I argued, should I cause them pain when I 
 knew absolutely nothing, however real that nothing 
 seemed to me? 
 
 198
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 199 
 
 I.) ut to follow Edward and the Count on their perilous 
 enterprise. Two youths, clad in the garb of small mer 
 chants, might have been seen leaving the gates of Milan 
 as the clock in a neighboring church tower was striking 
 the hour of midnight. They would start at this unseemly 
 time that they might be well on their way toward a rail 
 way station a few miles out from Milan by morning, the 
 Count arguing that it would not be wise for them to take 
 the train at Milan, where he was well known, and by 
 some chance might be recognized. They left the city 
 unseen, as they thought; but men who play for a large 
 stake seldom risk a chance of failure. Since the moment 
 of Miss Alleyn s abduction at the pass in the mountains, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Alleyn had been under the eyes of one or 
 more of the bandits. No one came to see them but these 
 men knew of it, and followed that one back to his or her 
 house or hotel. Edward had been to see them twice, 
 which made him a marked man. His every movement 
 was watched, and when, at midnight, he and the Count 
 quietly left the Count s home, they were as quietly fol 
 lowed by a cloaked figure. This man knew r his part well, 
 for no sooner had they started on their way out from the 
 city than he, by a circuitous run, got in front of them, 
 so that had they seen him they would not have thought 
 anything of it. He reached the station next morning be 
 fore Edward and the Count, who, on seeing him, took 
 him for a merchant like themselves. He soon engaged 
 them in conversation. They found him a pleasant-spoken 
 fellow, though not at all intrusive, and by the time the 
 train came they were all on quite friendly terms. He 
 had been to see some of his "customers," and was then 
 on his way back to Lecco (which was the end of the 
 railway), where he resided. 
 
 "If," said he, "you are staying any time in our city,
 
 200 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 I will be pleased to show you what little entertainment 
 I can. It is not much, but if you care for fine old wines, 
 I have a small cellar which my old father stocked and 
 left to me. In it I have some passably fine vintages." 
 
 Now, if he had known the Count and all his tender 
 points, he could not have touched one so close to his heart 
 as that of a well-stocked wine cellar, especially if it 
 smacked of great age. 
 
 "It will consume no time at all," said he to Edward ; 
 "besides, I am always looking for choice old wines for 
 my own cellar." When they reached Lecco they agreed 
 that if he would call for them at the inn in two hours 
 they would go with him. 
 
 The two hours were not idle ones for the Lecco mer 
 chant ( ?). He hurried to the suburbs of the city, where 
 he stopped at an old house which set back in a cluster of 
 thick-foliaged trees. The house was spacious and the 
 grounds large. He was greeted by the keeper, a beetle- 
 browed man of possibly fifty. 
 
 "Well, Barrone, what s the lay now ? Another ransom 
 looming up over the pass? Has the father of the girl 
 come down handsome yet? No? What s up? You 
 said that was to be a gold mine. 
 
 "Yes, Colletti, but you see we don t know how much 
 is in the mine. He has offered the ransom of a king, 
 but we have not investigated his references yet. Ha ! 
 ha ! He may be able to throw in a few thousand more. 
 We have let him know that we will name the ransom in 
 due time. But I am wasting precious minutes. In less 
 than two hours I will drive here with two young men. 
 They are dressed as small merchants, but I don t think 
 either of them could sell a spool of thread. But that is 
 neither here nor there. I have, Colletti remember, / 
 have a fine old wine cellar, filled with some verv choice
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 2OI 
 
 and very old vintages, which I am to show my young 
 friends. Remember, Colletti, when I come with them the 
 cellar is mine, and you are in charge of it." 
 
 "Why, Barrone, there s not been a bottle of wine in 
 that hole for years." 
 
 "Well, what s the odds just so it has a good, strong 
 door. Colletti, it is my cellar for two hours, and after 
 that it is yours, and if you don t keep a good watch over 
 its lock for the next month well, I shall make my report 
 and you will wish you had gone to America before I had 
 occasion to use your cellar." 
 
 But what will I do with the men, Barrone? I can t 
 keep them for a month ! It has been a long while since 
 I saw the color of your gold ; you have promised me many 
 times you would make me rich rich so that I might go 
 to America but instead I am not even paid to look after 
 this old property!" 
 
 "Ah ! but Colletti, we have never had so rich a dove 
 before. It will make us all rich, and we, too, may go 1 to 
 America may have to go. Ha ! ha !" 
 
 As Barrone drove up to the inn with an old carriage 
 which he had hired for the occasion, he found Edward 
 and the Count waiting for him. 
 
 "I was somewhat delayed," he said, "as my man was 
 away with the carriage, but it will not take us long to 
 drive out. You will find my old home somewhat gone to 
 decay from its former grandeur ; but you know the young 
 men to-day have not that care for home which their 
 fathers had." 
 
 Not for one moment did either of the young men sus 
 pect treachery. They could see that the place was indeed 
 gone to decay, but had not the young merchant explained 
 that the young men of to-day have not the care for 
 home which their fathers had ?
 
 202 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 He called to Colletti : "Here, my man, hold Caesar, 
 and see that he does not get away, while I show to these 
 young merchants my wine cellar. Did you remove all 
 the bottles from the front, for the new crop that will 
 soon be coming in? Yes? Tis well." Then to Ed 
 ward and the Count : "Our workmen in Lecco are like 
 they are elsewhere, I suppose of little value unless the 
 master is about. Colletti is getting quite worthless since 
 he got the notion of going to America; but here we are. 
 As I told you, it is a very old cellar. For generations 
 has it served the Barrones." He did all the talking now 
 as he led the way. "It is old, but note how strong the 
 door is built into the masonry. We do not build as our 
 forefathers built. See those bins and racks. Those I 
 just had emptied, and the wine put back to the farther 
 end. Do you see how the spiders have been at work? 
 It all indicates great age. Here in this room off to the 
 left is where I keep the oldest wanes but, there ! I forgot 
 the key. Here, Colletti ! Colletti ! bring me the key 
 basket! Colletti, here! Excuse me till I call him; he is 
 so stupid so stupid so (bang! goes the door, and the 
 key turns) stupid. Gentlemen, make yourselves com 
 fortable ; but mind you do not drink too much of the old 
 vintages. It is not good to be too free with old wine. 
 I will have your friends, the Alleyns, call for you in one 
 month. In the meantime you have the full run of my 
 cellar. Colletti will see that you do not get hungry, pro 
 viding, of course, you shall keep him supplied with purses. 
 My dear friend, the Count, I shall always be pleased to 
 keep your cellar filled with my choicest wines. Good 
 bye, my dear young merchants ! While I leave you to 
 enjoy the luxuries of my old vintages, I go to the moun 
 tains to call upon my queen of beauty. Adieux, my 
 stupid young merchants ! Colletti, look to your guests !"
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 203 
 
 All this while the Count and Edward were indeed stupe 
 fied with horror at the turn of affairs. When they real 
 ized fully the situation, they ran to the door, or heavy 
 iron grating-, and shook it with all their strength, but they 
 had as well try to open the door of a bank safe vault. 
 As Barrone had said, "We do not build as our forefathers 
 built." 
 
 No words need be wasted here in dwelling upon the 
 feelings of the Count and Edward when they found them 
 selves imprisoned in this deep cellar. No castle prison 
 could have been more secure. They took the dilapidated 
 lamp which Barrone had set down when he went for the 
 key, and with it examined every part of the dungeon, but 
 no hope of escape could they find. A real prison had 
 been far better, for often secret doors and passageways 
 are found in their walls or floors ; but a wine cellar would 
 not be so constructed as to be used for a prison. It was 
 only the fertile mind of Barrone that conceived the use 
 of this one to hold the two young men while he and his 
 band could effect a settlement with Mr. Alleyn. The 
 villain would not kill them so long as he could thus keep 
 them out of the way. They might die of starvation, but 
 they must themselves look to that, as Colletti would keep 
 them supplied with food. Had not Barrone told them 
 this ? 
 
 Barrone having given orders to see that his prisoners 
 \vere looked after, he was about to leave when Colletti 
 called to him : 
 
 "You have locked the iron door where is the key?" 
 
 "I will bring the key in one month. You need not give 
 yourself any thought on that subject." 
 
 "But then, suppose it be learned that I am holding 
 them prisoners what will become of me?" 
 
 "Colletti, it must not be learned. No one ever comes
 
 204 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 here, so no one but you will know they are enjoying the 
 run of my wine cellar. Ha ! ha !" 
 
 "Hold ! one more question. How am I to get them 
 food? I am kept here half-starved myself." 
 
 "That is not my concern. Adieu, Colletti. Look after 
 your two young merchants ;" and he drove away with a 
 contented, villainous smile on his rather handsome face. 
 
 He returned to the inn where Edward and the Count 
 had stopped, and said he had been sent for the luggage 
 of the two young men ; that they had concluded to walk 
 on to the next village. The inn-keeper protested that 
 they had not paid for their room or service,, and he could 
 not give up their luggage. 
 
 "That is of no matter. I will pay that, and a nice 
 penny to the pretty maids who serve you" this for the 
 ear of one of the maids who stood near. The inn-keeper 
 was about to send for their luggage when a man standing 
 near called him to one side and asked : 
 
 "Do you know this fellow who first drives away with 
 your guests and then returns for their belongings without 
 so much as a written order? I like not the looks of this 
 fellow. There is that about his face that will be worth 
 your careful watch. Tell him you cannot give the lug 
 gage, and if all is well he will quickly overtake the young 
 men, who will return for it very shortly." 
 
 "You judge wisely. He cannot take it, even though 
 he now bring an order." Then to Barrone : "The lug 
 gage I will keep. Tell the young men that they alone 
 may have it." 
 
 Barrone was very angry. He went away declaring 
 that he would soon return with the young merchants, who 
 would be much annoyed at the inn-keeper s scant hospi 
 tality but he did not return. He found the owner of 
 the carriage, whom he hired to take him to the next town,
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 205 
 
 and from there he set out on his long journey to the 
 
 rendezvous of the bandits. 
 
 It was late the next morning before Colletti came to 
 
 the door of the "prison," and then only after the two had 
 
 called so loudly that he feared they might be heard by 
 
 some passerby. 
 
 "Why all this fuss and bother? If you continue to 
 
 make so loud an outcry, I shall leave you to call to the 
 
 wind/ 
 
 "You would not starve us like rats in a cage, would 
 
 you?" 
 
 "Not if the rats had that about them which might pay 
 
 for their keep," said Colletti, venturing to see if they had 
 
 any of the purses Barrone had spoken about. 
 
 "Here," said the Count, "take this and get us of the 
 
 best you can buy. Go at once, for we are weak with 
 
 hunger. But, hold ! first get us water gallons of water 
 
 water ! We are famishing of thirst !" 
 
 They had been shut in for nearly a day, with no food, 
 and a long, careful search had not discovered a single 
 drop of wine in this once well-stored cellar. Colletti s 
 face took on a new look when he saw the gold piece taken 
 from a well-filled purse. Gold gold ! How it did make 
 his heart glad to see it. He had long served for gold 
 which he had never gotten. It might be paid to him 
 some time, but that time might never come. When he 
 returned with the food and water he told them they 
 would not need to call to him ; that he would come often 
 tv~> see after their wants. His face wore as near a pleasant 
 look as it could, after long years of frowns and scowls. 
 His manner gave them courage to beg of him to release 
 them. "I could not if I wished, as Barrone took with him 
 the key ; but old Colletti is not the man to betray a trust. 
 They often leave me to go hungry, or work, but they
 
 2o6 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 know if once they place confidence in me I will honor 
 it. Xo, you may have no hope of escape before one 
 month ; at the end of that time you will be released if the 
 captive maiden is yet alive and the ransom is paid. Some 
 times maidens die of grief before they are ransomed." 
 
 How this thought wrung Edward s heart ! While he 
 was helpless behind iron grating his "queen" might die 
 of grief! Why had he been so really stupid to be thus 
 duped by a stranger ! That evening they tried to engage 
 their keeper in conversation, but he would not talk, save 
 when he felt he might wring gold from them. It is said 
 that no armor of mail was ever made that did not have 
 in it some weak link, through which the well-aimed arrow 
 might not pierce. To find that weak link was now their 
 only hope. "Gold?" Xo, they had tried to buy their 
 way out to no avail. 
 
 "I love gold," said he; "but they will give me gold, 
 when once they get the ransom." 
 
 Had not Barrone spoken of America ? Ah ! that may 
 be the one weak link. Colletti had risen to go from the 
 door-stoop, where he had been sitting after bringing them 
 their supper. 
 
 "Have you ever been to America?" asked Edward. 
 This hardened villain s whole being seemed to change at 
 that simple question. He sat down again, and where be 
 fore he had spoken in monosyllables or short, sullen sen 
 tences, he now became almost a fountain of words. He 
 had not been. He had always wanted to go. He had 
 friends there who were writing to him to come. Amer 
 ica ! America ! would he ever see that land ? 
 
 "I know many of your people in America," said Ed 
 ward. "It was from them I learned your beautiful lan 
 guage. Some of them are poor ; I have often helped 
 them in their poverty ;" and thinking he might be touched
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 207 
 
 by gratitude for kindness shown to his people, Edward 
 told of how he had once gone to see a family who had a 
 crippled child, a boy of live years. "When I saw this 
 poor little fellow trying to walk and crying because he 
 could not, my heart went out to him. I put him under 
 the care of one of our best surgeons, and had the grati 
 fication of seeing him walk as well as any of his play 
 fellows. He was, oh, so happy ! I wish I could pay 
 you for my walking, he would say ; and when my grand 
 papa comes I will. My grandpapa will be very rich some 
 time. He lives away off in Italy! The little fellow 
 would often run to me, and always say, When my grand 
 papa comes I will pay you. ): 
 
 Colletti drank in every word of Edward s story, and 
 when it was finished, seemed to be stupefied with wonder. 
 "Oh!" said he, "tell me the name of that child that little 
 crippled boy. It cannot be it cannot be! So strange! 
 So strange !" and he was so absorbed that Edward had 
 almost to arouse him. 
 
 "His name," said Edward, "was Tony Colletti the son 
 of a stone-carver of the same name." 
 
 The keeper was almost like a man out of his mind. 
 "Are you the good young man they wrote about who had 
 done so much for mine in that far-off America? Oh! 
 what have I clone ! what have I done ! Is this how I 
 am repaying that kindness ? How I had often wished 
 to go to America to hunt you out and thank you to bless 
 you for what you had done! I must not stay here a 
 minute I will break down the door ! Gold a mine of 
 it could not keep you behind that iron door !" And in 
 less than an hour he had battered the door off its hinges, 
 ar)d Edward and the Count breathed the free air again. 
 
 "I have often heard our air praised," said the Count; 
 "but never before have I fully felt how it merited it!"
 
 208 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 Every minute was now precious ; but Edward knew 
 that the only safety for Colletti \vas to get him away and 
 out of the country, for death is Italian pay for betrayal 
 of trust. "You have," said Edward to the keeper, "little 
 time to waste in Italy. You must go at once to Milan, 
 from thence to Genoa, where you can take a steamer to 
 New York. There is all the gold you will need and 
 some to spare when you reach that city. If I shall come 
 out of this and get back to New York, I will see that 
 you shall never be wanting a friend." 
 
 Colletti would have detained them with profusions of 
 gratitude. He would even risk his life to go with them 
 and point out the intricate way to the rendezvous of the 
 bandits, but they would not accept his offer. He then 
 described as minutely as he could the way, but the many 
 towns and villages he named only confused them. "It 
 will take you four days to reach the mountain pass, and 
 the place where the maiden is held is a half-day s walk 
 to the northwest. Should you gain the camp and rescue 
 the maiden, there is another way out from it to the south 
 west along a beautiful valley. This is the safer way, as 
 it leads into a country where the bandits have not the 
 influence or the friends they have over the other course. 
 Then over this course they will not look for you, as no 
 one knows of it but their own people." He gave them 
 much else of useful direction. 
 
 When they returned to the inn they learned how nearly 
 they had lost their means of reaching the camp of the 
 bandits, and were so grateful to the inn-keeper that they 
 paid him for all the time they had spent in the wine 
 cellar, and left besides a pretty penny for each of the 
 maids, who curtsied their thanks as the two young men 
 left, still in their merchants suits. These, however, they 
 exchanged for their minstrel garb in a forest when they
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 209 
 
 had gotten well out of Lecco, lest they should be seen 
 by others of the bandits, who might know through Bar- 
 rone of the "two young merchants." 
 
 When they were fully dressed as minstrels they were 
 both surprised at the complete change it made in their 
 appearance. 
 
 "Even Barrone would not know us in these," said Ed 
 ward. The merchants clothes were left in the forest.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 A minstrel is the friend of all. The money of the peasant 
 will buy as much as the king s. The gold of the 
 bandit will go as far as the priest s. 
 
 Little of interest occurred for the first two days. They 
 stopped at night at some wayside inn, where a mountain 
 minstrel is always welcome. Their music attracted 
 wherever they stopped to play. Many remarked that 
 such singing they had never heard. The money which 
 was given them was always added to and found its way 
 to some needy old man or woman many of whom they 
 met as they went along. 
 
 One night they were not fortunate in finding an inn, 
 and had to lie down under the stars, but their sleep was 
 as sound and as sweet as on the softest of beds. In the 
 morning they awoke long before the sun was up. The 
 dew covered all the grass around ; the birds sang out their 
 joy, a distant tinkle of sheep-bells was heard away up 
 along the mountain side; the barking of a dog in the 
 valley beneath them ; the loud voice of a mountaineer try 
 ing to sing some song he had heard a minstrel sing; the 
 lowing of cows being driven home for milking time ; the 
 murmuring brook, purling its \vay along down the moun 
 tain, and a hundred other sights and sounds filled the 
 hearts of the two minstrels. Soon the sun came, shooting 
 its rays over a distant mountain range, turning into a 
 million diamonds the dewdrops on the grass and then
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 21 1 
 
 drinking them up at a quaff. Oh, the glory of an early 
 morning in the Alps ! The man whose life has always 
 been spent in the city knows not the joys of the country 
 morning ! 
 
 It was the evening of the third day. The minstrels had 
 made such excellent use of their time that they were but 
 a short distance from the memorable Pass. They had 
 reached a considerable hamlet. The gay dresses of the 
 girls and the "best clothes" of the young man bespoke a 
 gala night. Edward and the Count were hailed with joy 
 as they were seen entering the village just at nightfall. 
 Music is ever welcome. From the tent of the wandering 
 Bedouin to the palace of the king it brings joy. A musi 
 cian needs no introduction. The world only recognizes his 
 music. The singer is forgotten in the song. After the 
 two young men had partaken of their supper, the prettiest 
 girls vieing with each other in serving them with the 
 best the inn provided, they were conducted into the large 
 square room, where all had gathered to hear the music. 
 Two other minstrels were there and were singing as Ed 
 ward and the Count came in from the supper room. They 
 had soft melodious voices,, but there was no volume to 
 their music. They sang a number of songs and duets, and 
 sang them well as they had wisely chosen songs of little 
 compass. These minstrels were well known to the com 
 pany. They had passed up and down for years along that 
 mountain road. But here were two whom no one there 
 had ever seen. They came into the hamlet unheralded. 
 Who they were or from whence they came no one of that 
 large company could tell. And for that matter no one 
 asked. Not who they were, but could they sing? that was 
 the silent question in the mind of every one present. The 
 two minstrels have ceased singing. The company, now all 
 expectant, await the opening song of the unknown singers.
 
 212 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 These people, unlettered and unlearned, had in them an in 
 born knowledge of music. They might not sing or play 
 themselves, but their ears were attuned to the good and 
 could quickly detect the bad. 
 
 Edward and the Count knew that to give lasting pleas 
 ure they must not sing their best songs first. They would 
 sing a simple ballad of the class sung by the other min 
 strels. This they did, and all about the room could be 
 heard unfavorable comments. "They cannot sing with 
 our old minstrels." 
 
 "No such singers as our own." 
 
 "Give us the old ones." 
 
 "We expected more from their appearance." 
 
 "No singers like our own," and many more in like criti 
 cism. The musician, naturally a jealous being, is never 
 happier than when his rival fails to please. The old min 
 strels fairly beamed with joy when, at the close of the 
 song, it was given but faint demonstration of pleasure. 
 That was what the singers had expected and wished for. 
 They knew the company had judged them by their first 
 song. The next one was better received, and each one 
 thereafter was given more applause. They were now far 
 beyond the old singers. No comments could be heard but 
 those of praise. They would sing one more, their best. 
 It was a duet. They began soft and plaintively, then 
 gradually increasing in volume, until it grew into a mus 
 ical tempest. The whole company rose long before they 
 had finished, and when they had done a great storm of 
 applause followed, and for minutes nothing could be heard 
 but the cheer on cheer of the wildly excited company. 
 They sat down as though they had but sung a simple 
 ballad. There was no look about them that showed they 
 felt they had done other than ordinary even the old min-
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 213 
 
 strels, looking on them as masters, came and thanked 
 them. 
 
 "No such music has ever been heard in these parts !" 
 
 Fortunately a minstrel is never asked his name or his 
 home. They have no home, and any name will answer. 
 
 They had scarcely concluded their singing when word 
 was quietly given them "would they come into the adjoin 
 ing 1 room ?" They followed the messenger and were con 
 ducted into the presence of a man, whose like they had 
 i: either ever met with. He was tall and broad shouldered. 
 His face was covered with a heavy beard. His hands 
 were large, and at the ends -of powerful arms. He was a 
 giant in strength as well as in stature, and yet he had a 
 kindly spoken voice, and seemed even gentle in manner. 
 
 "A minstrel," he began when the messenger had left the 
 room and the three were alone, "is the friend of all. He 
 knows no man or class of men. They are all the same to 
 him. The money of the peasant will buy as much as the 
 king s. The gold of the bandit will go as far with him as 
 the priest s. I have heard you sing. I have never before 
 heard voices equal to yours. I am a man of few words 
 and speak to a purpose. I am a bandit. I am called a 
 leader. The government wants my head, but no one will 
 risk his own for the prize offered for mine knowing all 
 this are you afraid of me ?" They smilingly assured him 
 they were not. 
 
 "Why should we be? A minstrel fears no man, as no 
 man is his enemy." 
 
 "Then listen to what I would tell you," said the bandit. 
 "At our camp, but a few miles to the northwest from here, 
 we hold a captive for a ransom. She is the most beauti 
 ful maiden whom any of us have ever seen. She is pining 
 away, and we fear she may die before a ransom can be 
 agreed upon. We had it almost concluded when a young
 
 214 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 American came to Milan and saw her father, since which 
 time he will do nothing. But with this meddlesome 
 American and his friend, Count Drasco, safe in our power 
 at Lecco we will soon effect a settlement, but every day s 
 delay makes the danger of her death more imminent. I am 
 thus explicit that you may see the situation and be ready 
 for my offer. I want you to come to our camp and sing 
 for the maiden. I am convinced that your voices will 
 cheer her until we can arrange with the father. Will you 
 come? I will pay you what you ask." 
 
 "Our mission," said Edward, "is to cheer, to make dull 
 life endurable, to make the sad forget trouble, and the 
 whole world happy. We will accept." 
 
 "You will not regret your answer. I will call for you 
 here in the morning/ They saw him no more that night. 
 They returned to the large room, but were not prepared 
 for the sight which met them. Five men on either side 
 stood facing each other with round sticks an inch in thick 
 ness and three feet long in their right hands. At a signal 
 they began striking, each man at the one opposite, as 
 though in sword play. The blows were given in deadly 
 earnest, and yet all the while the girls sat around the sides 
 of the room and seemed really to enjoy the sight. One 
 after another of the men were knocked down, and a fall 
 meant out. This kept up until but two were left, and the 
 one remaining of these two was declared the victor. Xo 
 one seemed to feel ill at the fellow knocking him down, 
 but took it in good part. Imagine the surprise of Edward 
 and the Count to see the victor on this occasion the man 
 who had left them in his wine cellar the villain Barrone. 
 He was very much elated at his success, and passed around 
 Ihe room bantering the various young men to try their 
 skill. When he came to Edward he stopped, looked at 
 him, was about to pass on, when some one called out :
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 215 
 
 "Barrone, beware of a minstrel. He travels in many lands 
 and learns many things." 
 
 "That for your minstrel," as he slapped the face of 
 Edward. In an instant the thought of what this villain 
 had done to him and his friend, and the insult of the slap 
 added to his villainy, was too much for Edward s Ameri 
 can blood, and he called out "Accept" amid the loud cheer 
 ing of the girls, whose favorite he instantly became. He 
 was given one of the sticks, and found himself facing his 
 enemy, this time on an equal footing. He had profited 
 by watching the others fence, and learned that it was the 
 same as sword fencing. He soon saw he need have no 
 fear of Barrone, who began striking viciously but very 
 wildly. His strokes were cleverly parried, and for sev 
 eral minutes, to the great pleasure of his friends, he did 
 nothing but prevent Barrone striking him. When he had 
 kept this up quite long enough he put into his arm all the 
 force of an outraged spirit, and struck such a blow as 
 none of them had ever seen fall upon a man s head before. 
 It was an hour before Barrone came to his senses, but no 
 one noticed him, while everybody heaped praises on the 
 minstrel. Even Barrone himself, when he came to, 
 grasped his hand and congratulated him with no enmity 
 whatsoever. The Count s silent nod of approval was far 
 sweeter than all the spoken praises. The look that Ed 
 ward gave back meant : "Part of that blow was for you." 
 
 Physical injury meant nothing to these people. If the 
 injured were not themselves, a man might be killed, and 
 they would think but little of it. After the company was 
 about all gone a young man, who had been quite friendly 
 toward Edward, said in a matter-of-fact sort of way : "I 
 wonder if they have found out who that fellow was Ama- 
 billi killed this afternoon up at the Pass ?" 
 
 "Why," said Edward, horrified at the thought, "I hadn t
 
 2l6 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 heard of it, tell me about it you mean Amabilli who was 
 here to-night?" 
 
 "Yes, he came down to bring word about it. You see 
 the fellow came up here meddling around about a girl that 
 Amabilli has up at the camp. Yes, the fellow is out here 
 in the shed now. They brought him in this evening." 
 
 "And did the people who were here know about it?" 
 asked Edward. The Count trying all the while to catch 
 his eye to stop such dangerous questioning. 
 
 "Yes why do you ask? of course they knew. Where 
 do you live, my friend? You re not a "gov gilly," are 
 you, up here singing round to capture the 25,000 francs?" 
 
 "What are you talking about, you fellows?" broke in the 
 Count, who saw the dangerous turn matters had taken by 
 Edward s honest line of thought then continued before 
 his question could be answered: "Speaking of girls, you 
 have some very pretty ones here. It s a wonder we never 
 found this place before. Hereafter this must be added to 
 our circuit. You see,, we have traveled a good bit in 
 Tyrol. Now there s the country where they can sing 
 everybody sings, and Germany why even the Russians 
 are a musical set. And the Finlanders " It is hard 
 telling where he would have gone had not the, landlord 
 said he always made it a point to close up before breakfast, 
 and they would have to defer their musical travels until 
 to-morrow. It was a question in the Count s mind if he 
 had gotten the young man far enough away from the other 
 young man in the shed, but he certainly hoped he had, 
 else he and Edward might next day be called upon to join 
 him instead of going to sing, as Edward would say, "be 
 fore the Queen." 
 
 "Would the young man call to see them in the morn 
 ing?" The young man eyed Edward very closely and 
 critically, and said "he thought he would."
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 What mother will watch for the coming of an absent son? 
 What maiden will wait for him who will never return 
 to her? 
 
 The Count talked in very low tones after they had gone 
 to their room, but Edward must have heard him. As to 
 his questions thereafter, he said "he would never again be 
 curious about anything." "Put all your gold carelessly," 
 said the Count, "under the center of your bed and your 
 minstrel purse of small coins under your pillow, as this is 
 a strange country we are in, and often strange countries 
 have peculiar ways." 
 
 Now all about the inn was still, the people of the hamlet 
 and country side had gone their various ways, and where 
 a short time before was heard boisterous laughter and 
 rough merriment was now silence. 
 
 At some distance from the inn, seated on a rude bench, 
 might have been seen two men in low converse. 
 
 "I like not those minstrels," said the younger man. 
 "They are far too curious for minstrels. To-night when 
 I spoke about the fellow whom Amabilli had to run 
 through for his meddling, the larger one of them, the one 
 who came so nearly leaving you a fit companion for Ama- 
 billi s young fellow in the shed there, wanted to know if 
 the people who were here to-night knew there was a dead 
 man so near? " 
 
 217
 
 2l8 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "And what," queried Barrone, his companion, "did you 
 reply to his question ?" 
 
 "I was so surprised at the utter innocence of it that it 
 struck me that he could not be a minstrel, as a minstrel 
 knows our ways and asks not questions so simple. 
 Where, I asked, do you live, my friend? and further, 
 You re not a "gov gilly" singing round to capture the 
 25,000 francs, are you ? Well, the other one saw the turn 
 I took on him, and had you heard the race he led me 
 through Tyrol, up through Germany and Russia, leaving 
 me to freeze in Finland, you would have thought he was 
 more than anxious to get me out and away from my own 
 little hamlet here in the mountains. No, Barrone, I like 
 -not the minstrels, and yet do you know that Amabilli has 
 engaged them to go to the camp to sing for your beautiful 
 maiden?" 
 
 "What, and not speak of it to me? I like not this in 
 Amabilli. These minstrels may be armed, and I am too 
 well aware that one of them, at least, knows how to use 
 arms. Go," said the bandit, "and search well for arms 
 and their purses for your trouble. There, take these two 
 vials. If they sleep not sound use the larger one. Its 
 odor is a sweet sleep enticer, and you need fear no awaken 
 ing until you have examined every part of their belong 
 ings. If they be as you suspect other than minstrels, they 
 will have arms secreted, and if so much as a knife you 
 find use the smaller vial. You know the secret door to 
 their chamber. Go, and if to-morrow the priest have 
 three instead of one to read over,, he will ask no questions. 
 Our priest knows the simple ways of his parish. I will 
 await you here." 
 
 "Were I not certain that the two young merchants were 
 safe in the wine cellar, I would think that merchant could 
 turn minstrel. In form and bearing these minstrels are
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 219 
 
 my two merchants, but here is the key, and old Collitti 
 never betrayed a trust." And Barrone smiled on in his 
 soliloquy, and waited the return of his messenger. "And 
 what must be the account for Amabilli s victim? Ama- 
 billi has too many of late to account for. Ah, I have it ! 
 To let it be known that this one is an Englishman would 
 be to bring that government upon our heads, as England 
 avenges a wrong done its most humble citizen. And this 
 young man, I should judge, is far above the humble rank. 
 I will report to Milan that a young American has met his 
 death in the mountain pass. 1 will describe him, having 
 in mind the young man who stopped our negotiations with 
 old Alleyn. Ha, ha, Barrone. your wisdom is deep. This 
 will serve a double purpose. It will keep us out of Eng 
 lish investigation and open again the way to effect a set 
 tlement with old Alleyn and as for America well, 
 America is too much occupied with money gaining to 
 care for a lone citizen who may chance to have stood at the 
 wrong end of a sword in a foreign land. They may in 
 vestigate, but that has a far different meaning in America. 
 No one fears it but here comes Fulco and what have 
 you learned, Fulco ?" 
 
 "I have learned that I am a fool and should be beaten 
 with stripes. I found not so much as a tooth pick, and as 
 for purses for my trouble, when I saw the contents of 
 the two I found under their pillows I had not the heart to 
 touch a single centime. I have wronged the minstrels. I 
 gained their chamber with not so much as a creak of the 
 door. I let each have a good whiff from the larger vial, 
 but they seemed so sound asleep already that it was of 
 scant need. I looked in every part of their clothing. I 
 even examined their clumsy-looking guitars for so much 
 as a knife inside, but found nothing. I fear that they may 
 have taken it ill my inquisitive speech to them this night,
 
 220 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 but I will make it up to them in the morning." And so 
 agreeable was his manner toward them when next they 
 met, that they were reassured that there was no danger. 
 He took them to see the slain man in the shed, nor marked 
 the look of horror on Edward s face at the sight ! There 
 lay a youth of about his own age, handsome as a Greek 
 god. His dark hair clung in rich waves around his high 
 forehead, and he looked as though in happy sleep. What 
 mother," thought Edward, "will watch for the coming of 
 an absent son? What maiden will wait for him who will 
 never return to her?" To avenge that life would be his 
 mission. If not, he, too, would meet the same fate. He 
 silently swore it ! While they yet stood looking on the 
 face of the dead, the priest came, and without so much as 
 a glance of interest, read a short service, and went as he 
 came, in silence. They buried the young Englishman 
 under a tree nearby and thought the chapter was ended.
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 She stands resplendent in her beauty. That face which 
 had first appeared to him in a tomb of the dead of 
 thousands of years appears again in the tomb of the 
 living. 
 
 Early in the forenoon came Amabilli. So gentle was 
 his manner that Edward could scarce believe him the 
 monster he knew him to be. 
 
 "Good morrow, gentlemen. I trust your night has been 
 happily spent ! I had come earlier, but my captive maiden 
 is more despondent than ever. We have promised her so 
 often that she would soon be released, that she is losing all 
 her spirit, and refuses the daintiest food we can prepare 
 for her. I have promised her music. The promise 
 brought a faint flush to her pale cheek. The change from 
 the rough voices she has heard SO long will bring back the 
 color to that cheek." 
 
 "Barrone, have you sent your report? What have you 
 heard from Milan?" 
 
 "Alleyn is beginning to waver. He has added one thou 
 sand pounds to the ransom," said Barrone. 
 
 "Ah, it is working well we will be in no haste to settle 
 but what report have you sent ?" 
 
 "I have just sent a messenger that a young American 
 was slain while in a quarrel !" 
 
 "Bright idea. Tis well you did not report him an Eng 
 lishman, as that had given us trouble." This brought a
 
 222 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 flush of shame to Edward s face, to hear his own country 
 held in so light esteem by these rough bandits. 
 
 "And now, gentlemen, we will away to the camp. You 
 will find the way a very rough one, but we must choose a 
 retreat \vhere ten men may withstand a hundred. Bar- 
 rone, come to the camp to-morrow. Fulco, remain here, 
 and bring to us the slightest word of danger, or if you 
 hear from Milan bring us the report at once." 
 
 "Rough way conveyed no conception of what they 
 found. Although the distance was comparatively short, 
 its turns in and out of canyon after canyon up ascents 
 that required such long tedious climbing that they were 
 well worn out by the time they had reached their destina 
 tion. 
 
 Edward s mind was filled with forebodings of evil. 
 Suppose his Queen could be gotten away from under the 
 watchful eyes of these rugged men, how could he ever 
 hope to escape over a path so rough? A path known so 
 well to these men that they could traverse its most intricate 
 parts even in the dark? And yet he would not lose hope. 
 "He would try," had he not said, "even though he were 
 slain?" 
 
 As they neared the camp, located on a high plateau 
 which commanded a view of miles of mountain country, 
 they passed sentry after sentry until they reached a large 
 tent, around which were clustered other smaller ones. It 
 was almost dark. The fires were lighted in crevasses of 
 the rocks, and women, little less rough looking than the 
 men who sat around smoking were preparing supper. 
 No one gave any heed to the minstrels. The sight of min 
 strels was common enough in these rough mountain wilds. 
 
 When the supper was set and all were seated around 
 on the ground, an old woman came out from the large 
 tent leading a pale young creature not leading, but sup-
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 223, 
 
 porting. She seemed so weak, this maiden, that even with 
 the support of the old woman she could scarcely walk. 
 $he looked neither to the right nor to the left. She saw 
 not the minstrels, though she passed them by to take her 
 seat on a rock. The daintiest food was set before her, 
 but she scarcely touched of it, and was soon assisted back 
 to the tent. After the supper was finished and everything 
 cleared away, Amabilli motioned for the minstrels to. 
 come and sit at the opening oi the large tent and to sing. 
 
 Low, sweet music broke the stillness of the night and 
 rang out soft and clear on the air. The Queen, aroused 
 from her despondency, listened as though twere from 
 heaven. Used as she was to the finest music ever written,, 
 no music had so stirred her soul before. 
 
 "From whence comes that sound? Am I losing my 
 senses at last from these terrible days of waiting? Will I 
 awake only to iind I have been dreaming? No, the music 
 goes on, on, now soft and low, now increasing in volume 
 as though in some grand Cathedral. 1 will go to it. 
 Weak? no I am strong now." And rising slowly, she ap 
 proaches the opening of the tent and stands with the light 
 of the campfire full in her face. Edward sees that face, 
 and, almost forgetting where he is and the danger of a 
 single false movement, is about to rise and fall at her feet, 
 but a look from the Count brings him to his senses, and 
 he sings on with no quaver in his voice. That face which 
 had first appeared to him in a tomb of the dead of thou 
 sands of years appears again in the tomb of the living. 
 She stands resplendent in her beauty; the color again 
 mounts to her cheek and the light of hope fills her eyes. 
 Long she stands there as though transfixed with the 
 sound, then slowly returns to her seat in the tent. Ama 
 billi sees the change and is overjoyed. No danger of 
 death now music has brought back the roses to her cheek,.
 
 224 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 and she will live. He grasps the hands of the singers and 
 pours out his thanks to them. 
 
 "I knew when I first heard your voices in the inn that 
 you could save her, but I did not know the full power of 
 your voices." Then to Edward: "You sing to-night 
 with tenfold the sweetness that you did in the inn. Your 
 very soul seemed to go out from you. Ah, the life-giving 
 virtue of the human voice !" 
 
 The hour was late. The two minstrels were shown to 
 a tent somewhat off from the others and on the opposite 
 side from whence they had entered the camp. 
 
 The next morning the maiden walked out alone and 
 joined the group at breakfast. Amabili was rejoiced to 
 see with what relish she ate. Ever and anon she would 
 glance at the minstrels. As she looked at Edward there 
 would come to her eyes a strange light as though of some 
 thing almost remembered, then it would fade away, and a 
 sadness would come over her face. But all during the day 
 she could never see him without the recurrence of that 
 look, and each time the sadness seemed less marked, yet it 
 was never absent. 
 
 Edward was so affable in his manner toward all the 
 camp that he was soon on friendly terms with them. He 
 would frequently speak words of English, but never found 
 himself understood. No one knew even the simplest word 
 of his native tongue. 
 
 Just after the midday meal Barrone came almost breath 
 less into the camp. 
 
 "Danger ! Danger !" he cried as soon as he could speak. 
 "Five men have come to the inn looking for the young 
 Englishman. They have asked of everybody "had they 
 seen a young stranger ?" but no one had seen him. They 
 asked of the priest, but he knew nothing. They are heav 
 ily armed, and swear they will find him. As they partook
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 225 
 
 of their breakfast they ate with their guns beside them on 
 the table, while one of their number stood at the door. 
 Our people are beside themselves with fear, as these men 
 intimate that more of their number are coming. Amabilli, 
 what is to be done?" Here was seen the leadership of 
 Amabiili. "What is to be done? What need be done? 
 You fear where no fear should be. These men will look 
 about them and go as they have come. They will see 
 nothing, they will find nothing. I know my people, and 
 my people never betray. Go back again and come only 
 when there is real danger. No stay. I fear more from 
 }ou than from any one in the hamlet. You see danger, 
 and your manner may betray your fear. I will not risk 
 your return." And nothing more was said, and by no 
 sign could be seen any concern on Amabilli s face. 
 
 Edward was ever watching for an opportunity to speak 
 with Miss Alleyn, but the old hag never left her side for a 
 moment. If she left the tent this ugly old creature was 
 with her. She might go and come at will, but never alone 
 
 Miss Alleyn saw this anxiety on Edward s part, and by 
 look told him plainly that she saw it. This was a joy to 
 him. If their tongues were bound, no force could bind 
 their eyes. She knew not why, but in that minstrel she 
 seemed to divine a means of escape. But how? Could 
 two unarmed minstrels used only to music hope to with 
 stand ten trained bandits used only to arms? No; that 
 were a hope without reason of fulfillment, and yet it was 
 a hope, and hope, even without reason, was sweet to her. 
 
 "Why," she would often ask herself, "does the one seem 
 so much nearer to me than the other ? Both are handsome 
 and both sing equally well, and yet the one seems as 
 though I had known him for years ! Did I believe in a 
 prior existence I would know him as a friend in that other 
 existence."
 
 226 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 And thus the days went by, each like the other. No 
 possible chance presented itself of even the slightest hope 
 of escape. The dull days were succeeded by nights of 
 music. Their songs, though sung over and over again, 
 ever sounded sweet and new. Miss Alleyn, who had a 
 fine voice, often joined in and sang with the minstrels to 
 the great joy of Edward. 
 
 On the third day Fulco came to the camp, and said that 
 the five men after remaining two days went away with 
 out learning any word of the young Englishman, although 
 they had made great effort . They had asked of everybody, 
 even the little children, but all were silent. 
 
 "Did I not tell you/ asked Amabilli, "that my people 
 never betrayed ? Ah, I know my people ! What word is 
 there from Milan, Fulco ?" 
 
 "Nothing of importance, unless it be that Colletti was 
 seen there. I thought, Barrone, you had left him at Lecco 
 guarding your two young merchants ?" 
 
 "What," said Barrone in great surprise, "Colletti in 
 Milan ! Pity the young men who must die in that hole ! 
 Well, if they could not keep him in gold it is no concern 
 of mine. No one will ever know, for no one ever goes to 
 that wine cellar. My wine cellar now ! Even the hard 
 ened bandits could not but feel pity, but the look Edward 
 gave to the Count was not one of pity. 
 
 "Fulco," said Amabili, "go back to the hamlet and wait 
 for further news. Send a messenger to Milan \vith this 
 message : Accept offer of Alleyn. Arrange for ex 
 change at our old house (in the large room, first floor) at 
 Lecco, five days from to-day at exactly 3 o clock afternoon. 
 Instant death to maiden if a single sign of duplicity is sus 
 pected. Go." 
 
 "We will release the two young merchants from the 
 wine cellar, and not wait the full month I promised them !"
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 227 
 
 And Barrone laughed heartily at the thought. 
 
 When the minstrels heard this they knew that what they 
 did must be done without delay. They feared that by 
 some mischance there might be duplicity suspected where 
 none was meant on the part of Mr. Alleyn, and his daugh 
 ter slain on the very moment of her release. 
 
 They came and went in and about the camp as they 
 pleased. They had made long excursions in all directions. 
 They had found the path that Colletti had told them about 
 and had followed it for miles, carefully studying all its 
 turns. Some distance back of their tent and at the very 
 side of this path stood one lone pine tree of immense size. 
 It stood out clear in the horizon and might be seen plainly 
 from the camp even at night. Miss Alleyn had often gone 
 to it with the old woman, for since her strength had re 
 turned with her spirits she walked much about the camp.
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 It was Foster s immortal gem, The Old Folks at Home." 
 This song is typically American, and yet all the world 
 can claim it. It is tlie thought and not the river. 
 Every land beneath the sun has its Suanee River. It 
 may be but the babbling brook that purls its way 
 along down the mountain side past some lone cottage, 
 or it may be the mighty stream bearing on its bosom 
 the commerce of the world past the gates of the palace. 
 It is all flic same, the brook or the river, the cottage 
 or the palace, if there s where the old folks stay. 
 
 That evening the minstrels sang longer than usual. 
 And what they had never done before, they sang songs in 
 English. The instant they began the first one Miss Alleyn 
 seemed scarcely able to contain her joy. At first she 
 thought they were repeating words with no knowledge of 
 those words, but when Edward looked the full meaning 
 of certain parts of the song, then she knew in her heart 
 that he was speaking to her. One of those songs, whose 
 melody is known throughout the whole world, touched her 
 deeply. Tears welled up in her eyes and ran down her 
 cheeks as he sang: 
 
 "An exile from home splendor dazzles in vain." She 
 was an "exile from home," which she feared she would 
 never see again, but in the joy of hearing those sweet 
 words sung by the tongue of her own land by one whose 
 accent she knew could not be other than that of her home, 
 
 22S
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 229 
 
 her joy was almost too great. None of the bandits seemed 
 to wonder at the strange words, and many of them even 
 hummed the tune or sang their own words to it. By this 
 time Edward knew it was safe to venture on the one great 
 theme of the night. He would improvise in song his plan 
 for her escape. He tuned anew his guitar, and, lightly 
 touching the chords, began singing the first verse of 
 Juanita. Instead of its chorus he sang: 
 
 Nita, Juanita, listen to the \vords I ll sing; 
 Nita, Juanita, joy to thee they ll bring. 
 Instead of the second verse, he sang the plan of her escape. 
 Each line she caught as though her life depended upon her 
 not missing a word. 
 
 When in the morning, just before the break of day 
 
 Come to the pine tree by the lone pathway, 
 
 There we ll meet you, yes we ll meet you, 
 
 And we ll guide you to your home, 
 
 Fear no evil will betide you, 
 
 We ll be waiting, waiting, come. 
 
 He fain would have sung the chorus of the second verse, 
 but he felt he had no right. Some time he might sing it, 
 but not now. In its stead he sang : 
 
 Nita, Juanita, gladly from these friends you ll part. 
 
 Nita, Juanita, do not leave your heart. 
 At this bit of sarcasm she could but smile. That smile 
 told Edward how quick she was to catch his meaning, and 
 felt that the plan would at least be attempted by her. 
 They sang one more song before separating for the night. 
 It was Foster s immortal gem, "The Old Folks at Home." 
 This ballad is typically American, and yet all the world 
 can claim it. It is the thought and not the river. Every 
 land beneath the sun has it Suanee River. It may be but 
 the babbling brook that purls its way along down the 
 mountain side past some lone cottage, or it may be the
 
 230 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 mighty stream bearing on its bosom the commerce of the 
 world, past the gates of the palace. It is all the same, the 
 brook or the river, the cottage or the palace, if "There s 
 where the old folks stay." As they sang Miss Alleyn 
 joined in, but she, too, could improvise, for instead of sing 
 ing Foster s words she sang her own, in which she told 
 how that she had caught the full meaning of Edward s 
 "Juanita," and promised to be at the tree at the appointed 
 hour. 
 
 Long after the whole camp was still, Fulco came run 
 ning with the wild news that a messenger had just come 
 to the hamlet with the report that it was found that the 
 wine cellar had been battered in and that the two prisoners 
 had escaped. Every bandit was up, and the camp, was in 
 stantly like a hive of bees overturned. What was to be 
 done? Where were the two men? When did they 
 escape ? 
 
 "I know nothing further than that I have told you. 
 Yes, here is something else, two suits of clothes were 
 found in a forest near Leeco by a peasant. They were 
 small merchants clothes." 
 
 "The very same," said Barrone. "And when were they 
 found? Tell me tell me." 
 
 "The messenger who brought the word," said Fulco, 
 "could not say further than that it must have been six days 
 ago." 
 
 The least excited of all was Amabilli, who quietly asked, 
 "Has anyone been at the hamlet but the five armed men?" 
 
 "No," replied Fulco, "excepting the two minstrels, but 
 it could not have been they," remembering his former mis 
 take in judging them too hastily. 
 
 Said Amabilli : "Judge not too hastily, these men seem 
 to me no common minstrels. I have thought so all along." 
 
 "Thev are the merchants," said Barrone. "I am now
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 231 
 
 certain of it. Their form and bearing are the same to a 
 close point. I would not have doubted had I not been so 
 sure they were in the wine cellar. Let s to them at once;" 
 and he started toward their tent followed by the now thor 
 oughly excited bandits. 
 
 Hold. Not too hastily, " spoke the bearded leader, 
 "we will take the day for it. We can the better question 
 them and detect every movement of the face. We will 
 question each apart from the other, and if their stories do 
 not compare we will know them as the men. They are 
 safe, as they know nothing of the cause of the commotion. 
 Speak no word of what you think. Now to sleep all and 
 be up at break of day, as to-morrow will be a most momen 
 tous one for us." He spoke truly. The most momentous 
 of his life.
 
 CHAPTER XLII1. 
 
 Edward s quick eye guided iiis blade to a vital spot and 
 the giant lay dead at his feet. 
 
 "Edward ! wake, Edward," softly spoke the Count, "the 
 day comes on very soon ! I can see the grey streaks in the 
 sky." They were now both full awake, and stealthily they 
 move toward the great tree. They stand and wait. The 
 cay grows lighter, and yet Miss Alleyn has not come. 
 "Oh, why, why is she so long? The camp will soon be 
 surring, and yet I see no sign of her." They hear a steal 
 ing step behind them down the path. It is a dark figure 
 moving slowly toward them. 
 
 "It is a sentry coming be ready, Count. Here, step 
 behind the tree, lest he see you. No time to think of spar 
 ing life now. It is his life or ours, for if we are found 
 here at this hour we are lost. Xow, ready. I hear his 
 step just beyond the tree hold. Why, Miss Alleyn, we 
 had nearly slain you. One step more and you had been 
 struck down for a sentry. They turn to go down the 
 path, when they hear a most fiendish scream coming from 
 the great tent. The hag has missed her fair prisoner. 
 She rushes out wildly screaming. The camp is in an up 
 roar. Men and women running in every direction. They 
 run to the tent of the minstrels. It is empty. The shrill 
 whistle of their leader rings out on the morning air. In 
 stantly every man gathers around Amabilli for quick 
 orders. 
 
 232
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 233 
 
 "Fulco, take you five men and spread down the east path 
 toward the hamlet, arouse our people everywhere along 
 the way, spare no one but the maiden, and slay her, too, 
 if there be chance of her escape. Baritzo, you go with two 
 men to the south and leave no nook unexplored ! Bar- 
 rone, come with me to the west path by the great pine. I 
 feel certain they have gone by that way, as the minstrels 
 tent is on that side and no sentry to the west. Throw away 
 your scabbard, carry naught but your naked sword. 
 Show no quarters. Oh, that I had taken your advice last 
 night, and not waited for the morning but they cannot 
 escape us. The maiden is too weak to< hold out long. It 
 will soon be full light, and at the next turn we may see a 
 long distance down the mountain. T would the men were 
 armed, as I have never yet slain an unarmed man. I 
 even showed the young Englishman fair play, as he car 
 ried a beautiful blade. I will show it you on our return. 
 Let us hasten. We are almost at the turn now. Here 
 we are. Can you see them ? Look, too, for signs of foot 
 prints. There, see in the sand. Ah, 1 was not wrong. 
 They thought to come this path, that we would look for 
 them in the other directions. Their steps are long. They 
 are still running, and yet I thought the maiden too weak 
 for flight. Watch close that they do not elude us, and we 
 pas them. The steps are yet plain, but of less length. 
 The maiden must soon tire. There, look, Barrone! Ha, 
 ha, I knew they must come into view shortly. Now go 
 less fast as I am not used to so long a run. Hold ! Call 
 to them, Barrone. My voice is not strong." 
 
 "Stop!" cries Barrone, but the minstrels, one on either 
 side of the almost fainting maiden, help her along. 
 
 "Oh, T cannot go further," she begs the minstrels to 
 leave her. "Leave me here and save yourselves. Do not, 
 I pray you, lose your lives. You do not know those men.
 
 234 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 They have no mercy. They know no mercy. You are 
 unarmed. Without me you may escape them, as you are 
 younger I can She cannot finish the sentence ; 
 
 she has fainted. 
 
 "Now, Edward, be ready. You are the better swords 
 man. You take Amabili, I will fight Barrone. Good- 
 by, Edward. We have done what we could. I have no 
 regret." 
 
 By this time the two bandits were almost up to them. 
 
 "Ha, ha, my fine minstrels. Did you think to play on 
 us as upon a guitar? Not so. W r e make not so sweet 
 music, our chords are too harsh !" 
 
 "You grew tired of my wine cellar full soon, my young 
 merchants," tauntingly called out Barrone. "Methinks 
 this time 1 will lock the door so tight you will not get out 
 in a day !" 
 
 Not until the two bandits were almost upon them did 
 they prepare to draw their swords. 
 
 As each held his guitar, Amabilli sneeringly asked : 
 "And are you going- to play for us, my sweet minstrels? 
 Ha, ha, have you not already played full much ? Get each 
 a stick in yonder wood and play gainst our pretty blades. 
 Barrone here tells me you handle well the stick !" 
 
 Edward and the Count now stood each before his man. 
 "Will you sing in English, as you did last night for the 
 fair maiden, or will you give us soft Italian music ? Sing 
 again Juanita. Twas a beauteous song, and well twas 
 sung." And Amabilli bantered on that he might have 
 time to gain his breath, of which the long run had so well 
 nigh deprived him. He is breathing now with more ease, 
 but yet feeling they had the young men at their mercy, 
 continued to tease them as they would have teased at rats 
 in a cage before putting an end to them. 
 
 "And now, my lads, sing us the song we all know, that
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 235 
 
 we may join you, Home, Sweet Home. Sing it us once 
 more before we send you home as I did the young Eng 
 lishman in whom Fulco tells me you took much interest at 
 the inn/ 
 
 "Have an end to your jibes," cried the Count, who was 
 growing impatient and angered at the insults heaped upon 
 them. Barrone made a pass at the Count, who on the 
 instant jumped backward, drawing, as he did, his sword 
 and throwing behind him the guitar. The movement was 
 so quick that it seemed to Barrone that it had been done 
 by magic. Barrone began now to test the skill of the 
 Count by feints, thrusts and cuts, but it was soon apparent 
 to him that Edward was not the only one who knew how 
 to protect himself. The Count was in a moment on the 
 aggressive. He was younger and far quicker, but he had 
 not the great strength of his vicious antagonist, who be 
 came now like a wild beast, for the Count had given him 
 a painful cut on his sword hand. He forgot all skill and 
 .iwung wildly, becoming the most difficult of adversaries, 
 for the Count could not tell by any rule what he would do 
 next. He swept a cut that must have severed the Count s 
 head, had he not dropped upon his knees with the quickness 
 of a trained athlete. The blow swung Barrone almost off 
 his feet, so great was the force he had expended. It was 
 his last, for with a lightning thrust the Count had struck 
 upward and passed his keen blade almost through the ban 
 dit s body, who fell forward and could not rise. 
 
 All this while there was a more terrific fight in progress 
 between two more skillful swordsmen. There were no 
 wild, vicious thrusts, but every movement was by a rule. 
 Edward had never before met a man of so powerful build 
 or one who was so perfect in the handling of a sword. It 
 was thrust, parry, cut, parry on both sides for a long while. 
 Neither seemed to have any advantage in skill, but Ama-
 
 236 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 billi, taller and broader, would seem to bear his adversary 
 down by very force. Edward, though of less weight and 
 height, had muscles so hard and supple that they seemed 
 l ke bands of tempered steel, so that his strength was fully 
 equal to that of the bandit. Long after the Count had 
 vanquished his antagonist did these two men stand facing 
 each other like two w y ell matched lions. Neither could 
 gain a point, though both fought so hard for one. There 
 was no relaxing for a single moment. Amabili s sword 
 is snapped and he stands at Edward s mercy ! The giant 
 panting for breath expects no mercy, as he himself would 
 have given none. Edward fain would have given him life, 
 but the moment the bandit saw that his life would be 
 spared, he quickly ran to where Barrone lay and grasped 
 his sword and again stood ready to continue to the end. 
 The end was not far off. These skilled fencers were of 
 equal strength and of equal skill, but not of equal endur 
 ance. The older man begins to show the effect of all his 
 years of wild, vicious life. Edward, who, on the other 
 hand, had been when at school remarkable for his endur 
 ance, and had led a careful life, was yet fresh when Ama- 
 billi s strength was waning. The moment his strength 
 began to waver was his last. This man w r hose victims 
 v/ere without number had finally met one he could not van 
 quish, and yet he fought on to the end. One wrong move 
 and Edward s quick eye guided his blade to a vital spot, 
 and the giant lay dead at his feet. 
 
 Miss Alleyn, who had come out of her fainting spell just 
 as the Count had beaten down Barrone, sat and looked on 
 at what seemed certain death for Edward. The Count 
 would have led her away, but she would not go. "No, he 
 is fighting for my life, and I will stay to the end ; a 
 braver man I have never looked upon. Amabilli has 
 never met a man his equal, the women at the camp were
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 237 
 
 ever telling of his prowess. There, his sword is snapped 
 Why does not the minstrel take advantage of it as he 
 would a venomous viper? He is not righting with a 
 man. Amabilli does not fight as a man would fight. He 
 and Barrone would have slain you two unarmed as they 
 thought you to be. There and Amabilli has met at last 
 liis just fate. I am a woman and hate the sight of blood, 
 but twas our lives or theirs, and I cannot but be happy at 
 the turn." The look she gave to Edward was one of 
 wonderment, admiration and gratitude. 
 
 How can I thank you, my friends? You can never 
 know the full depth of my gratitude." 
 
 "No time now for thanks, my dear lady," said Edward, 
 "as we do not know how soon the rest of the bandits may 
 be upon us, and for the moment I have had all the fighting 
 1 want. We must away as fast as possible from these 
 parts. How fortunate we were thrown into the cellar, 
 Count, else we had not learned from Colletti this other 
 way out. " 
 
 "What do you mean," asked Miss Alleyn, "about the 
 wine cellar, and who is Count?" 
 
 "In due time," said Edward, "we will have much to tell 
 you, but not now." 
 
 They found that their instruments were uninjured, 
 though quite unstrung after the hard fought battles. Both 
 bandits were quite dead. They would leave them, as they 
 knew their friends would find them, and the little priest 
 would reavi over them, and with possibly more feeling than 
 he had over the young Englishman. 
 
 As Edward had said, they were far from being out of 
 danger, as already Barritzo and his two men finding noth 
 ing to the south had returned to camp, and were starting 
 to follow in the direction the two 1 leaders had gone, 
 even yet while these leaders were fighting their last battle.
 
 238 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 The two minstrels and the maiden had scarce gotten out of 
 sight when the three bandits came to the turn. They see 
 them and are now running full toward them.
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 No, good lady, these bandits arc most honorable men, 
 most honorable men, my good lady. They may be 
 rough and mild in their manners, rough and wild, but 
 they are the very soul of honor, the very soul of 
 honor! 
 
 Bill had seen the paper containing the account of the 
 assassination of the young American (?) and had hurrie.d 
 with it to Mr. DeHertbern, who read it and turned pale. 
 Being a man of quick action, he had Bill ring for a Cable 
 messenger, and hurriedly wrote out a message to the Con 
 sul at Milan. "Spare no money. Hire men, a regiment if 
 needs be. and find my son Edward. Draw on me for 
 funds. Waste not a minute!" 
 
 The American press is quick to gather the full details of 
 a "story, and before night all the papers in the city had 
 columns written, giving not only all the facts with Ed 
 ward DeHertbern s named as the young American, but 
 much more added to make the account the more sensa 
 tional. Some of them went so far as to write up glowing 
 obituaries. Edward used often to say afterward that a 
 man never knows how truly great he is until he has been 
 temporarily assassinated and has read his own obituary 
 notices. 
 
 There was great sorrow in Mr. DeHertbern s family, as 
 Edward \vas a most loved son and brother. Not knowing 
 what could have taken him into the remote mountain pass, 
 
 239
 
 240 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 the mystery was indeed very great. All day long friends 
 called, and notes and letters poured in, full of genuine 
 expressions of sorrow. 
 
 While this was enacting in New York, Mr. Alley n was 
 in long conference with two emissaries of Amabili, who 
 though claiming to have no part with him, yet negotiated 
 most fully for him, with complete knowledge of the min 
 utest circumstance. 
 
 "Your daughter," said the speaker of the two, "is grow 
 ing very weak from grief. The choicest dainties are pre 
 pared for her, but she will not partake of them. The gen 
 tlest care is shown her, yet each day she grows more pale." 
 
 "Oh, why," asked Mr. Alleyn, "will your leader neither 
 accept my offer nor name one himself? I will wait yet a 
 little longer for the young American before I lose all hope. 
 He has now been gone many days." 
 
 "Do you mean the young man who was slain a few days 
 ago in the mountain pass where your daughter was taken 
 from you?" 
 
 "What? Do you tell me he has been slain? What was 
 he like?" And the description was so like Edward that 
 Mr. Alleyn could but exclaim, "It is he. Oh, why should 
 he have risked his life? Far rather had I paid the last 
 farthing of my fortune than that for my sake he had done 
 this, and to no purpose ! I will wait no longer." 
 
 Now these men had come with instructions to accept 
 Mr. Alleyn s last offer, but thinking to add to it a few 
 pounds more for themselves, had made the situation much 
 worse than it was. They did not tell the anxious father 
 that since the coming of two minstrels to the bandit camp 
 that their daughter had gained new life and was quite her 
 own self again. This they kept from him, but said : 
 
 "The terrible (he was always terrible) leader is now- 
 ready to make settlement, but he will accept no such paltry
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 241 
 
 sum as you have offered." "Paltry," and had not Bar- 
 rone spoken of it as the "ransom for a king?" and still 
 it had been added to one thousand pounds and yet was 
 paltry ! 
 
 "I can g-o only so far," sadly spoke the father, "and that 
 is to add 5,000 to what I have already offered." The 
 surprise to the men was so great they were unable to speak 
 for some moments. 
 
 "If that is the limit of your offer we will take it upon 
 ourselves to accept, but much fear it may displease the 
 amiable (he is now the amiable) leader. This which we 
 may say can but rejoice your heart. The exchange is 
 to be made to-morrow afternoon at exactly 3 o clock. But 
 mark you this, if there is the least sign of duplicity so 
 the message reads suspected, instant death to the 
 maiden. We may not tell you where it will be made, 
 but we will call for you in the forenoon." Mr. Alleyn 
 could not for some minutes fully realize what he had 
 heard the men say. Could they mean that he was going 
 to clasp again his darling child to his breast? No, that 
 were a hope too great. He asked them again, that he 
 might be certain he had not mistaken their words, but 
 he had truly heard aright. 
 
 "May I call to her mother and tell her the great joy? 
 Wife, wife, come and hear that we are again to see our 
 lost child. To-morrow to-morrow we are to meet her." 
 And they clasped each other in fond embrace, and wept 
 for very joy. 
 
 "Oh, Charles, I fear something may happen to prevent 
 those awful men fulfilling their promise." 
 
 "No, good lady," spoke the solicitor. "These bandits 
 are most honorable men most honorable men, my good 
 lady. They may be rough and wild in their manners 
 rough and wild but they are the very soul of honor the
 
 242 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 very soul of honor." And the little man rubbed his 
 hands, thinking of the extra share his shrewd bargaining 
 would bring him, as he knew "their very soul of honor" 
 could not wring for them a centime more than the extra 
 thousand pounds which the leader had authorized him to 
 accept. "Four thousand pounds," and as he had done all 
 the bargaining, he would allow five hundred pounds of it 
 to the other solicitor, "and pay him well pay him well 
 and he nothing to do but listen to me talk." 
 
 "As to the possibility of any duplicity," said Mr. Alleyn, 
 "I would not risk my daughter s life to punish your band, 
 even did I know I might capture every one of them. No, 
 there will be no duplicity. And as there will be a number 
 of your men present, and no possible danger to them, I 
 beg that you will allow me to bring with myself and wife 
 two friends. You may examine all of us carefully before 
 we start,, to see that no arms are secreted." 
 
 "Oh, no objections no objections in the world. I will 
 be there and see that our men are fully protected! No 
 objections to your two friends, as I know it will appear 
 more comfortable to feel that you are not alone." And 
 the little man flitted about the room as he conducted the 
 arrangements, ever and anon stopping to rub his hands 
 and to brush back from his forehead a stray spear of 
 gray hair, which, owing to his energetic movements, 
 would continually drop down across his face. "Now I 
 am off off till the morrow. Remember, any duplicity, 
 certain death to the maiden. A word, a look, an act may 
 mean death to the maiden ; beware of duplicity. Our 
 men are the soul of honor and can brook nothing but most 
 honorable treatment in return. Adieu yes, the soul of 
 honor !" 
 
 . Mr. Alleyn sent a messenger to Professor Blake, and 
 the American consul, asking them to hasten at once to
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 243 
 
 his hotel on very urgent business. They came together 
 and were surprised to find the almost smiling looks of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Alleyn. 
 
 "And what good news can you have heard?" asked the 
 consul. Your faces tell us that we have not been called 
 to hear of sadness. 
 
 "Oh, that what has been told us may be true ! We are 
 promised our daughter to-morrow to-morrow ! And we 
 want you and the professor here to go with us." 
 
 "Is there any danger?" asked the professor. The consul 
 smiled and promised that between them they would try 
 to see that no harm would befall him. 
 
 "I, too, have a matter to speak of. You are aware, Mr. 
 Alleyn, that the young American who was slain in the 
 mountain pass was most certainly Air. Edward DeHert- 
 bern, of New York city. The description is so exact that 
 there is scarce a possibility of mistake. I have this day 
 received a message from Mr. DeHertbern s father, who is 
 a personal friend of mine, to the effect that I spare neither 
 men nor money to find his son, either dead or living. 
 Knowing that this would be his wish, I had sent out ten 
 of the most trusted men I could find, on that mission, the 
 very hour I was convinced that the unfortunate young 
 man was Edward, and they were well on their way long 
 before the message came. The professor and I will be 
 here at the time you name in the morning." 
 
 The rest of that day Mr. Alleyn occupied himself in 
 collecting together the gold, in which the bandits had de 
 manded the ransom should be paid. He had drawn from 
 London, and from Paris, and from every available source, 
 as the amount agreed upon was a very great one. By 
 night everything was in readiness. 
 
 At 9 o clock the next morning the consul and Professor 
 Blake were promptly on time, but the two solicitors were
 
 244 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 late. They had held another meeting already that morn 
 ing, and a most serious one it was. They were aroused 
 from sleep at a very early hour by Fulco and Barritzo, 
 who, having called for them at their twc. homes, were 
 told they must be at their office, where they at times slept. 
 The little solicitor, at sight of the two worn-out bandits, 
 could scarcely speak, so great was his surprise. With 
 out waiting a moment, Barritzo began : 
 
 "We are undone. Amabilli is dead. Barrone is dead, 
 and I fear the maiden, too, is dead." He hurriedly told 
 of the escape of their prisoner with the minstrels, and 
 how Amabilli had planned for her recapture. "When/ 
 he continued, "I could find no trace of them to the south 
 of the camp, the two men and I returned and followed in 
 the direction we supposed they had gone. What was our 
 horror to find our giant leader and Barrone dead in the 
 west path, slain by the seven men. The five armed men 
 who had been seen at the hamlet inn must have gone away 
 around to the west, and at the moment of the prisoner s 
 escape were coming up and met the fleeing minstrels with 
 the maidens, and, by the united forces of the seven men, 
 our leader fell, and with him Barrone. We looked all 
 about to find the dead who must have fallen by the 
 mighty sword of Amabilli, whose arm had never known 
 a victor, but we could find none. We are sure the sur 
 vivors have hidden them away in the rocks. Five must 
 have been slain or badly wounded, as w r e saw but two 
 going away with the maiden. W r e feared to follow far, 
 lest by some chance all of the five had not been slain and 
 might be lying in ambush for us, and, as they were known 
 to be armed with guns, they must have slain us without a 
 chance of defending ourselves. We ran a short distance 
 and called loudly to the fleeing minstrels to stop, and, 
 when they gave no heed, I fired after them, taking most
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 245 
 
 careful aim, in hope to avenge our leaders. The moment 
 1 fired the poor maiden fell. Hardened as I am, I coiild 
 but regret that shot., as it gained us nothing and must 
 have mortally wounded an innocent lady. And now, 
 counsellor, what is to be done? We cannot produce the 
 maiden, and can get no part of the ransom we have 
 worked so long to gain." 
 
 "And what say you, my brother solicitor?" 
 
 "As Barritzo says, there is nothing to do. Our work 
 and planning is for naught. We cannot produce the 
 daughter to receive the father s gold. We had as well 
 stop at once." 
 
 "And you would all stop at this point, would you?" 
 asked the little solicitor, rubbing his hands and chuckling. 
 "Ah, my friends, there is nothing so great as a great 
 mind. I will now take the part of your leader, and in one 
 day gain the gold, gold, gold. Ha ! ha ! what a pretty 
 word, and so easy to gain when one has a mind great 
 enough to know the way. Listen to my plan. It is so 
 simple, I wonder that you, Fulco, or even you, my brother 
 solicitor, had not thought of it so simple, so very simple. 
 Do you follow my plan? Ah, tis well, tis well. I knew 
 when once I explained to your simple minds 
 
 "But, brother, what is your plan?" 
 
 "Ho ! ho ! tis so simple. I thought you had caught it 
 ere I had told it you. Continue to listen. By train to 
 L/ecco old house, big room solicitor and I waiting with 
 three men, one woman and satchel of gold. Men un 
 armed ; Barritzo and Fulco rush in and say : 
 
 " Sorry, but could not bring daughter to-day. She 
 sends regrets. We will take the gold bring daughter 
 next time; rush out; I will force three men, one woman 
 into wine cellar, lock the door, fix hinges and then we 
 will divide the gold. For the part you three take I will
 
 246 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 give each of you ^500." 
 
 "But, solicitor, 500 is but a very little of the ransom." 
 "And you forget that but for my great mind you had 
 not received even that little! You had all given up and 
 would stop. Come, come; unless you agree to this di 
 vision I, too, will stop. Yon see, I hare to divide my 
 share wit/i a friend." And, like many another since, 
 "who had a friend to divide with," his "division" was 
 agreed to.
 
 CHAPTER Xi,V. 
 
 Two dark figures intercept them with blows from heavy 
 sticks. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Alleyn and gentlemen, we are late, very late, 
 but in good time for the train. My brother here was slow 
 stirring this morning. I had come from my home and 
 was awaiting him at the office. I am sorry, Mr. Alleyn, 
 to put you under the painful humiliation of being searched 
 for arms, but you know my friends are the very soul of 
 honor soul of honor, and I do not dare risk any harm 
 coming to them." 
 
 No arms were found, as Mr. Alleyn had explained the 
 condition on which he was allowed to take his two friends, 
 and, of course, they had complied. Arms to the pro 
 fessor would have been dangerous only to himself or 
 friends, so twas as well he was not permitted to carry 
 them. 
 
 They reach Lecco at 2 o clock, have dinner, and 
 shortly before 3 are driven in two carriages to the old 
 house, whose wine cellar is better known to us than the 
 house itself. The two drivers remain in their carriages 
 while the two little solicitors, Mr. and Mrs. Alleyn and 
 their two friends go to the big room. 
 
 With what anxiety they enter! "Will they have long 
 to wait?" 
 
 "How will their dear child look? Will she show the 
 terrible ordeal through which she had passed?" Ques- 
 
 247
 
 248 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 tions like these flew through their minds with the quick 
 ness of thought as they waited. The room is large, al 
 most like a great old reception hall, with doors leading 
 from it into other rooms. 
 
 "We are here, solicitor, and trust your friends will not 
 long delay their coming. Our anxiety is great to again 
 behold our child, after these days of terrible waiting." 
 
 " Tis strange, most passing strange, they do not come. 
 They are the very soul of honor, and promised to be here 
 on the stroke of three, and tis now seven minutes past. 
 But they must come shortly. They will not break their 
 word soul of honor, very soul of honor !" 
 
 Just then the outer door opened, and the two drivers 
 entered not drivers now, but bandits. All the assumed 
 meekness of the driver is gone, and in its place their 
 natural fierce manner. They came boldly into the room 
 and stalked across to where Mr. Alleyn and his friends 
 stood, and, without any preliminary words, Barritzo be 
 gan the speech the little solicitor had prepared for him : 
 
 "Sorry we could not bring your daughter to-day. We 
 will bring her next time. We will take the gold 
 
 "Stay!" cried Mr. Alleyn. "Is this your soul of 
 honor?" 
 
 "No, no," exclaims the little man ; "methinks they may 
 have left that behind, too, to-day bring it next time. 
 Ha! ha!" 
 
 "You cannot have the ransom until you bring our 
 child !" exclaimed the father. 
 
 "We will take the gold !" gruffly growled Barritzo, 
 "and as for your child, we will never bring her. We can 
 not, as she was killed in her attempt to escape." He and 
 Fulco rush for the satchel of gold, but never reach it. 
 Two dark figures intercept them with blows from heavy 
 sticks. The rustle of a dress is heard, and Nita rushes
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 249 
 
 into the arms of her mother. Oh, what joy is theirs ! 
 Almost too great ! One moment of despair at the 
 treachery of the bandits, and the next in loving embrace 
 of a daughter they had given up hope of ever seeing 
 again. The two solicitors seemed not to enjoy the sight, 
 and were about to depart, when the two minstrels called : 
 "Stay, we will need you." 
 
 "This is all the result of your great mind," almost 
 whimpered the dull solicitor to his brighter (?) brother. 
 "It never does to be too brilliant of thought, brother. I 
 will and bequeath to you my 500 share. It is very small, 
 tis true, but all you would allow tx> me. Ask Barritzo 
 and Fulco. They, too, may give you their share. You 
 deserve it, as twas your "great mind that planned it all 
 your great mind !" But before the little man of "honor" 
 could reply, four stalwart men entered the room and took 
 charge of the prisoners. "From whence came these stal 
 warts ?" No one at that moment could tell, unless it was 
 the consul, whose eyes took on a merry twinkle as they 
 entered. 
 
 It was a happy party that rode back to Milan that 
 evening. The days of anxiety were past. Terrible as had 
 been the ordeal, it was now at an end. 
 
 Edward s first act was to send a message home, to re 
 lieve the anxiety there, the consul having told him that 
 he was mourned as dead. 
 
 There was so much to relate that long after Miss Al- 
 leyn s return home many things would recur to her mind, 
 and no circumstance was too small to be of interest to her 
 father and mother, who now worshiped her anew as one 
 from the dead. They might have noticed that in the 
 whole story of her release only one minstrel played any 
 part in it. "When Edward had slain the powerful leader, 
 and we were hurrying away, three others of the bandits
 
 250 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 came up. They ran toward us, calling loudly for us to 
 stop. Edward heeded them not, but hurried on. My 
 nerves were in the highest tension when one of the bandits 
 fired a shot after us. I fell in a faint, as though I had 
 been struck. Twas well for them that they came no 
 further, else Edward had slain them all, as he had slain 
 their giant leader. So valiant a swordsman I have never 
 seen as Edward." 
 
 The following day, after their return to Milan, Edward 
 called at the hotel of the Alleyns. He was a welcome 
 guest. Was it gratitude alone that made his welcome so 
 hearty ? 
 
 "Mr. DeHertbern," said Nita, later on during his call, 
 "w r e have known each other but a few days, and yet I 
 seem to have seen and known you before when or where 
 I cannot tell. Often in the camp of the bandits your face 
 impressed me as one I had known long ago." 
 
 "Miss Alleyn," began Edward, pleased at this speech, 
 "have you ever seen a face somewhere that came and 
 went in a day, and you knew not from whence it came 
 or whither it went?" 
 
 "Only one, and that face I may never see again." Her 
 cheeks colored at the reply "It did not impress me at the 
 time, but it had scarce gone from my vision when the 
 remembrance of it came back and has never left me. I 
 remember it only as a face ; the outlines are gone, and I 
 would not recognuize it were I to see it again. It is like 
 the "almost remembered face" in Lucile. I have been in 
 many lands since then, but never until in the camp of the 
 bandits did I see a face that even reminded me of it. 
 When you came as a minstrel my mind flew back to the 
 Egyptian tomb where first I saw that face. You know it 
 is said that every face has its counterpart somewhere in 
 the world. Your counterpart must have been in Egypt
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 251 
 
 a year ago, else 1 could not have been so moved at sight 
 of the minstrel. : 
 
 "Tell me, Miss Alleyn," said Edward, "what if you 
 could see and know that face?" 
 
 "Ah ! I know not. A mere sight may infatuate, while 
 knowing well may disenchant. Have you known Count 
 Drasco long?" 
 
 "Somewhat more than a year. I met him in New York, 
 while he was visiting in America." 
 
 "Professor Blake is an American, is he not?" 
 
 "No, I believe he is English ; at least so the Count has 
 told me." Edward felt almost that he was doing a wrong 
 in the part he was acting, but he would \vin her love with 
 out any aids. Did he tell her that his was the face she 
 had sought for a year, that, with the gratitude which she 
 naturally felt toward him, might influence her against 
 her own heart, and he would win that heart for himself 
 alone. 
 
 "I have often wondered," said Miss Alleyn, "why you 
 should have taken an interest in my rescue I, a stranger 
 to you !" 
 
 "I am an American," Edward replied, "and when one 
 of my countrywomen is in danger I feel it is my duty to 
 rescue her." 
 
 "I am not an American," she said, "although most of 
 my life was passed in that country." 
 
 "You are not an American ! Why should I have so 
 thought? I have had that impression, and I think the 
 Count has the same." 
 
 "No. I was born in England and went to America as a 
 child., and remained there until four years ago. These 
 four years I have spent in school in Paris and in travel." 
 
 Although Edward remained some time, their conversa 
 tion was of a commonplace order. His was a delicate
 
 252 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 situation. He did not dare presume on the part he had 
 played in Miss Alleyn s rescue, and yet the promptings 
 of his heart were to urge his suit. He could not think of 
 her as a friend of the few days he had known her, but the 
 friend of a whole year. 
 
 Edward went direct to the Consul s office, where he was 
 met with a cordial greeting. "Ah, Mr. DeHertburn, glad 
 to see you ! I was intending to look you up. I suppose 
 you have heard that the little solicitor is making great 
 efforts to get on this side of his prison door? No? Oh, 
 yes. No less than five of Milan s prominent men have 
 been to see me in his behalf. Some of them are almost 
 insolent in their request that he be released without delay. 
 They claim that he is entirely innocent of any knowledge 
 of the bandits and that he had gone with the two as a 
 legal advisor on a matter which they would explain to him 
 at L/ecco. I have, on the other hand, most positive evi 
 dence that, under the guise of their legal advisor, this 
 solicitor is, in fact, the leader of the band in Milan. Even 
 the leader whom you well, the leader who did not slay 
 you, was in a manner under control of this man. I further 
 find that this band of outlaws is far-reaching and has 
 emissaries in all the cities of Northern Italy. The gov 
 ernment is really anxious to break it up, as tourists are 
 becoming fearful of traveling here. And now, if you 
 and Mr. Alleyn will give me your support, I will agree 
 that few of them will be left out of prison or on this side 
 of America. Once we get them there we will make law- 
 abiding citizens out of them. DeHertburn, great country 
 that of ours for turning a savage bandit into a meek street 
 sweeper, eh?" 
 
 "You may count on myself, and I am quite sure Air. 
 Alleyn will most heartily lend his aid to the movement." 
 
 "DeHertburn, let me show you a sword that one of my 
 men took from the big bandit yesterday at Lecco. He
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 253 
 
 brought it here this morning. Isn t that a fine one? 
 Notice the carving." 
 
 "And see," said Edward, "this coat of arms on the hilt. 
 Had not noticed it? Some unfortunate tourist, no 
 doubt !" 
 
 "Tourists," said the Consul, "are not in the habit of 
 carrying swords about the country with them. This one 
 must have belonged to no ordinary personage. I have 
 seldom seen so fine a blade or one of so elegant mount 
 ing. This morning the men I sent to get the particulars 
 of your assassination returned. They bring but meagre 
 word. They learned from a little priest that the only 
 strangers who have been in the hamlet near the Pass 
 were two minstrels. When asked about the young man 
 who was slain, he denied all knowledge of him." 
 
 "The little villain !" exclaimed Edward. "We saw this 
 very same priest and heard him read the funeral service 
 over the man whom the bandits spake of as an English 
 man." 
 
 "An Englishman?" asked the Consul. "I will at once 
 see the English Consul and lay the facts before him. If, 
 indeed, he were English we will find in the Consul of that 
 country an active ally." Edward then related to his friend 
 all that he had learned of the young man ; how that he 
 had been slain by Amabilli and brought to the hamlet and 
 buried near a large tree by the inn. He did not know how 
 nearly he had come being laid himself neath that tree. 
 All the time, while Edward was looking at the sword, he 
 was asking himself: "Where have I seen this coat of 
 arms? There is something so familiar about it that it 
 seems not new to me." He could not recall it. In 
 America a coat of arms means so little that one gives it 
 but scant thought. Time and again "the raven wings, on 
 a crown, surmounting a shield on which were mullets and 
 bars," would come into his mind, but he could not place it.
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 Father, if only the perfect men were chosen as husbands, 
 
 there would be but few wives. 
 One may almost love as a friend, and hate that friend if 
 
 forced on one as a lover. 
 
 Count Drasco owed much of social pleasure to Edward 
 during his visit in New York, and had already laid many 
 plans for returning these pleasures ; but when he pro 
 posed them to Edward he found him in no humor for any 
 society aside from what he could find at the hotel of the 
 Alleyns. "I have no heart," he would say, "for anything 
 social. I have told you how that, for the past year, I 
 have thought only of one, and that one I felt was forever 
 lost to me, but now that I have again found the object 
 of my heart s longing, I can think of naught else." He 
 was so earnest that the Count would not urge him. 
 
 Brave almost to a fault when face to face with real 
 danger, Edward now felt himself a coward. He would 
 know his fate, and yet feared to put to the test the 
 means of learning it. "I may be too late," he would say 
 to himself. "Some one else may have seen in her the one 
 being in all this world to him, and have received from her 
 a promise she cannot break. So much of worth and 
 beauty cannot have been left alone for me !" He is now 
 quite as despondent, having found the object of his search, 
 as he was when he thought that object forever lost to 
 him. 
 
 254
 
 FRIEND BILL. 255 
 
 His was not the only yearning heart! Seated at the 
 piano that evening we find Nita softly singing "Juanita," 
 which had been running in her mind since that memorable 
 night when it had brought so much of hope to her. She 
 had forgotten in the song that her father and mother 
 were near her. She had forgotten all else but the minstrel 
 and his song. When her father spoke, she started, and 
 seemed to wake as from a sleep. "Why, father," she 
 said, "you startled me !" 
 
 "Yes, my little girl ; you seemed to have been a\vay off. 
 Where, I wonder, could you have been that you had so 
 forgotten us? Ah, methinks my little girl was in her 
 English home, singing to her cousin lover." 
 
 "Father, why do you taunt me with my fate? Is it not 
 enough to be bound to one I can never love, without being 
 reminded of it continually?" 
 
 "You forget, my darling child, that it was the will of 
 my father that you should marry your distant cousin, Lord 
 Clarence Aglionby, that our two houses might again be 
 brought together." 
 
 "Xo, father, I do not forget it. I cannot forget it. I 
 lie awake far into the night thinking of the bitter fate that 
 awaits me. Oh, why why could your father have thus 
 blighted my life?" 
 
 "Was it to blight your life to choose for you a husband, 
 a man of so superior character as your Cousin Clarence? 
 He has all the finer qualities of character that go to make 
 the perfect man." 
 
 Father, if only the perfect men were chosen as hus 
 bands, there would be but few wives. I would take as a 
 husband one I could truly love far rather than the most 
 perfect character that ever lived. The heart does not seek 
 perfection. It seeks love. The most homely face to the 
 eye is often the most beautiful to the heart. Clarence may
 
 256 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 be the most perfect of men in form and character, but to 
 my heart he is the most deformed, and I can never love 
 him." 
 
 "Nita, when first you knew of your grandfather s 
 wishes you did not feel toward your cousin any ill. You 
 seemed then even to like him well." 
 
 "Yes, father; but you forget that one may almost love 
 as a friend and hate that friend if forced on one as a lover. 
 Clarence and I could have been the best of cousins, but 
 the moment I had to think of him as a husband I even dis 
 liked him as a cousin." 
 
 "Nita, you even liked him well until \ve visited Egypt, 
 since which time you seem to have cared less and less for 
 him, but I did not know until this night that you had such 
 an aversion for him. My child, is there another your 
 heart would choose?" She hesitated and did not reply. 
 "Tell me," he urged, "if you were free to choose, is there 
 another?" 
 
 "Yes, father, there is one to whom my very soul goes 
 out. Without his love my life were worse than death to 
 me." 
 
 "Who can have so> won your love? Have you kept 
 from us this secret all this while?" 
 
 "Ah, father, this while is very short." 
 
 "You cannot mean Mr. DeHertbern or the Count, 
 whom you have known -so short a time?" anxiously in 
 quired her father. 
 
 "Yes, father it is Edward DeHertbern whom I 
 love!" 
 
 "And has he dared speak to you of love?" 
 
 "No, father; he has ever kept far away from the sub 
 ject, and that is why my heart of times feels as if it would 
 break !" 
 
 "Come, Nita," more softly, "my little girl, you must not
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 257 
 
 mistake gratitude for love. Mr. DeHertbern risked his 
 life for you, and we all should feel very grateful to him 
 for it." 
 
 "Father, could the feeling I had for him in the bandits 
 camp have been one of gratitude when I saw 7 him as a 
 minstrel, before I knew him as a friend, come to save me 
 from an awful fate? That feeling was not gratitude. It 
 was the same that now I feel and I know is love. The 
 .Count, too, helped to rescue me. If gratitude, I would 
 feel the same toward both." 
 
 "Xita, prepare your mind to hear that which would for 
 ever prevent your marriage to Mr. DeHertbern, even 
 though you were not already bound to Lord Aglionby. 
 My father s will, which has said you shall marry your 
 cousin, also says that if Clarence should die before his 
 marriage to you that you sliall not marry an American!" 
 
 "Does it say that? Oh, father, why should he have 
 been so minded as to wreck your young life by act, and 
 mine by his will! I care not now what may come! I 
 am resigned to any fate ! Oh, why was I not saved this 
 misery ? Would that the aim of the bandit had been true ! 
 I had been better dead !" 
 
 "Child, you know not what you are saying. Have you 
 no love for us? We, who have ever tried to make your 
 young life sweet and happy, can ill hear you speak thus." 
 
 "Mother, forgive me, but my heart seems breaking! 
 Let us go away from here! Where? Any place where 
 I will have nothing to remind me of Edward. Oh, I must 
 see him once more. I wish then to go back to England, 
 and on the most remote part of your possessions hide 
 away from the world until I will have to come out to face 
 it as the wife of a man I can never love." 
 
 When Edward called the next day he w r as told that 
 Nita was verv ill. Brain fever was feared. "The strain
 
 258 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 on her mind during her captivity was too great, and she 
 has, I fear, broken down under it," explained Mr. Alleyn. 
 
 "I am greatly surprised," said Edward, "for she seemed 
 very well yesterday, and quite happy in being with you 
 again." He did not dare remain, else he had broken 
 down in Mr. Alleyn s presence. He called a number of 
 times during the day to inquire. He could find no rest 
 away and no comfort near, and yet he wandered back and 
 forth all the day long. So intense became his grief at last 
 that he felt he owed to Mr. Alleyn an explanation of his 
 interest. So, on meeting that gentleman, he timidly 
 began : "You must see that my interest in your daughter 
 is not that of a mere friend. With possibly no right I 
 have grown to love " 
 
 "Stop, Mr. Detlertbern," broke in Mr. Alleyn, "you 
 must go no further. I owe too much to you to allow this 
 to continue. Xita is the promised wife of another." 
 
 Ed\yard s greatest fears were thus harshly realized at 
 the very moment when his grief at her sudden illness was 
 most intense. He fain would have left Milan at once, but 
 he could not go while Nita continued ill. He must see 
 her once more, even though it would wring his heart to 
 part with her. She would never know the depths of 
 his love. He would wait until she might see him. He 
 would say good-by as a friend and see her no more. The 
 face which had looked out from memory upon him for a 
 weary year had been found at last, but that face could 
 never be his another had claimed it. 
 
 The ills of this life seldom come alone. That day Lord 
 Alleyn had received a letter from England stating that 
 Lord Aglionby had left London for Paris about one month 
 before, and that nothing had been heard from him since 
 the day he reached that city. In that letter he spoke of 
 having just heard that Nita had been taken captive by
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 259 
 
 bandits in a certain place in Northern Italy. That is all 
 he had said. His friends had looked for him in Paris, 
 but could find no trace of him. This greatly worried Mr. 
 Alleyn, as Clarence had never been one of those travelers 
 who come and go without any word to their friends at 
 home. He had always kept them informed just where 
 he was, and four weeks away, and no word, was alarm 
 ing! Mr. Alleyn would see his English Consul at once 
 and advise with him as to what should be done. As he 
 entered that gentleman s office he was greeted with : 
 "Glad to see you, Mr. Alleyn. I was on the point of 
 going to your hotel on a very important matter. It has 
 just reached my ears that one of our countrymen has met 
 his death almost in the same place that your daughter 
 was taken. I had heard of this at the time, but you will 
 remember it was reported that the young man was an 
 American. I did, however, dispatch five men to investi 
 gate the affair, but they returned and said they could 
 learn nothing whatever of the matter. I have just heard, 
 from the American Consul, that when the two bandits 
 were taken, along with the two solicitors, at Lecco, that 
 a beautiful sword was found on one of the prisoners. 
 Whether it will be of any aid to us, I do not know, but 
 the Consul left it with me. Here it is. It is a magnifi 
 cent one." 
 
 At that moment Mr. Alleyn caught sight of the coat o<f 
 arms on the hilt. "My worse fears are true! See this 
 coat of arms? It is that of our family, and the young 
 man is none other than Lord Clarence Aglionby, who, I 
 have just heard, has been gone from his home for a 
 month. What further did you learn?" 
 
 "You have heard, no doubt," replied the Consul, "from 
 Count Drasco and the American all that they knew about 
 the young man whom they saw buried at the inn near the
 
 200 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 pass? You have heard them speak nothing of the affair? 
 You will do well to see them without delay. I believe 
 they saw the young man and may be able to describe him 
 to you. We will hope their account will prove to you 
 that your fears are unfounded." 
 
 Air. Alleyn went directly to the Count s home, where 
 he met Edward. lie began at once his sad inquiry. So 
 deep had been the impression made on their minds at sight 
 of the young man at the hamlet inn that they could 
 describe him as though looking on a picture, and when 
 they had concluded, Mr. Alleyn had no longer a doubt. 
 
 "It is he poor Aglionby ! What did you learn in con 
 nection with the sad affair?" 
 
 "We learned that he had been slain at the fateful moun 
 tain pass, 1 said the Count, "by Amabilli, the bandit leader, 
 whom we met just after the tragedy. The body was 
 brought directly to the inn, but we did not learn of it until 
 very late in the night. Edward s surprise was so great 
 on hearing of it that the interest he manifested came 
 near resulting in one or two more tragedies. They be 
 came very suspicious of us. Was he an Englishman, as 
 was thought?" 
 
 "Yes, and a dear relative of our family. Have you de 
 scribed to the Consul the exact location of his grave?" 
 
 "Yes, most fully, and have advised him of all our ob 
 servations. He, with the cooperation of our American 
 Consul, will leave nothing undone to avenge the death of 
 your friend." 
 
 Mr. Alleyn at once sent the sad news back to England. 
 He also sent to his lawyers for a copy of his father s will, 
 as he remembered that there was in it a codicil touching 
 on the event of Lord Aglionby s death : certain estates left 
 him should revert to Clarence s brothers. He was not 
 sure as to the wording of it, and it might be necessary for
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 2 6l 
 
 him to return to England, which he could not do while 
 Nita was so ill. On his return to the hotel he found her 
 much worse. She did not know him. "Go away. I will 
 not have to fulfill my part. I will soon be free free as a 
 bird, to fly away. Grandfather thought to bind me here, 
 but I will not stay will not stay/ and her mind ran on 
 in wild wanderings. "Yes, Edward, I am going. I will 
 wait for you, as I have long waited for the unknown 
 face. They may bind me here, but not there not there. 
 Oh, the bandits ! the bandits ! Too late ! They have 
 taken me again, but Edward will come for me. He will 
 sing again for his Nita. Pie will know his Nita now. 
 He did not know her then, and yet he sang to Nita. Our 
 hearts knew each other our hearts." She would sleep, 
 and start up and cry out as though she were again a cap 
 tive. She seldom would speak any name but Edward s. 
 His name was ever on her lips. Her father and mother 
 were grief-stricken, as the days went by, at the thought 
 of her death. The physicians gave them no hope. 
 
 "The strain on her mind during her captivity was 
 great, said the attendant physician, "but you say she 
 seemed well on her return ? There must then be another 
 cause, or rather an assistant cause. Has anything oc 
 curred since her return that would in any way give her 
 worry? It need have been but slight, as her mind 
 although apparently normal, needed but little to cause this 
 result." He had followed his question with an explana 
 tion, and they not replying at once, he did not press them 
 for an answer ; but they knew too well the cause. One 
 day when Nita appeared to be almost gone, the doctor 
 asked, "Who is Edward, whom she continually talks 
 about ?" 
 
 "He is one of the young men of whom I told you, who 
 had rescued her from the camp of bandits."
 
 262 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "It is our last hope. Have him come at once, and if for 
 a moment her mind should come back and she see him 
 here, she may rally. Lose no time, as even now I fear it 
 is too late !" Edward, who now spent all of his time near 
 by, was hastily summoned. She did not recognize him. 
 She continually talked on about the camp. "He sang to 
 Nita, though he did not know Nita. He will sometime 
 know Xita sometime. They won t marry me to Clar 
 ence now. I am so happy so happy I will soon go 
 away away off away ! Oh, Edward, save me the 
 giant bandit ! " 
 
 "Xita ! Xita ! here I am ! 
 
 "His voice oh, papa his voice. I heard him call to 
 me. He will save me, papa. The will says I may never 
 be his, but I will love him always, always. I will wait 
 for him wait for him wait for my Edward !" 
 
 "Too late," softly spoke the doctor. "I feared it. Had 
 I known in time we might have saved her. Hold ! there 
 is a faint pulse yet, very, very faint. If her mind could 
 only rest she might yet live. From that moment she 
 went off into a gentle sleep, the first restful sleep for many 
 days. The next morning a slight change for the better 
 was noticed, and once or twice during the day her mind 
 returned for a few moments. During these lucid inter 
 vals she spoke but little. She seemed very sad. At one 
 time she said to the nurse : "Oh. why did they bring me 
 back? I thought 1 had gone, and 1 was so happy!" 
 
 She was slightly better next day, but that awful sad 
 ness clung to her, and she would continually repeat, "Why 
 did they bring me back?" "Xurse, have I been very ill?" 
 
 "Yes. X T ita, you were quite ill, but you will soon be well 
 again." 
 
 "Xnrse, I do not want to get well. I have nothing to 
 live for ; I were happier gone !"
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 263 
 
 "Come, come, my little patient must not talk so. You 
 will soon be well, and then you will be very happy again." 
 
 Nurse, I will never be happy again !" 
 
 "Come, now, go to sleep." She spoke to her as to a 
 little child. The nurse was very gentle, but very indis 
 creet, as when Nita asked, "Nurse, has there been any one 
 here while I was ill whom they called Clarence?" she an 
 swered, "Why, if it is your cousin you mean, he is dead!" 
 
 "Dead ! My cousin Clarence dead? Oh, tell me about 
 him." And the nurse repeated all she had heard from 
 first to last. 
 
 When next the doctor called he found his patient so 
 much improved that he could but remark the change. 
 
 "Oh, doctor," said Nita, "I really believe I am going 
 to get well. I don t know why, doctor, but the world 
 seems so much brighter to me to-day. Was I very ill, 
 doctor?" 
 
 "Yes, you were quite ill for a time, Nita, but I will soon 
 have you well and happy." 
 
 "Yes. doctor, I feel that I will be well and very happy 
 again. Doctor, is this a brighter day than usual ? I don t 
 know why, but it does seem so to me. I am very weak, 
 I know, but I just feel as though I could get up and walk 
 about." 
 
 Mrs. Alleyn remarked to her husband that evening: 
 "Dr. Herman is certainly a most remarkable physician! 
 Have you noticed how Nita has improved since his last 
 visit? The change is marvelous! The nurse tells me 
 that all that despondency is gone, and that Nita never ex 
 claims, as she has all along, Oh, why did they bring me 
 back ! The nurse says she has never seen so remarka 
 ble a recovery. Charles, do you think we could mention 
 Clarence s sad taking off to her?"
 
 264 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "My dear, I am surprised that could ask that question. 
 Why, in her weak state of mind it would surely bring on 
 a return of the fever, and yon know what a relapse is !" 
 
 "Forgive me. I see it would never do."
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 When the heart is glad, the eye sees naught but the beau 
 tiful, and the ear hears nothing that is not pleasing. 
 
 In a few days Nita was so far recovered that she could 
 ride out with her father and mother. On their first drive 
 they met Edward. He had not seen her since her re 
 covery. Nita involuntarily called to the driver to stop. 
 "Mr. DeHertbern, we are so glad to see you ! I am 
 almost well again. I feel like a little child, this bright 
 morning. It has been so long since I was out that I 
 quite thoroughly enjoy the drive. You must run in to 
 see us." 
 
 "I propose returning to America shortly." 
 "Oh, no, Edw Mr. DeHertbern, I mean; we cannot 
 allow you to go for a long while yet. Just to think of it ! 
 The bandits might capture me again, and who could rescue 
 me as you did?" 
 
 "Oh," laughed Edward, "in case they should want you 
 to brighten their camp again, send me word and I will 
 sail across and deliver you back to Milan, but I will not 
 go as a minstrel the next time. They will never again 
 trust a minstrel, however despondent their captive maid 
 ens may become." 
 
 "Come, then," said Nita, "as a knight errant !" 
 "Seeking his fair lady?" inquired Edward hardly 
 thinking of the full meaning of the question. 
 
 265
 
 266 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "Yes, with a hope of her rescue. We will look for you 
 this evening." 
 
 And they drove away, Nita smiling back at him with 
 a look he had never before seen on her face. 
 
 And yet this was she who was to be the bride of an 
 other! Edward could not understand. In her delirium 
 she had spoken of "Clarence;" he it must be who is the 
 "another." That she does not love that other he knew, 
 and that she does love himself Edward is convinced. 
 "She spoke of a will, and that it said she could never be 
 mine ; how could anyone know me. Ah ! it was but the 
 wild fancies of a delirious mind ! Her father has told me 
 that she is to be another s ! I will go away. Why remain 
 here ? It were a kindness to her that she see me no more 
 if she love me ; and if she can never be mine, why remain 
 where I must see the object I can never hope to gain? I 
 will see her once more, and then bid goodby to Milan and 
 all that it holds dear to me." And the same old sadness 
 was on his face. 
 
 Edward had told the Count that he would soon go back 
 to America. The Count asked not why, for he knew, as 
 Edward had told him that Nita could never be his; that 
 she was to be the bride of another. 
 
 Nita was in her best spirits that evening. Her carriage 
 drive had started again the color in her cheeks. The 
 world seemed to have taken on a brighter hue ; the flowers 
 were more brilliant, the birds in the parks had sweeter 
 notes, and appeared happier in their songs than she had 
 ever before heard them. The people whom they met, even 
 the tired workmen on their way home seemed more joy 
 ous than she had ever remembered seeing them. Ah ! 
 when the heart is glad the eye sees naught but the beauti 
 ful, and the ear hears nothing that is not pleasing. 
 
 Was it the drive alone that had started that color ting-
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 267 
 
 ling into her cheek again ? Was it that she had recovered 
 from her serious illness that caused her heart to feel so 
 light? Could it not have been that she felt the release 
 from a marriage so wholly saddening to her? And yet, 
 even though she were released from a union that could 
 never bring her a day s happiness, she still could not mar 
 ry the one whom she could love, as that awful will said no 
 American could be her husband. While Nita sat waiting 
 for Edward, happy and yet at times sad in her contempla 
 tions, her father came in, holding a voluminous paper in 
 his hand. 
 
 "Nita," said he, "I have just received from England a 
 copy of my father s will, and in it I find a strange wording 
 at the point referring to you, where you are prohibited 
 marrying an American ; there is what is called a codicil, 
 something thought of after the body of the will had been 
 written. Listen to what it says : that you may marry an 
 American under certain conditions, only in the event of 
 Lord Clarence Agiionby s death. Those conditions are 
 that if an American, who can trace a true line back to our 
 family tree, should ask your hand in marriage he may be 
 accepted. It also says that the estate which was to have 
 gone to Lord Clarence Aglionby "shall go to the husband 
 of my beloved granddaughter Anita." 
 
 "Why, father," said Nita, "he had as -well left off that 
 codicil. In the first place, the Americans are so proud of 
 their own country that they claim no family tree which 
 was not grown on American soil. In the second place, 
 they do not keep records as you in England keep them. 
 And, thirdly, as the minister would say, did your father 
 think that I should ever meet and love the possible one in 
 the thousands of families in America? I had always 
 thought of my dear old grandfather as a man very sedate, 
 verv, verv serious, vet he must have had in him a large
 
 268 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 vein of humor to put into not only his last will and testa 
 ment but in the very end of it, a bit of humor that would 
 be quite amusing if it were not so serious to me in its 
 results. I wish you had not spoken to me of this."
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 When in thy dreaming moons like these shall shine 
 
 again, 
 
 And daylight beaming prove thy dreams are vain, 
 Wilt thou not, relenting, for thine absent lover sigh, 
 In t/iy heart consenting to a prayer gone by?" 
 
 Edward, too, had that day received an important letter. 
 It was from his sister, Beatrice. She had much to tell him 
 of all the family, each member coming in for a small 
 notice, with much of the rest devoted to Bill, but what in 
 terested Edward most was what Beatrice said of an old 
 maid aunt, who was then visiting at his home in New 
 York. The letter, referring to the aunt, said : "Aunt Sa- 
 mantha is here. She came up from Kentucky a few days 
 after you went away. She is just as queer as ever, always 
 fussing about family trees and coats of arms and es 
 cutcheons/ and I don t know what all that is odd. She 
 says we were once a great family in England. I am sat 
 isfied with our present family. She made me use her 
 writing paper. She says what is the good of having a 
 coat of arms without wearing it. It is one of aunt s 
 jokes ; she calls it it, then laughs and explains it : coat 
 wear it. See? Ha, ha. She is old and childish, so we 
 all try to humor her, but really, Ed, she says this is our 
 coat of arms. She has the longest list of names. Why, 
 she can run back for generations, and has old papers, 
 books and things to prove all she says. We often ask 
 
 269
 
 2/0 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 what good is all this, and she laughs and says : Oh, it s 
 no trouble to me, and it may come useful some time ; we 
 never know. Say, Ed, you have no idea of all the fuss 
 the papers are just now making over you and the Count, 
 who rescued that English girl. Why, one of them had 
 you all pictured out. You were fighting five men at once, 
 while the Count, who had just killed two bandits, was sit 
 ting there watching you. Ed, they were wood cuts, and 
 if you looked just a little bit like your picture I would dis 
 own you. Everybody is asking me how you came to be 
 there, in the bandit country. I tell them all I know ; that 
 you had gone to Milan to visit Count Drasco, and when 
 they ask why you and the Count were minstrels, I say : I 
 guess it was because you \vanted to see the country of the 
 bandits, and thought the safest way to go was as minstrels. 
 Now, there, Ed, wasn t that a brilliant idea of mine? Bill 
 says he couldn t have thought of it himself. 
 
 "The girls say : The first thing you know, that brother 
 of yours will lose his heart to that English girl. Ed, 
 really now, is she as beautiful as all the papers say ? Your 
 New York girls are getting real jealous of her already. 
 Miss Kittie you know who I mean asked me yester 
 day: Beatrice, when is your brother Edward coming 
 home? Wasn t his going rather sudden? Say, Ed, you 
 should have heard Kit ask the question. She w r as very 
 serious ! She called you Edward. Think, Ed, of Kittie 
 calling you Edward. She acted as though your going 
 were any of her affair. Oh, when are you coming home ? 
 You have been gone two ages ! Ed, when you were as 
 sassinated we all cried for a week: then we found it 
 wasn t you, but the cry did us good. You know^, we girls 
 have to cry so much each year, anyhow. Now I will not 
 have to weep for two years to come. So you see what we 
 think of our big, giant killer brother. Helen, when she
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 271 
 
 reads now, gets down her book, and it s all about Ed, the 
 Giant Killer. Jack plays no part any more. Say, Ed, 
 just for fun, give my love to my new sister. I always was 
 a tease, so you must forgive me this. Here is Aunt Sa- 
 mantha, who sends so many messages to you that if I 
 wrote them all out you would grow tired reading them. 
 You know, Ed, she is very rich. Father says she has 
 spent thousands of dollars tracing out our family. Bill 
 says it s hard to- tell whether she has been running a 
 nursery or the timber business ; at any rate, Trees have 
 figured largely in her life. You should see her room ; she 
 has family trees from the size of this sheet on which I am 
 writing up to one that covers half of one side of her room. 
 Yes, aunt, I will tell him. She wants me to say she 
 wishes you were here ; that she knows you would be in 
 terested in her life work. I don t believe she thinks we 
 take much interest in it. Don t tell her I said so. but she 
 is right : we don t. There are too many other things of 
 importance to think of. What is it, auntie? What do 
 you think, Ed ; she has just made me promise that I will 
 send you a book in which our family is shown as running 
 back to William the Conqueror. She says she had a man 
 at work on it for two years. Most of that time he spent 
 in England. When you write, Ed, you must make a fuss 
 over it. I know it will please the dear old soul. It may 
 bore you, but she is old, and, as it is the sole object of her 
 life, we must look over it in her." 
 
 And Edward had received the book. He hardly gave it 
 a passing glance. Beatrice was right. It was a bore to 
 him ; but he would write some nice things to tell Aunt 
 Samantha and thank her for her remembering him. 
 
 It was time now that he should make his promised call. 
 He wished it was over. He was afraid of himself afraid 
 he might forget that Nita was another s, and say things
 
 272 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 he would regret. No, he would talk only on the common 
 places, and not risk dangerous ground. Did lover ever 
 talk only commonplace in the presence of her whom he 
 loved, even though he knew she was another s? Not 
 when that lover knew that he was the one loved. 
 
 Never had he seen Nita so beautiful as she was that 
 night. Her dress, the surroundings, the light shaded to 
 bring out all the charm of coloring, her manner toward 
 him, everything went to make him forget all else than that 
 he was completely enchanted. He forgot commonplace 
 the moment he entered her presence. 
 
 "And is my fair lady waiting to be rescued again?" 
 
 "For a whole hour has she waited., and it has seemed 
 very long to her." 
 
 "Her knight wished not to manifest unseemly haste." 
 
 "Unseemly haste can never be charged to her knight." 
 And thus they ran on smilingly. 
 
 "Mr. DeHertbern, you have never told me why you and 
 the Count played so well the part of knight errants of old 
 to me, a stranger to you." 
 
 "And are you a stranger to me ?" 
 
 "I was then. You had never even seen me before." 
 
 "My counterpart may have seen you, and I but took his 
 place, perhaps." 
 
 "If so, you have done him credit. 
 
 "Tell me again of my counterpart. What was he like ?" 
 
 "I have told you that I could not describe him." 
 
 "And yet you saw him ?" 
 
 "I saw him, and I did not see him. We were together 
 in the depths of an Egyptian tomb. The surroundings 
 were so strange and weird that I could think, at the time, 
 of naught but their very weirdness." 
 
 "And did he see you, behind your veil ?" 
 
 "What, Mr. DeHertbern, can you know of the veil ?"
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 273 
 
 Edward had forgotten the part he was playing, but he 
 tried to correct the misstep. 
 
 "Were you not veiled in that terrible climate?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; but not in the tomb." 
 
 "Tell me more of that meeting. For my counterpart s 
 sake, 1 would know all." 
 
 "There is but little to relate that I have not told you." 
 
 "You have said that while you had no remembrance of 
 the face, yet you have sought to find it again. How did 
 you hope to find that of which you had no remembrance ?" 
 
 "Ah, Mr. DeHertbern, I know not, yet would I seek it." 
 
 "Will you forgive me if I ask why you should seek that 
 face, when it can never be to you more than a face, since 
 you yourself are another s?" 
 
 "Air. DeHertbern, you speak in riddles. I am not an 
 other s." 
 
 "You are not another s ? Why, your father has told me 
 that you are to be the wife of a countryman of yours." 
 
 "Poor Clarence is no more. He met the fate which 
 you so nearly met." 
 
 "And \vas it Lord Aglionby, the unfortunate young 
 man?" 
 
 "It was he. Pie, too, sought to rescue me, as I have 
 learned. And, lest you think me unkind to seem so soon 
 to forget him, I will tell you that it would have been a 
 union without a heart. In England the woman too often 
 has no choice." 
 
 Edward now felt that he could reveal himself, and tell 
 her that there was no counterpart. 
 
 "And tell me again, what if you could meet and know 
 that face you met in the tomb?" 
 
 "I have a thousand times asked myself that same ques 
 tion, and can find no answer, and yet have ever sought to 
 find it!"
 
 274 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "If I could reveal to you the mystery, might I claim the 
 reward?" 
 
 "I do not understand mystery? reward? No, I 
 cannot fathom your meaning." 
 
 "You told me once that you saw in the minstrel that 
 face. You saw aright, for, Nita, it was my face you saw 
 in the Egyptian tomb !" 
 
 "Oh, cruel, cruel fate !" exclaimed Nita, her face almost 
 white with the excitement of the revelation. She had 
 sought for a year to find a face which, when found, 
 brought her only grief. Edward could not understand 
 the cause of her exclamation, but waited. 
 
 "Oh, Edward, what can I do? The fate that bound me 
 to one I did not love bars my heart from where it would 
 go. I can never know you save as a friend who has 
 risked his life to save mine, a friend for whom I would 
 willingly give my life. You cannot understand. The will 
 that bound me to Lord Aglionby also says I may never be 
 yours, for you are an American, and I can never marry 
 an American." And to show to him how fate had shut 
 them out from each other, she went and brought the will, 
 and they read together the fatal part. 
 
 "But see," said Edward, "this codicil." 
 
 "Yes, I have seen it, and aside from the impossible there 
 is nothing in it." 
 
 "Wait," said he, as he thought of Aunt Samantha s 
 book, which he had with him. "I have this day received 
 a letter and a book from my sister. The impossible may 
 be made possible. We will see." And together they sat 
 and looked over that book as no one had ever before 
 looked it over. 
 
 "Why, there," said Nita, "at the very first page is our 
 coat of arms. And here, see,, name after name which are 
 familiar ones to me.
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 275 
 
 "Come, father, see this wonderful book that Edward 
 has received." 
 
 As Mr. Alleyn came in, the greatest surprise was to 
 hear his daughter calling Mr. DeHertbern "Edward," but 
 when he saw the book and realized what it contained, he 
 could scarcely believe so wonderful a thing could be. 
 
 He saw that Burke had never written or compiled one 
 more accurate. 
 
 It was fully agreed that there was no bar now 7 . Edward 
 might claim his "queen," and Xita need search no longer 
 in vain for the "face" she had seen in the tomb. 
 
 Taking up Nita s guitar, Edward sang the one chorus 
 he had left out the night of the last "concert" in the ban 
 dit camp: 
 
 "Nita, Juanita, let me linger by thy side; 
 Nita, Juanita, be my own fair bride."
 
 CHAPTER NUN. 
 
 The spacious DeHertbern mansion was far too small, and 
 the greatest hotel in the city was engaged for the 
 occasion. 
 
 Now that every obstacle has been removed, and Ed 
 ward and Anita are happy in each other s love, you will 
 scarcely wish to go with them back to the Alleyn ancestral 
 halls in England, where they were quietly married, or to 
 follow them across to New York, where was given to 
 them a royal welcome, or to read of the many pretty 
 things said of Edward s beautiful bride. Suffice it that 
 all these things happened in their order. The reception 
 given by the DeHertberns in honor of their new daughter 
 was an event which New York has not yet forgotten, as 
 no reception in this city of great affairs has equaled it in 
 magnificence. Nothing was talked of for a month before 
 in the higher social circles but the DeHertbern reception, 
 and it long remained a theme of general comment. 
 
 A description of its grandeur would take a pen more 
 used than mine to such work. 
 
 The spacious DeHertbern mansion was far too small, 
 and the greatest hotel in the city was engaged for the oc 
 casion. Florists and decorators were many days at work 
 in turning this great house into a veritable palace of flow 
 ers. The best orchestras were engaged to furnish the 
 music. The guests, even though so used to the beautiful 
 in elaborate entertainment, had never seen anything of the 
 
 276
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 277 
 
 kind, for nothing on so vast a scale had before been at 
 tempted in America. Guests were there from almost 
 every large city in the land. During the whole night I 
 felt as one turned loose in fairyland. It was the first 
 reception of any kind I had ever seen. I was at a loss to 
 know how to fully enjoy it. The night the "Actor" took 
 me to the theatre 1 was bewildered by the "diamonds" 
 worn by the "fairies" on the stage. To me the jewels 
 were real, as was the play, but the Actor, far too practical, 
 said : "Those illusive baubles are but glass and Pitts- 
 burg glass at that." He called it "glahs." But here I 
 wandered from room to room, from floor to floor, and 
 back again, and wherever I went diamonds dazzled my 
 eyes. Diamonds, whole mines of them, it seemed, 
 sparkled everywhere that night, and real ones, too, for Bill 
 told me. "These people do- not need to resort to shams. 
 "Why," said he, "do you know, Rube, that the wealth rep 
 resented here to-night would pay the national debt?" 
 When I told the Anarchist, at the boarding-house, what 
 Bill had said, he replied bitterly : 
 
 "If the Government had to depend upon this wealth, the 
 debt would not be reduced much, for by the time these 
 rich men were through swearing off there would be but 
 little left." Tom was very severe. I did not believe him 
 then. 
 
 Wherever I turned, in whatever room, hallway or par 
 lor, soft, sweet music seemed to fill the very air with a 
 joy which I had never dreamed was meant for earth. 
 Music, music everywhere, but not a player to be seen. 
 How different to the dances at Highmont, where the one 
 prominent personage was the fiddler; or, if at a wedding, 
 he might possibly share the honors with the bride if she 
 were pretty. 
 
 Even- florist in New York had contributed his stock of
 
 278 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 roses and rare flowers, but the supply was to meagre, and 
 other cities were called upon to complete the decoration. 
 Grottoes of roses, bowers of palms, walls festooned with 
 orchids the whole one bewildering sight of rare beauty. 
 
 "What of the people who were there?" Ah, I scarcely 
 made a note of them, save as they blocked my way through 
 Fairyland. It seemed that I could have lived on forever, 
 as in some "enchanted palace;" but morning came, the 
 lights were extinguished and the guests had all departed, 
 and I went out and took up again the burdens of real life. 
 But the remembrance of that night still haunts me., and 
 fills me with a pleasure untold. The flowers, the music, 
 the diamonds that glittered on beautiful women, and, 
 above all, was I impressed with Edward s bride, whom I 
 had seen but once before since her arrival. Her beauty 
 was so rare that other women forgot to envy in their ad 
 miration of her. Tall and with a bearing that seemed, to 
 my notion, regal, and yet so gentle and simple in manner 
 that she won every heart. Once during the evening, 
 when Bill and I were together, he asked : "Rube, did you 
 ever see a face that reminded you of Edward s bride?" 
 
 "No," I replied, "and never expect to." 
 
 "Well, said he_, "she has features that remind me of 
 Anita Leighton." 
 
 What!" I exclaimed, "your Xita of Highmont? Your 
 imagination must indeed be vivid to-night. Bill. Why, 
 that little mountain lass could never have hoped to become 
 the queen we see to-night. 
 
 "You mistake my meaning. I but spoke of a slight 
 resemblance, and not that it could be Xita Leighton 
 only that the bride reminds me of her." 
 
 I could not but think how true it is that we never en 
 tirely forget our first love, and in after years attribute to 
 her rare qualities of beauty in face and character.
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 279 
 
 The echoes of the DeHertbern reception rang up and 
 down throughout the length and hreadth of the land. 
 Ministers took it as a text, and preached against the ex 
 travagance of wealth. The newspapers condemned it as 
 ostentatious display of riches and as setting the poor 
 against the wealthy class. Nothing was talked of at our 
 table for a whole week. I tried to defend it, but was all 
 alone in the defense. 
 
 "Do you know/ I asked, "that all those beautiful flow 
 ers were distributed among the hospitals and sent to the 
 poor of the city?" 
 
 "And do you think," asked Tom, "that the poor ap 
 preciate flowers cast to them as no longer of use to the 
 millionaire? It but makes them feel the depth of their 
 poverty to know that what would be life to them can be 
 thrown aw r ay as useless. They feel that the God who 
 made us all is unjust to give to the rich untold luxury and 
 deprive them of the bare necessities of existence, and a 
 display such as this reception but intensifies that feeling 
 and embitters their lives. No, my friend, these poor, who 
 dearly love flowers, who> would go> miles for a simple wild 
 blossom, would trample under their feet the rarest orchid 
 cast to them by the rich." 
 
 I learned later that Mr. DeHertbern had kept an ac 
 curate account of the money spent on this occasion, and 
 had quietly distributed in charity a like amount. For this 
 the world gave him no credit, for the world did not know 
 of it.
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 THE; DANCE; IN THE; BARN. 
 
 Oh, the joy of that night! It comes back to me as an 
 
 opiate dream. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Ruben, my new sister knows the most 
 stories !" began Helen one evening shortly after the recep 
 tion, as Bill and I were entering the DeHertberns home. 
 "Yes, and she never gets tired telling me everything I 
 want to know about. She is just like you and Tousin 
 Wallie. She used to live in a wee bit of a town like you 
 did, when she was little like I am, and, Mr. Ruben, her 
 stories sound just like yours. Her little town was in the 
 mountains, and had a creek, and one street and a tavern, 
 and she told me about two little girls what had two big 
 dogs and played with rag dolls, and hadn t any nurse. 
 Oh, ain t it jolly to have a new sister who knows so much 
 and likes to tell it? Oh,, Mr. Ruben, when she comes in 
 the parlor to-night you must get her to tell about a dance 
 she went to in somebody s barn. She comes in the parlor 
 now, since the reception, and you will see her to-night. 
 Brother Edward said that new brides don t come in the 
 parlor to see people before they have receptions that s 
 why you didn t see her before. For a long while Edward 
 and my new sister didn t see anybody but each other, 
 even when other people were around, too ; but they are 
 now like a smart baby, Belle says. Belle is my nurse, 
 
 280
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 2 8l 
 
 what papa brought from Kentucky. Her mother was a 
 real slave that papa s uncle used to own. Yes, Belle says 
 they are like a new baby, that is, just beginning to no 
 tice. Now mind, Mr. Ruben, you mustn t tell her I told 
 you anything. Sister Beatrice says little girls should not 
 tell things, but you don t count, do you, Mister Ruben? 
 No, you don t count." Twas always so. I don t count 
 for anything, and thus hear many things I love to listen to. 
 
 During the evening Edward and his bride came into 
 the parlor. We were introduced,, but I am sure the bride 
 took so little note of us that she could not have heard 
 our names even, but later on she became so entertaining 
 that we all stopped talking to listen to her tell of the many 
 places and peoples she had seen. 
 
 "Tell some of the stories you told me, won t you, my 
 new sister?" 
 
 "Now, Helen," said Beatrice, "you know what I said 
 about little children !" 
 
 "Yes, I know ; but I don t want you to hear me. I 
 want sister to tell about when she was a little girl and 
 lived in the little town in the big mountains and went to 
 the dance in that new barn. Oh, it was so very funny. 
 Now, do please tell us about it, won t you, sister?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, Helen ; come over and sit by me, and I will 
 tell you all about that dance !" 
 
 "No, I don t mean that. I want you to tell all of us 
 about it." 
 
 "Helen, let me tell you of the little girls I saw away 
 down in Egypt. The gentlemen will not care to hear 
 about a simple country dance." 
 
 "Yes, they will, for they used to live in the country, too. 
 Don t you want to hear it, Tousin Wallie? I know Mis 
 ter Ruben does." 
 
 We all insisted, and the story began. She told it as
 
 282 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 though entirely for Helen s ears, but the rest were a most 
 attentive audience. 
 
 "I once lived in a little mountain village so far removed 
 from the outside world that all the amusements we had 
 were the simple pleasures we could get up among our 
 selves. In the spring we would visit the sugar camps 
 and pull the taffy made from boiling down the sap that 
 came from the great maple trees. It was rare sport, and 
 much we enjoyed it. In the summer we would have pic 
 nics away off in some quiet valley in the mountains, and 
 return home laden with wild flowers very tired, but, 
 Helen, we were very happy. When the summer was gone 
 and the leaves of the forest had begun to turn all colors 
 of red and yellow, and when the birds had started on their 
 long flight to their winter homes, we found other amuse 
 ments the apple cuttings 
 
 "What s that?" broke in Helen, whose large eyes 
 showed in their brightness how deeply she was interested. 
 
 "Why, Helen, in the country there are great orchards 
 of apples. The trees almost break down with their heavy 
 loads of fruit. Early in the season there are a great many 
 windfalls 
 
 "Windfall !" exclaimed Helen, in surprise. "Why, 
 sister, that is what papa called Mister Ruben. I didn t 
 know men were apples. Sometimes a great man is called 
 a peach/ but I never knew he was an apple before." 
 
 "Helen, you are a very funny little girl. No, the wind 
 falls I mean are the apples that are blown off the trees by 
 the wind." 
 
 "Oh, I see," said Helen, satisfied with the explanation. 
 
 "These apples are picked up by the farmer. Some of 
 them he hauls away in wagons to the mill, where they are 
 ground and the juice is pressed out of them. This juice 
 is what they call cider. The farmer has it put into
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 283 
 
 barrels and keeps part of it to drink in the winter. It is 
 his wine. More of it is boiled down in great copper- 
 lined kettles, and when it is thick, almost like syrup, apples 
 that have been cut into quarters are filled in to make a 
 marmalade, which is called apple butter. Then there is 
 another use to which the fruit is put. The apples are 
 pared, or, as they call it in the country, peeled," quartered 
 and set in the sun, and that is how they get the dried 
 apples. But now as to the apple cuttings. Some 
 fanner who likes to see the young people have a good 
 time sends word (he does not write a note of invitation) 
 to everybody to come to his apple cutting. This word 
 is all that is needed, and the young folks come for miles 
 around, until the house is full. An apple cutting is one 
 of the few places where old maids and quiet young men 
 are most welcome, for they do the work while the young 
 folks play. When the old maids and sedate young men 
 have finished the work, everything is cleared away, and a 
 bountiful supper is spread." 
 
 "Do the old maids get to eat at the first table ?" broke 
 in Helen again. 
 
 I am afraid not, Helen, for by this time their im 
 portance for the evening is over. After the supper the 
 fiddler 
 
 "What s that?" 
 
 "Why, Helen, in the country the man who plays the 
 violin is called a fiddler. Well, this man gets up on a 
 barrel or some high place, and not only plays, but calls 
 off the different sets for the dancing, and often it is time 
 for breakfast when the young people get home. 
 
 "Then they have corn huskings, which is almost like 
 the apple cuttings, only that all the young people work 
 hard, each one of the bovs hunting for the red ear, and
 
 284 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 each one of the girls wishing that her young man will 
 find it." 
 
 Why does she wish he will find it?" asked Helen. 
 
 At this the bride blushed faintly as she replied : "Why, 
 Helen, the young man who finds the red ear gets to kiss 
 his girl." 
 
 "Tousin Wallie, you must have found a good many 
 red ears. : 
 
 "Mamma, mamma," cried Beatrice, "make Helen be 
 quiet. She just won t let sister tell the story." 
 
 "I have finished the story, all but the spelling matches/ 
 sleighing parties and school exhibitions which they have 
 in the long winter nights." 
 
 "Why, sister, you haven t told a word about that dance 
 in the barn ! That was the very story they all wanted to 
 hear." And Helen pleaded so hard that finally the bride 
 began. I need not say here with what interest I drank 
 in every \vord of the recital of those country pleasures. 
 Had I not seen them all at Highmont? But to hear this 
 great lady tell of them as a part of her life s experience 
 gave to them a zest I would not have thought possible. 
 I did not then know why, but Bill s face was a picture to 
 study. He seemed not to be present, but away off some 
 where. Was he thinking, the while, that he and Anita 
 had always attended those pleasures together ; of how 
 fast he worked at the "corn huskings" to find that "red 
 ear," and of the reward which Anita always seemed so 
 willing to give him? But to the story of the DANCE IN 
 
 THE BARN. 
 
 "A farmer who had built a large barn a few miles from 
 the village sent word around that he would dedicate it 
 with a dance. I shall never forget the interest we took 
 in its building. Many a load of timber the young men 
 drew for nothing, and the farmer s wife found ready
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 285 
 
 hands among the girls when she needed extra help at the 
 raising. The interest manifested in our recent recep 
 tion was nothing to be compared to the great preparation 
 for that barn dance. The stock of the village merchant 
 was taxed to its utmost, especially the ribbon department. 
 Some of the well-to-do sent away to the city for finery 
 possibly to make envious the less fortunate among their 
 sisters. The preacher devoted half his sermon hours for 
 weeks to tell how very, very wicked it was to dance, and 
 especially so in a barn, but the only effect on the younger 
 portion of his hearers was to provoke smiles. The night 
 came at last. Could you have seen the vehicles that car 
 ried the merry party to that barn you would have 
 laughed. The boy who took me came in a farm wagon 
 drawn by a mule." (A start from Bill, who seemed to 
 waken, as from a dream.) "Could you have seen how 
 he was dressed you would have thought it was for a part 
 in a burlesque show. But I knew no difference,, and was 
 happy. The preparation the farmer had made was on a 
 scale never before seen in that country. Great limbs of 
 cedar covered the logs or beams, wild roses hung in 
 festoons along the sides of the barn; golden rod the 
 whole eighty varieties, it seemed covered spaces not 
 filled with hollyhocks and sunflowers. The illumination 
 was so brilliant that it shone out into the night for miles 
 in every direction not shut out by the hills. He had 
 gathered loads of pine knots, and, placing them on the 
 four sides of the barn, set fire to them, so that the light 
 dimmed the many lard lamps burning in the ball-room. 
 
 "All the fiddlers in the country were there that night. 
 Such music (?) I had never heard until I went to Egypt, 
 But what cared we for the music ! Our hearts were so 
 light that we could waltz even though the fiddlers played 
 a polka. Oh, the joy of that night! It comes back to
 
 286 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 me as an opiate dream! And yet it was not all joy. I 
 remember ho\v scared I was at one time. A young man 
 from a neighboring" village asked me for a waltz. I was 
 about to accept, when the boy who brought me whispered 
 something to him, and they went out together. They 
 were gone a half hour when the boy came back, and such 
 a sight he was ! His eyes were almost closed, and he 
 looked as though he had been thrown into the creek. He 
 was very happy, however, as he told me the young man 
 had sent word that he had reconsidered his invitation to 
 the waltz. 
 
 "It mus t have been near morning when we left the 
 dance. The mule, whether from standing or its anxiety 
 to get home I never knew, started and ran as I have never 
 seen a mule run before or since. The wagon box seemed 
 a thing of life as it bounded up and down. Everything 
 that could get loose we left strewn along the road. The 
 boy held on to the lines and 1 held on to the boy, whilst 
 the mule held the middle of the road, until we had reached 
 a point half way to the village, when it must have thought 
 of a nearer way home, and started across the fields, down 
 a steep hill, at the bottom of which it found a deep ditch. 
 Across this it jumped, but the wagon not being so light, 
 stopped short, and for aught I know is there to this day." 
 
 "Oh, Tousin Wallie, ain t that a funny story !" From 
 the look on Bill s face I knew he thought it anything but 
 funny. I also knew that this great lady was none other 
 than our own village belle, Anita Leighton ! 
 
 "Sister, where is that boy now? Does he live at the 
 little village yet?" 
 
 "No, Helen, soon after this he went away to the great 
 city and forgot all about me. I left the little town and 
 have never heard of him since." 
 
 "Oh, what would he think if he could see you now
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 287 
 
 wouldn t he be sorry he forgot you ?" Anita only smiled 
 as she and Edward bid us good night and left the room. 
 
 I had never known Bill so quiet as he was on the way 
 back to our rooms that night. Our surprise on learning 
 that she was our own Anita was naught to be compared 
 to hers on learning that the handsome young gentleman 
 who had listened to her story was the boy who had taken 
 her to the dance in the barn.
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 The proofs of the possible are the facts that exist. 
 
 Ours was a typical New York boarding house. People 
 came and went so fast that ere long I was classed among 
 the old boarders. Tom, the Anarchist, was still there, 
 as were the timid young man whom I always thought 
 of as the "Medal" man and the bald headed real estate 
 broker. We three saw much of each other. The 
 "Medal" man was now seemingly prosperous. Tom had 
 interested him in his East Side work, and through that 
 he was called to preach in a small mission, where he was 
 much loved by the poor who made up his congregation. 
 
 Tom and I used often to sit and talk far into the night, 
 for, since he learned that I was preparing for the pro 
 fession of the law, he took much interest in my studies. 
 
 "You have a great work before you," he would say; 
 "a very great work. There is no profession in which the 
 possibilities for good are so grand, and yet there is no 
 profession in which there is so much of evil practiced. 
 The greatest statesmen in your country are lawyers, the 
 greatest orators, too, are of that profession, and yet some 
 of the most unscrupulous men are in that calling men 
 who would rob the widow, and turn the orphan into the 
 cold world with scarce a coat to cover him, all under the 
 cloak of legal right. How I long to see the time when 
 justice may be found outside the covers of the diction 
 ary !" 
 
 288
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 289 
 
 I tried to change the course of his mind, but I could 
 not. This man who was giving up his life to the poor 
 seemed to feel that our system was all wrong. 
 
 "You have too many and too intricate laws," he con 
 tinued, not noticing my interruption. "Laws made by 
 incompetent men. In this country the rule is to send 
 your least able men to represent yon in your assemblies 
 and representative halls, men whose abilities, in many in 
 stances, you would not trust to try a petty case before a 
 country Squire. Your assemblies meet too often once 
 in two years instead of every year would be far better." 
 
 "But then," said I, "suppose a bad law be passed, it 
 must remain on the statute books two whole years before 
 it could be repealed." 
 
 "Ah, that is the point I wish to prove. Send men of 
 judgment, men who cannot be paid to make a bad law, 
 and it will not have to be repealed. In your present sys 
 tem every Assemblyman or Congressman feels that he is 
 not appreciated by his constituents unless he put through 
 a number of measures, even though these measures may 
 have to be repealed the next year. 
 
 "I knew a Kansas Congressman who once got $20,000 
 appropriated to spend on trying to make the Arkansas 
 River navigable. The money was spent with all the pro 
 digality of public funds. Cotton wood poles were driven 
 into the sand along the edges of the proposed channel 
 rind brush interwoven." 
 
 "Did it answer the purpose?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh, yes. he was re-elected by an increased majority, 
 but one could wade across the river as easily as before. 
 His constituents got the benefit of the money and said not 
 a word, while the country either knew nothing about it or 
 got the impression that Wichita had been made a steam 
 boat landing, all for $20,000.
 
 290 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "I would have less government. Each year new offices 
 are made, that the leaders may place their heelers, as you 
 call them. In many instances one man could till the places 
 of four, and then not be overworked. I know men who 
 should still be using a pick and shovel who are drawing 
 big salaries, simply because they can influence a certain 
 number of votes. These men fill offices not needed for 
 the better government of the cities, and in turn other 
 heelers/ who have less influence, but more brains, are ap 
 pointed to do the work of the office ; and so it runs. 
 
 "Ruben, did you ever think that the one important thing 
 of a great government is that its children should have 
 every possible educational advantage, that its teachers 
 should be well chosen and well paid?" 
 "Are they not well paid now? I asked. 
 "As compared with many an illiterate office-holding 
 politician, no. Men ignorant of everything but how to 
 wheedle your people out of their votes are in many in 
 stances paid as many thousands as your teachers are paid 
 hundreds for doing nothing but draw their salaries and 
 work for their party. Your cities would be better gov 
 erned without the political sinecure, and the wasted money 
 better expended on the faithful teachers who give the best 
 years of their life for the teaching and upbuilding of your 
 future citizens. 
 
 "I tell you, Ruben, it is all wrong wrong now, and 
 growing worse as the insatiable desire for government po 
 sitions (city and national) grows upon the people. Tt 
 creates a dissatisfaction with the hard drudgery that must 
 be done to keep the wheels going. Men want something 
 easier, and, looking about, catch sight of a position, and 
 bend all their efforts to reach some petty office, no matter 
 what the office, so that they may not have to drudge. 
 Many a good artisan is turned into a poor Alderman, who,
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 291 
 
 in turn, helps make the laws for your great cities. This 
 holds good not alone in the petty offices sought for the 
 pay, but often in the highest positions in your country 
 sought for the honor. Look, if you will, into the Mil 
 lionaires Club, at the seat of your National Government. 
 Who are the men who are filling the places vacated by your 
 Websters, Clays, Calhouns, Jeff ersons and like statesmen ? 
 True, it has even yet many great men ; but compare the 
 ability and simplicity of other days with the luxury-loving 
 present. What an example is this great national alms- 
 house for the millions who are struggling for a meagre 
 existence ! I say almshouse, for does not your govern 
 ment dole out and pay for the cold tea, bromo-seltzers, 
 etc., as it would dole out and pay for your paupers?" 
 
 "But, Tom," said I, "would you have our great law 
 makers placed upon a cheap scale? You must remem 
 ber that times have changed since the days of Jeffersoiiian 
 simplicity. 
 
 "Oh, how true that is ! Times have indeed changed. 
 The man with millions now fills the place once held by the 
 statesman, but the poor of your land are worse off than 
 they were in the old days, and are made to feel it by seeing 
 how luxurious your lawmakers are enabled to live, whilst 
 they must struggle on with little for the present and a 
 prospect for even less as the times continue to change. 
 
 "Seeing all this luxury, the desire for office is becoming 
 so intense that a man will barter self-respect, honor, every 
 thing, to the leader who may be able, by means of vast, far- 
 reaching political machinery, to elect him. Is that man s 
 vote cast for the good of the people who sent him ? Does 
 his own judgment play any part in legislation? In a 
 word, does he or the silent leader make your laws? The 
 lobbyist will soon be relegated to some political museum. 
 His calling is rapidly passing. The great corporation that
 
 292 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 wishes a law that will wring from the burdened public 
 more money and turn it into its vast party treasury does 
 not go, as formerly, into your halls of Assembly, wine, 
 dine and buy your Assemblymen, but it goes quietly to 
 some great leader, and there bargains for it as for a legiti 
 mate commodity." 
 
 "Do you mean, Tom, that these leaders accept money, 
 as individuals? 
 
 "No, not that exactly. They simply allow the corpora 
 tion to donate thousands of dollars toward running the 
 machine. Many of them are personally very honest 
 men. It is not the money but the power they can wield by 
 being able to raise the necessary funds. Some men care 
 far more for power than for gold or silver. To know that 
 they can make or ruin the prospects of a candidate ; to pass 
 or kill a measure by a nod or shake of the head ; to have 
 their fellow-men bow to their slightest wish, is far sweeter 
 to them than mines of wealth." 
 
 "This may be true," said I, "of elective offices ; but does 
 not the civil service protect the aspirant for an appointive 
 position ?" 
 
 "Ruben, the man whose per cent, on real ability might 
 reach 100 stands no chance with one of 50 per cent, of 
 ability and 49 per cent, of political influence." 
 
 "Tom," said I, "you are too severe on our system of 
 government. You can see nothing that is right. Every 
 thing is wrong, and yet I had thought no government in 
 the world had so fine a system as ours. You have con 
 demned it in a general way, which is no proof of the 
 wrong." 
 
 "Then let me speak of the wrongs not in a general way. 
 Is it a correct system of government that in any form gives 
 rights to one that it gives not to all ? Is it a right system 
 of government that admits of a possibility of a great mer-
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 293 
 
 chant who perchance has contributed a vast amount of 
 money to elect his favorite, receiving in turn for that con 
 tribution contracts at his own price, against all bids, no. 
 matter how low? Is it a right system of government 
 where a favorite bank, which, like the merchant, had re 
 sponded when called upon for campaign funds, is given 
 preference over all others as a depository? Or, coming 
 down to the individual, is it a right system of government 
 where laws oppress one that another may be benefited ? Is 
 that law a just one that says one man shall work a full 
 day at hard labor, putting in every minute of the time, at 
 a low wage, while it gives to another high pay for one or 
 two hours sitting? And right here I will be specific: 
 Property is to be condemned for water rights or a street 
 is to be opened or widened, or some other matter of public 
 needs is to be attended to. A commission is appointed on 
 which more of your men with influence are placed. An 
 hour s sitting means a clay s work. Tens of thousands of 
 dollars of the public s money are frittered away for what, 
 if conducted as men of business would conduct their 
 business, could be better adjusted in a short time and at a 
 nominal cost. Begging your pardon for any seeming dis 
 respect to your chosen profession, I am sorry to have to 
 say that much of this costly commission work must be 
 laid at your doors. Yon never rush commission work. 
 You extend a case with even more tact than a poor doctor 
 with a rich patient. Why, some of these commissions 
 cost in fees almost as much as the price of the property 
 condemned. Your lawyers, in their seeming effort to get 
 the people s lands for less than their value, make these 
 lands cost far above their value. The day will come when 
 the people will find a far less expensive way of determin 
 ing real values than by an expensive commission. 
 
 "Wipe out those laws from the statute which oppress
 
 294 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 the poor, for, Ruben, the Lord knows theii lives are hard 
 enough at best. The impression among those who know 
 nothing about the poor, save as inferior beings to be 
 looked down upon, is that they have no aspirations above 
 the life they lead. Ruben, I have seen men among those 
 ground down by poverty who have aspirations that make 
 a hell of their surroundings. They would rise above 
 them, but they cannot. The injustice of their fellow-men 
 has so interwoven systems of oppression that they cannot 
 surmount the barriers that shut them in. I do not speak 
 of those who are numbed by ignorance and are happy in 
 their condition. These are content, in a great measure, 
 with their lot in life and are happy with little. I speak 
 of those who would come out of their low condition, a 
 condition reached too often through no fault of theirs, but 
 through wrong systems. 
 
 "1 once stood in a great railway station and watched 
 the people come and go. Near me was a young husband 
 and wife. From a few sentences I gathered that the wife 
 was from some inland town, and was at the station to take 
 a train for her old home. 
 
 " Jack, she said, I hate to go. Each time I go back, I 
 look worse. Both my clothing and my face show the 
 struggle we have had against poverty. But, oh ! Jack, 
 dear, I do not blame you, for I know you have done the 
 best you could ! They were silent as they turned to wipe 
 something from their eyes. Oh that the rich, who know 
 not nor feel not the struggles of the poor for their exist 
 ence, could have seen that simple parting! Is the un- 
 needed surplus of their wealth worth those silent tears? 
 Do the wasted roses and rare flowers pay for the misery 
 their cost might relieve ? 
 
 "When the wife had gone I made excuse to talk with 
 the husband. At first he was loath to speak other than
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 2 95 
 
 in commonplace, but I finally drew from him some of his 
 life s history, which was that of thousands of others. He 
 had once held a lucrative position in a great manufactur 
 ing firm and was prosperous. He had been a traveling 
 salesman, or what you in America call a drummer I. O. 
 O. G. F. a body of men, by the way, who might well be 
 called the Sunshine of Commercial Life, as they have car 
 ried throughout your land more of brightness than has 
 any other class. But the sunshine is fast waning into twi 
 light, and the places that have known him will ere long 
 know him no more. And all because other of your people, 
 less worthy, want that fraction of a per cent. 
 
 "This man was cultured, but his spirits were broken by 
 the long fight for existence. His clothing, of rich material 
 when new, was now, from long wear, much worn, and 
 showed the handiwork of a frugal wife in the patches she 
 had tried so hard to disguise. Oh, the tears and heart 
 aches oft indicated by a patch ! 
 
 "The firm for which he had worked from office boy up 
 ward went into a trust, and he was no longer needed. 
 He sought a position in the only line he knew, but was 
 everywhere told that there was no place for him. No 
 place for a man to earn his loaf of bread in this age, when 
 others are piling up their millions ! 
 
 "He finally got his name placed on the waiting list in a 
 great street railway corporation, and when I met him he 
 was working a few days each week, as he said. He told 
 me how that these great corporations broke in unneeded 
 numbers of men, so that in case of a strike the places of 
 the strikers could always be filled by others, who were 
 driven by necessity to accept any terms offered. Jacks 
 are becoming very numerous. 
 
 "T would not have the rich give their wealth in charity. 
 Charity, so-called, degrades the recipient and relieves but
 
 296 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 temporary needs. Give Jack a chance to help himself. 
 That is true charity and lasting." 
 
 "Yes, Tom, but how? I asked. "In this age of close 
 competition the manufacturers, the business men in gen 
 eral, have to watch every turn lest they themselves fail. I 
 tell you it is an impossibility to give to the employee bet 
 ter than he is now getting." 
 
 "Ruben, the proofs of the possible are the facts that 
 exist. I have in mind an establishment which has grown 
 as though by magic. There is in this vast manufactory 
 none of that feeling against the firm which prevails too 
 often where the employee is counted only as a machine. 
 The head of this great industry has a heart through which 
 pulsates human feeling. He has erected a library and 
 filled it with the choicest literature, making of his em 
 ployees a reading, thinking people. He has surrounded his 
 great buildings with a labarynth of trees and flowers. He 
 has a hospital for those who may become ill, and the best 
 of physicians to minister to them. In short, his people are 
 his family. His rules are just and bear lightly. The 
 products of his factory are the perfection of mechanism ; 
 for the workmen put into their work a loving judgment. 
 They give in return for fair treatment the best they have 
 cultured skill. 
 
 "Again, not far from the city wherein is located the 
 above works, in a little town in Southern Ohio, there is a 
 great manufacturing firm whose employees share in its 
 profits. A strike is never known. The workman feels that 
 the great men in the office are his friends ; he feels, too, 
 that they are working for him, and in his turn he must 
 work to their best interest who have made his life less of a 
 burden. He becomes a better workman and a better man. 
 While other firms in the same line have failed, this one has 
 gone steadily on, until it is far in advance of all its com-
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 297 
 
 petitors, until it has no competitors. What it has done 
 others can do. The millionaire who gives to charity his 
 thousands ground out of the lives of his workmen will get 
 no reward here nor hereafter." 
 
 "Tom, what you say may be very true, but do you know 
 what the world calls men who advocate such principles as 
 you have been advocating to-night?" 
 
 "And, Ruben, do you know what the men of Ephesus 
 called the Apostles? I tell you right is right, though it 
 take a thousand years to prove it ! The world may say 
 what it may, but the world will not be its best until justice 
 and right are equally meted out to all. No wonder the 
 world is bad, when man superior deals so ill with man in 
 ferior. If the human instead of the pride in mankind were 
 to predominate, how soon the world would grow better! 
 The rich would be happier and the poor more content. 
 
 "There will come a time when your people will see and 
 fully realize their condition, and with the coming of that 
 time there will arise a leader who will champion the cause 
 of justice and lead them out into the right. This leader 
 will not come from the conservative East, but from the 
 West, where the human still holds sw r ay in the hearts of 
 the people. This leader will be a young man of the pro 
 gressive school. He will come from the masses. He will 
 be owned by no man or class of men. His own sense of 
 justice will dictate his every act. He will pay no incompe 
 tent man with a great office for political or financial rea 
 sons, but will choose men whose statesmanship is not 
 measured by the dollar or the ability to assist him in gain 
 ing the leadership. When such a man shall arise, woe be 
 to the trusts that are grinding out the lives of your peo 
 ple ! Woe be to the men who would make the lot of the 
 poor even worse than it now is. It has been said by a 
 great man that trusts represent the distinction of oppor-
 
 298 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 tunity. This young leader will be a man who cannot be 
 defeated by the millions of dollars poured out by the rich 
 corporations who would destroy him, for your people will 
 recognize him when he comes and follow him on to 
 victory." 
 
 "Tom, why do you speak of the West as better than the 
 East in human feeling?" I could not help asking, as he 
 was so emphatic in his assertion. 
 
 "Ruben, have I ever found a fault without giving a rea 
 son? Can you call to mind where in the West that the 
 very heads of a city government would be so devoid of all 
 human feeling as to be, for selfish gain, parties to forcing 
 up by a trust combination prices of an absolute necessity 
 to a point almost beyond the reach of the very poor, many 
 of whose votes had helped to place in power these same 
 heads ? No, Ruben, it could not be found in the West, nor 
 would I have believed it possible to find it anywhere in the 
 world, not even among the lowest order of beings, much 
 less the highest."
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 It is not flic ii. ood, the brick and the stone that makes the 
 home. It is the place and not the structure, the land 
 and not the house. 
 
 While Tom was in the midst of his discourse on bad 
 laws and their makers, the Broker and the Preacher came 
 in and sat as interested listeners. Having a practical turn 
 of mind, the broker turned the conversation into a channel 
 relating to his line of business, the taxing of real estate, 
 the ownership of properties, etc. He was surprised to hear 
 Tom s notions, as was I, for we, knowing his Socialistic 
 views, had thought he would advocate a different line of 
 adjustment. 
 
 "What is your opinion on the question of unearned in 
 crement? Would you have only the unimproved property 
 pay the taxes and thus compel the owners of such to im 
 prove it? Since it is by the buildings of your neighbors 
 that your vacant lot is made valuable, should you not pay 
 for such enhancement ?" asked the broker. 
 
 "There never was a greater fallacy," began Tom, who 
 always seemed ready with an answer. "A village, town 
 or city needs only about so many dwellings or business 
 houses to accommodate its people. Every structure be 
 yond its growing needs but comes into competition with 
 those that can be used, and the further building of useless 
 houses but depreciates the value of the whole. That man 
 who will hold his vacant lot, pay taxes on this unearning
 
 300 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 property, year after year, rather than to build in competi 
 tion with his neighbor should not be fined for doing it. 
 
 Another very great fallacy is that the state should own 
 the land and lease it to the people. This would soon blot 
 out of the language that beautiful word Home. It is not 
 the wood, the brick and the stone that make the home. 
 These may be burned, shaken down or blown away. It is 
 the land on which the house is set that appeals to the heart. 
 Have you not, when boys, fought the great bees that build 
 their nests in the fields ; fought and utterly destroyed their 
 home? Have you not watched those that escaped your 
 bee paddle ; how they hover around the place, and, if un 
 disturbed, rebuild their nest in the same excavation ? Your 
 country would soon be a place of houses with home 
 eliminated did the state own the land. It is the place, and 
 not the structure ; the land, and not the house." 
 
 "Would you have the government own and manage the 
 railroads, telegraph lines and such like interests as they 
 are managed in some of the European countries ? asked 
 the broker. 
 
 "By no means," Tom replied. "That would kill the in 
 dependence of the individual. As well have all the various 
 lines of trade run by the government. You would ere long 
 become a land of clerks and operators mere machines, 
 to swing to and fro as the pendulum of a clock, to go ex 
 actly so far and back again ; automatons, wound up and 
 run by a spring, instead of a mind. There must always be 
 an incentive to bring out the best in man. The right to 
 patent invention has wrought wonders in all the lines of 
 progress. The man who has a vested interest will always 
 protect that interest far more than the mere employee. 
 With no vested right of the individual the world would 
 soon go backward. 
 
 "That to which the Socialist objects is the wrong use to
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 301 
 
 which vested rights arc put. The great struggle of the 
 rich to gain what they do not need deprives the poor of 
 what they must have to exist. When the poor demand 
 their share, they are called Socialists ; when they insist, 
 they are called Anarchists. The very poor are degraded. 
 Continued pinching poverty would turn a king into a vag 
 abond. Poverty destroys honor and virtues, and yet we 
 who would protect both are called approbious names if w y e 
 raise our voice in protest and sent to prison if we but raise 
 our hand." 
 
 The Preacher, interested only in the moral side of 
 matters, asked among many other subjects: "Why is it 
 that gambling cannot be stopped in our great cities ?" 
 
 "The reason is a very short one," replied Tom ; "and 
 that reason is that those in power do not wish it stopped. 
 It is a source of too great revenue to them." 
 
 "Oh. no, that cannot be true/ objected the Preacher. 
 "See how every year our good men in power try so hard 
 to break up this terrible evil, even going so far as to de 
 stroy the gambling devices of those wicked men. No, you 
 do them an injustice. They, I think, want to do their duty 
 by the people whom they govern." 
 
 "Your argument but proves one of the reasons for this 
 annual crusade against the evil. They have two purposes, 
 these good men in power one is to fool the innocent pub 
 lic, of which you seem to be a member; but the real rea 
 son, or purpose, is far deeper. Human nature is confined 
 to no class, and the gambler has his portion. One of the 
 first principles, deep rooted, is to never pay more for any 
 thing than it is worth ; and it takes at least one good stir 
 ring up each year to make the gambling fraternity feel 
 that they are not paying too high for protection for the 
 rest of the year. 
 
 "Among the good men in power this crusade is but a
 
 3 2 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 jest, as the following will illustrate : I was in one of your 
 cities during the annual crusade, and was invited by a 
 friend to go with him to a great political club room. 
 Games of various kinds were in progress not games for 
 mere amusement, but for money. I was attracted by the 
 dignified appearance of a party of men seated around one 
 of the tables. They were not so deeply interested in the 
 game as not to take up the subject that just then was at 
 tracting some attention in the city. Yes, said one, this 
 gambling is a terrible evil, and must be stopped. (Give 
 me two cards). It is ruining our young men (I raise you 
 five), and filling our poorhouses with (two of a kind ; can 
 you beat it?) widows and orphans. Why not say we all, 
 said another. Now, we can do it. You represent one of 
 the municipal courts ; I the Prosecuting Attorney s office, 
 and you of the police. Yes, let s reform the city. (Here, 
 you, play up!) That s what we re all in for ! And these 
 men really represented the offices mentioned. Xow, my 
 dear man, what sort of a hope have you of doing anything 
 with vice when you ministers preach one day of the seven 
 while vice is protected the whole of the seven by men who 
 draw double pay one for putting down (?) evil, and the 
 other for protecting evil, especially when the last pay is 
 the higher? I have long ceased to worry over this sub 
 ject of chance. I find too much else to occupy my time." 
 I do not know whether it was Tom s enthusiasm or my 
 own innate desire to help the deserving poor that caused 
 me to make many excursions with him among the low 
 dens of poverty ; but this I know : that could those men 
 whose wealth is yearly piled higher by the toil of the be 
 ings I saw, see and know the true condition of these peo 
 ple, they would surely be content with less and gladly give 
 to them, not charity, but just compensation. I take no 
 credit when I speak of the many dollars of Aunt Radical s
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 303 
 
 legacy that went to brighten the homes of Tom s poor, for 
 I received my reward as I went. I know, could the dear 
 old aunt look down and see the joy these dollars brought ; 
 the homes they brightened, the hunger they relieved, the 
 cold they warmed, the lives of little children they saved, 
 or the naked they clothed, that she would not feel she had 
 erred in willing me a part of her barren old farm. 
 
 Helen seemed never so happy as when I would tell her 
 of the poor little children I had seen. I always knew what 
 she meant when she would begin, "Mister Ruben, tell me 
 about them!" "Them" had only one meaning to her. 
 Once she begged her mother so pleadingly to be allowed 
 to go with me that her wish was granted. That visit 
 among the homes of the very poor was as though to a new 
 world to her. One sentence of her recital of that visit 
 told the whole story. She had seen in a tenement a very 
 much starved cat that went about coughing and sneezing : 
 "Oh, mamma, you should see how those people live. They 
 look so tired and sick. Why, mamma, at one place even 
 the cat had consumption." 
 
 After that visit she would have her special cases to look 
 after, through Tom, who I never knew to fail in selecting 
 the deserving. He knew the impostors by intuition, and 
 they, too, soon learned to know and shun him.
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 MAGGIE S STORY. 
 
 "My early life ran clear as the mountain stream nearby 
 our cottage home." 
 
 One evening, on my return from law school, Tom met 
 me with a more than usual serious face. He was always 
 serious. I had scarce known him to smile and never once 
 to laugh. He seemed ever to be bearing the burdens of 
 those who know no joy. Life to him was always real. 
 There were no flowers along the wayside for him naught 
 but weeds and tangled vines, and little graves in the Pot 
 ter s Field. 
 
 "Ruben" said he, "I want you to go with me to-night. 
 One of the saddest deaths occurred today that I have ever 
 witnessed. It was that of a woman whose illness I had 
 but heard of it this morning. She was dying when I 
 reached the garret in which she lay. A little nest of straw 
 and one thin, raged coverlet was her bed. A little girl of 
 three years played about the room, all unconscious of her 
 mother s conditin. She would now and then go to the 
 bed and say : Mamma, I is so hungry. Dit up and do out 
 an clit me a tust. 
 
 1 Yes, darling, mamma will go soon, and turned her 
 head and sighed, Poor dear ! I will go soon ! 
 
 "The first thing I did was to send for a physician and 
 some nourishing food for mother and child ; but I could 
 
 304
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 305 
 
 see that neither would be of any use to the mother. Al 
 most before the doctor came she was gone, but before she 
 died she took from her bosom an envelope and feebly 
 gave it to me. 
 
 My life s story. Please, kind sir, find a home for my 
 darling my poor little Maggie. 
 
 "That was all. I called in some of the women of the 
 tenement to look after the unfortunate, and left the child 
 with a good woman I knew. 
 
 "Here is the envelope. I did not have the heart to 
 open it." 
 
 I took it from him, tore it open, and began to read. I 
 looked for the name, when, lo ! I exclaimed : "Tom, what 
 strange fate led you to that garret? This woman is the 
 long lost Maggie the widow s daughter of whom I have 
 told you. Go quickly, and at once. See that no lady could 
 be looked after more gently. Get for her the best. Give 
 me the address, and I will follow when I have read the 
 story. It may contain that which I should know at once." 
 I read it through. It was short, but contained a great 
 volume. 
 
 MAGGIE S STORY. 
 
 "My story, like my life, is very short. When all is over, 
 when I can no longer see that mother whose life I have 
 saddened, send me back to her. She may remember the 
 good and forgive the bad she thinks of me. 
 
 "I once was pure and good and knew no wrong. 
 
 "I was born and reared in Highmont, Penn. My early 
 life ran clear as the mountain stream nearby our cottage 
 home, where my mother and I dwelt alone in content. 
 
 "When a child of seventeen, when I knew nothing of 
 the wrongs of the world, there came into my life a 
 tempter, who told me of the beauties to be seen in other
 
 306 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 lands. Oh, the pictures he drew of that world about 
 which I knew nothing ! To me he proposed marriage, and 
 though I knew naught of him, I loved, aye, worshiped 
 him, and accepted his offer. I would have told my mother 
 at once, but he forbade it. No, said he, we will go away 
 and be married. She might object, and, my darling, I 
 dare not risk losing you. I believed him, and late in the 
 night we came away, walking a long distance. For him I 
 could have walked to the end of the world. We reached 
 at last a railway station, and came to a city where I do 
 not know. There we were driven a long distance to a 
 house, where we were married, as I then thought. The 
 man gave us a paper, which my husband kept. From this 
 city we came to New York. The first thing I did was to 
 write a long letter to my mother, asking her to forgive me 
 and telling her how happy I was. 
 
 "I soon learned that my husband was very wealthy. He 
 bought for me the finest of gowns and jewels. He said I 
 was very beautiful, and that he was proud of me. All 
 these things were as nothing to his love of me. 
 
 "We traveled in Europe, visiting all the great cities, 
 seeing the things of which he had told me. The sights 
 we saw soon began to lose their charm, for I could see 
 that my husband s love was growing cold. We returned 
 to New York, which we had scarcely reached when my 
 husband said : Maggie, I think we have kept up this farce 
 long enough ! 
 
 " What do you mean by farce ? 
 
 Why, said he, with a sneer that cut like a knife into 
 my heart, the farce of being married. We are not 
 married ! 
 
 " Not married? That cannot be true we were, and 
 you have the paper. 
 
 " Come, come, little one, don t grow hysterical. Even
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 307 
 
 if we were married, you have no proof of it. Why, you 
 don t even know the city where that sham ceremony was 
 pronounced. 
 
 " Oh, what will my mother say, after all my letters to 
 her, telling of our marriage and my great happiness ! 
 
 Don t worry, little one. She knows nothing. Your 
 letters were never sent. 
 
 "This was too great a blow. The perfidy of the man I 
 had worshiped as a god ! I swooned away, and when my 
 senses returned I was alone. 
 
 "Why tell of my long years of struggle ! My life is but 
 the counterpart of hundreds of other wronged women 
 who have had to suffer on in silence. My little one came, 
 and, not daring to use another s name, I gave her my own. 
 
 "As long as I could pledge my jewels and fine clothing 
 we lived. Since then we have existed. 
 
 "A woman with a child has no place. No doors were 
 open to us. W r e were outcasts. 
 
 "From a rented room to a tenement, and then the end 
 a garret ! 
 
 "Xot long ago, when I was almost in rags, I was stand 
 ing one evening watching the richly dressed people enter 
 ing one of the great theatres, when a carriage drove up to 
 the sidewalk. A gentleman and a beautiful young woman 
 alighted and were about to enter the theatre, when I 
 recognized in the man my husband. I started toward him, 
 pleading him to hear me. Officer ! said he to a ready 
 policeman, who stood near the entrance, take this woman 
 away, at the same time thrusting money into the officer s 
 hand. I was thrown into prison, and when, next morning,. 
 I was brought before the judge, the story told by the 
 policeman outweighed my prayers, and I was sent away 
 to the island for three months, during which time the 
 kind neighbors, who are nearly as poor as myself, looked
 
 308 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 after my little Maggie. 
 
 "The very name my husband gave was as false as him 
 self ; and yet I would have known and recognized the face 
 of the Hunter/ as he was known at Highmont, had I seen 
 it in the furthest part of the world. 
 
 "This is the end of my story, and soon, I feel, will come 
 the end of my young life, while he who has caused all this 
 sorrow and pain will live on, honored by the world for 
 he has gold. I, too, might live on were I false to my 
 vows ; but I will die here in my garret alone with my 
 child rather than be unfaithful to him. Though he be 
 false in everything, yet do I love him. 
 
 "Should my dear old mother be living, I pray she may 
 forgive her wronged MAGGIE." 
 
 Then followed a postscript, in which she gave her 
 mother s name ; also the name by which she had known 
 her husband.
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 "The people of a small village arc quick to blame and 
 quite as ready to condone a wrong step." 
 
 "I is so happy. My dood drain ma says I won t never 
 have to eat tusts no more." 
 
 As the reader knows, the mother was well known to 
 me, and by another strange fate I had recently seen the 
 "Hunter" a number of times enter a most palatial resi 
 dence not far from my boarding place. 
 
 I am quick to act. So, hailing a passing cab, I was soon 
 being driven toward the "Hunter s" home. 
 
 My mind was a chaos of thought. What could I do? 
 I had no proof, although certain that he was the man. He 
 could deny all knowledge of the dead woman. No one 
 had seen him leave Highmont with her, and no one that I 
 could have found knew of the marriage. Even the city 
 where it had been performed was unknown. I had abso 
 lutely no witness. Xo witness ? Yes, I had one his 
 own heart ; and I would make that one lone witness prove 
 his guilt. How could I excuse my call on him? T, a 
 stranger, with no right to enter his home and brand him 
 as a villain ! And yet I would see him, and at once ! 
 
 I was at his door. I bid the cabman wait for me. I 
 sent in my card, giving the false name as the one I wished 
 to see. The negro grinned out: "1 guess, mistah, you 
 dun made a mistake. De man yah wants doan lib heah." 
 
 309
 
 3io 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "Give the card to the young gentleman who does, and 
 say I wish to see Mr. Charles Coulders." 
 
 This was a bold stroke on my part, but nothing less 
 seemed to me at the time a better way of placing my one 
 lone witness in the chair. I knew that the "Hunter" would 
 not send word that a mistake had been made. The wit 
 ness would not allow such word to be sent. 
 
 Ah, he quickly responds ; almost before I had taken a 
 seat he was in the reception room, to which I had been 
 shown. 
 
 He faltered as he spoke. "I fear you have made a mis 
 take, Mr. Hick Mr. - (looks at the card) Hicken- 
 looper." 
 
 "Then why," said I, "did you not send word by your 
 servant if I have made a mistake?" He saw the point / 
 raised and colored deeply. 
 
 "Weil, Mr. Coulders does not live here," said he. 
 
 "How long since he did ?" I asked. 
 
 "He never lived here !" with rising emphasis. 
 
 "Possibly not as Mr. Coulders. said I searchingly. 
 
 "What do you mean, sir?" coming toward me. 
 
 "My words bear their own meaning, and need no trans 
 lation." 
 
 "Come to the point, sir, and play not with words." 
 
 "Then, Mr. Coulders, your wife died this afternoon in 
 sitter poverty, whilst you are living in all this luxury. 
 That is what I mean !" 
 
 Ah, that was the dart that pierced my one witness. It 
 made the "Hunter" tremble and grasp at a chair for sup 
 port. I would have followed it up, but he asked : 
 
 "Your proof, sir!" 
 
 "That is the very demand a guilty man would make. 
 Guilty, you know, but as a last hope you ask the proof 
 you know, but would ask a proof of it. Mr. Coulders, I
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 311 
 
 come to you direct, asking reparation for the awful wrong 
 you have done an innocent girl. Will you make that 
 reparation or will you compel me to take the course that 
 will right this great wrong?" 
 
 "Who are you, sir, who thus enter my house and make 
 such accusation?" 
 
 "I am the defender of the woman who lies dead to 
 night in a lonely garret, whilst her husband, who should 
 have protected her, denies that he knew her." 
 
 "Again I ask : Where s your proof? Suppose that what 
 you say be true, you cannot prove it. You have no record. 
 You cannot even name the city where the ceremony was 
 pronounced." 
 
 Ah, that was true. I had no evidence, but I would con 
 tinue my bold effort, even up to the verge of what I would 
 detest, did I not know he was guilty. 
 
 "Mr. Coulders, what you say may be true. I may not 
 have the proof that would convict you before a jury of 
 twelve, but I have this, which, when that far greater jury 
 the world sees, you will tremble at its verdict. I have, 
 sir, your wife s dying statement, and she names you as her 
 husband, with evidence, strong enough, in my mind, to 
 warrant this bold accusation on my part. You refuse to 
 right the wrong? I will not produce the proof. I will let 
 the last words of your wronged wife do that. Then you 
 will be asked by an exacting jury to refute her words. 
 Mr. Coulders, I will bid you good evening." 
 
 "Stay ! Do not go away with that threat. I am innocent 
 in the law, and you cannot prove me other than innocent ; 
 but I do not wish my name to be kicked about by the com 
 mon herd ! What do you demand for your great interest 
 in this person?" 
 
 "For myself I demand nothing, but for your 
 child "
 
 312 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 "What!" he exclaimed; "a child my child?" 
 
 "Yes ; a pretty little girl of three years. For her I de 
 mand that you shall place in trust a sum that will in a 
 measure make up for the wrongs you have done her dead 
 mother your wife !" 
 
 "Call upon me at 10 o clock in the morning, and you 
 shall have my answer. One more question, sir : Who are 
 you, and who is your reference that I may know with 
 whom I am dealing?" 
 
 "You have my card, and my reference is Mr. Edward 
 S. DeHertbern. 
 
 \Vhat! the firm of DeHertbern & Son?" he asked, in 
 great surprise. 
 
 "The same," said I. 
 
 "Well, I trust our conversation to-night will not be re 
 peated to them." 
 
 "I do not repeat conversations," said I quietly. 
 
 "Good-night, Air. (another glance at the card) Hick- 
 enlooper. I will expect you at 10 to-morrow," and he 
 extended his hand, but I did not see it at least did not 
 take it as I left the house. 
 
 I \vas driven to the address Tom gave me. The con 
 trast was well expressed by the cabman when he said, as 
 I got out of the cab, "From pallis to the huvel !" 
 
 That voice ! Where had I heard it before ? 
 
 "Is this Pat, who once drove a young country boy from 
 the ferry up to and then the whole length of Fifth avenue, 
 looking for Fifth avenue ?" 
 
 "I m wan ov thim !" 
 
 Just then it dawned upon him who I was. "Oh, is this 
 the buy with the bag ov ginger bread and the quare shuit 
 ov close, an the big hat, an the long hair? Is it you! 
 Wull, wull, wull ! It is frum huvel to pallis dhis toime! 
 Me conshunse has often choided me fur dhat thrick "
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 313 
 
 "Well," said I, reassuringly, "I am sorry your con 
 science has served you so badly ; but the memory of that 
 drive well repays the cost, and I forgive you." 
 
 I found that Tom had already carried out my instruc 
 tions. I saw the mother and her little Maggie. There 
 was scarce a feature in that poor, dead face that called to 
 my mind the beautiful girl I had known in the little vil 
 lage ; but in the child I could see the promise of even 
 greater beauty. 
 
 I remained until everything was arranged for the 
 morrow. 
 
 Promptly at 10 o clock I was in Mr. "Coukler s" office. 
 He was waiting for me, and would have greeted me even 
 cordially had I shown any response. 
 
 "I have," he began, "thought the matter over, and have 
 made out this check for you, which I will give only on 
 condition that my name shall never appear in this un 
 pleasant affair." I took it, and, though I knew him to be 
 well to do, I was greatly surprised to see the large amount 
 for which it was made out. 
 
 "I grant the condition," said I, "not for the money, but 
 because I have not the proof of your villainy." He 
 winced as I continued : "Could I prove that, I should 
 gladly pay this amount myself for your child. This money 
 shall be placed at interest and used most conscientiously 
 for her. You will one day be proud to own her as a 
 daughter." 
 
 I have seen my prophesy verified after many years. 
 
 That afternoon I went back to Highmont with the dead 
 and the living, having sent a message to Sister Anna to 
 prepare the poor widow for my coming. 
 
 The people of a small village are quick to blame and 
 quite as ready to condone a wrong step. The widow had 
 the deep sympathy of all when they had heard the story,
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 and little Maggie was soon the pet of Highmont. 
 
 The day I left, the child, too young to feel her loss, said 
 to me : "I is so happy ; my dood dramma says I won t 
 never, never have to eat tusts no more."
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 THE CELEBRATION MAN. 
 
 "That man would defraud an employee on a technicality." 
 
 He dressed well and lived well ; yet no one at the board 
 ing-house knew his occupation. In fact, he seemed to 
 have no occupation. 
 
 A man in Xew York with nothing to do is always a 
 mystery to those around him. This man to us was a 
 mystery. He came and went as regular as a clock. He 
 was genial, and appeared well informed on all the topics 
 of the day. 
 
 The city was ahout to celehrate a great event in its his- 
 toiy. He was particularly well informed on the subject 
 ard manifested great interest in it. 
 
 When we saw one morning in the newspapers that he 
 had been "entrusted with the full management of the cele- 
 biation" we were surprised. \Ye felt honored, in that one 
 of our people had been chosen to fill a position so 
 prominent. 
 
 "Why should he have been the choice of the city, when 
 there were so many who were better known to select 
 from?" we asked. 
 
 Was he the choice? Events proved that he, and he 
 alone, had guided the choosing. He was a professional 
 "celebrator," a calling so entirely new to me that I fol 
 lowed with such interest its inside workings that I feel 
 
 315
 
 316 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 quite competent to devote this chapter on "How TO MAKE 
 CELEBRATING PAY." 
 
 As a prerequisite you must have a military title, even 
 though you may have to sojourn a month in that State re 
 nowned for its colonels and "Majahs." Having acquired 
 this title, see that you are never addressed without it. If 
 a man addresses you as mister," tell him plainly to 
 "never let it occur again." 
 
 To the watchful professional, something to celebrate 
 will soon present itself. If not, make something. This 
 is your opportunity. Embrace it. You may wish to take 
 the credit of first thinking of it, but don t do it. You ll 
 have time enough to boast of that when you should be 
 doing something else. Given the opportunity, bestir your 
 self to find the most prominent man in the city to act as 
 chairman. This will give it respectability. Whatever 
 you do, however, avoid the selection of a man who shows 
 any inclination to "run things." Get yourself appointed 
 as manager at an exorbitant salary, and your success is 
 assured. Waste no time in putting upon the general com 
 mittee every rich or prominent man in the city, but choose 
 no one for your sub-committees whom you cannot fully 
 control, for there \vill be contracts to be given out, and 
 therein lies your real opportunity. Bids will come in for 
 all sorts of things from barrels of "buttons" to the 
 stands upon which the public will see the parades. Pro 
 grammes and tons of other printing will be required, and 
 more tons of fireworks to illuminate the city and harbor 
 must be purchased. Never take the lowest bid. Choose, 
 rather, the highest, as this tends to put the bidder making 
 it into a very generous state of mind. But do not trust 
 this state of mind ; it may change when once the contract 
 is signed. Trust to nothing but a definite agreement as 
 to your part, of the profit for the guidance of the contract.
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 317 
 
 You will soon find yourself so occupied in looking after 
 these contracts that assistants must be appointed to run 
 the real business of the celebration. Never choose these 
 assistants from any of the committees. Choose them 
 from among your own men (a professional celebrator 
 always has a goodly following), and see. that they are paid 
 far beyond their value. They will appreciate this and 
 use their best efforts to make the innocent public believe 
 you are It. 
 
 You must, to be sure, have headquarters. Men of pub 
 lic spirit will come forward with offers of their hotels ; 
 exchanges may throw open their committee-rooms to you 
 with freedom and a welcome, but be firm and say "no" 
 to all such offers. Select rather some expensive hotel 
 whose management will pay you well for such selection. 
 Use as many rooms as possible, especially if the rental be 
 extravagant. This is conducive to liberality on the part 
 of the aforesaid management. 
 
 A most indispensable adjunct to a Celebration is the 
 press department, and one of the first men to appoint is 
 a liv r e press agent, who will work up public interest to 
 the subscribing point against the day for paying the bills. 
 
 The success or failure of the Celebration, from a public 
 standpoint, has nothing to do with the case. Your sole 
 object will have been accomplished when the contract bills 
 have been paid, and you will never after be looked upon 
 by your fellow boarders as a mystery. 
 
 There will be no dearth of amusing incidents in the 
 organizing of a Celebration, especially in the selecting of 
 the committees, in watching the various means men of 
 small calibre will use to get this cheap honor. I have in 
 mind a rich man from some small town up in the State 
 whose parents, to make sure to him a title, had given him 
 at birth a high-sounding naval one. He spent his win-
 
 318 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 ters in the city, and when the committees were being 
 chosen he claimed New York as his residence, and was 
 most anxious for the honor of being a committeeman, 
 but later on when asked to help defray the expenses of 
 the Celebration he would not give a dollar toward it, and 
 thought it "very strange that the city could not run its 
 own affairs without begging help from up-State citizens/ 
 
 When Tom heard of this up-State committeeman he 
 said : "That man would defraud an employee on a tech 
 nicality." 
 
 The Celebration man is but one of the many in a great 
 city who play upon the enthusiasm of the public for their 
 livelihood. 
 
 The public is very old, and yet in many ways it is 
 quite new. Like the individual, it must first lose that it 
 may learn that it is being played upon.
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 Did the public know the vast amounts of money paid to 
 their servants (?) to influence legislation, they would 
 not have so great a feeling of patriotism on election, 
 day. 
 
 So much of self has been interwoven into my story, or 
 series of stories, that I will not ask of you to follow me 
 through my years of school life, and into my well- 
 appointed offices. Thanks to Aunt Racheal, I did not 
 have to begin "practice" with a small office, a scanty purse 
 and a large appetite, as do most of the young professional 
 men we read about. Neither did I have to wait the regu 
 lation months for my "first client." This client was 
 kindly waiting for me, in the person of Mr. DeHertbern, 
 much of whose legal business, not requiring years of wis 
 dom, I could do for him. 
 
 It is said that all young men have a longing desire for 
 public office, and given the opportunity, they will not 
 refuse the honor. Be that as it may, when Tom came 
 to me one day and told me that there was a determined 
 movement started to send me to the Assembly, and that 
 my many friends on the East Side were most anxious to 
 give me their votes, I did not hesitate long in telling him 
 that I was "in the hands of my friends." Election day 
 proved that these friends were many, as my majority was 
 most gratifying. 
 
 One term was quite enough to cure me of the afore- 
 
 319
 
 320 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 said "longing desire. It will ever be a pleasure to say 
 no to all future honors of like character. 
 
 That one term was an experience I shall never forget. 
 The influences and temptations thrown about a young 
 Assemblyman no one knows. The staid Deacon who 
 "passes the plate" in his village church at home may be 
 found at midnight in the saloon, or places even lower. 
 "One of the boys" fits him well. 
 
 I used often to wonder why bribery could not be 
 proven. I do not wonder any more. I have known men 
 who, when they entered public office, were almost miser 
 ably poor, but in a few years were not only well to do, 
 but rich. The innocent public wonder at the change, but 
 continue to send back year after year these men whose 
 wealth is a mystery to them. 
 
 I spoke of bribery being almost impossible to prove. 
 There is no bribery, or at least there need be none. 
 Why? The reason is plain. A vote is needed on a bill ; 
 the lobbyist (Tom was wrong the lobbyist is still an 
 "institution" much in evidence) gets up "a quiet little 
 game" and kindly loses enough money to pay for the 
 vote. No, there is no bribery ! The lobbyist paid out no 
 money for a single vote. He was simply a poor card- 
 player, that was all but his bill went through and the 
 voter went home at the end of the term and "fixed up 
 the old house," or, if he had played enough games, built 
 a new one and bought a team. 
 
 Did the public know the vast amounts of money paid 
 to their servants (?) to influence legislation, they would 
 not have so great a feeling of patriotism on election day. 
 The year I served there were many important questions 
 brought forward. I shall never forget the interest a cer 
 tain "servant" had in the passage of a bill that would 
 affect the men who live by "chance." By chance I
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 321 
 
 learned that for his "interest" he was well remunerated. 
 He was paid one hundred and si.vty-fi-rc thousand dollars 
 for his influence. After the money had passed into his 
 hands he lost all interest in the bill, which, like his in 
 terest, was also lost. "His name?" Oh, no ; I will reserve 
 that for a later edition. This being no fiction, he has a 
 name. 
 
 Every session has its "strikers. The "striker" is a 
 unique character. A man with no moral sense of right 
 or wrong, whose thought begins and ends with self. He 
 seeks the office for a purpose ; that purpose has nothing 
 to do with the public good. He is a man of no ability, 
 save that for advancing himself. Before election he talks 
 loudly of the wrongs done to the people by the "giant 
 corporations, and when elected, having little or no abil 
 ity, he gets some one to draft him a bill antagonistic to 
 one of the aforesaid "giants," and makes great pretence 
 of having his bill passed, knowing full well that he will 
 soon have an invitation to one of those "quiet little 
 games," when he subsides and drops back into his natural 
 mediocrity and is heard of no more that term. The 
 "striker" is unique. Nor is he the only character found 
 among our law-makers who looks alone at self gain. The 
 statesman is becoming alarmingly rare who seeks alone 
 the public good. 
 
 I am now quite convinced, with Tom, that we have 
 too much making of laws and too little enforcement of 
 those we already have. As Tom says, the man with 
 money or influence need fear no law, and since most of 
 them are made for his benefit, the poor alone are made 
 to feel their oppression. 
 
 While in the Assembly I could note, as never before, 
 the power of the press." The "home paper is feared 
 far more than are the home people. "What the paper
 
 322 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 says," or "what the editor thinks" in his private letters 
 to his "member," carries far more influence than if each 
 one of his constituents should write that member a per 
 sonal letter. 
 
 These "papers" are seldom entirely honest in their en 
 deavor. During my one term, there was a universal de 
 mand from all parts of the State for economy. "The 
 people are being taxed beyond reason," was the cry. 
 Bald-headed Broker, my real-estate friend, had called my 
 attention to the burdensome charges for legal printing 
 of delinquent taxes. Looking into the matter carefully, 
 and taking up the general subject of legal printing, I 
 drew up a bill cutting these charges down to reasonable 
 advertising rates, and submitted it. Had I deliberately 
 set fire to the State House I could not have been half so 
 roundly abused as I was by these same criers for econ 
 omy. I never would have believed a man could be so 
 many different things all at. the same time as they called 
 me. The worst "cuts" of all, however, were those of 
 wood, which they used in their cartoons of my innocent 
 face. 
 
 Extra carriers had to be put on to bring the mail for 
 the members from the editors of every country "cross 
 road sheet." It reminded me of the time I had adver 
 tised for "a quiet boarding-place." Members flocked 
 around me in the corridors, followed me into the street, 
 called at my hotel at all hours of the night and day, and 
 begged me not to press my bill. "Let it die in the 
 committee-room ; we ll pay all funeral expenses, and tip 
 the undertaker !" Men who had entirely ignored me 
 were now most faw r ning in their attentions. When flat 
 tery, cajolery and such like means failed, threats were 
 used. 
 
 "Why," said I, "these papers have been begging us
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 323 
 
 for economy to lighten the burdens of the people, and 
 all that ! My bill will certainly lighten it for some of 
 them. Do you know that should a man owning fifty 
 town lots in one body fail to pay his taxes at the right 
 time, and they are advertised for sale, that, by law, some 
 insignificant country paper may charge for each separate 
 lot instead of as a whole, and that while the tax may be 
 only a few cents each, that the advertising as now allowed 
 will amount to nearly two dollars each? Do you know 
 that the rate for legal advertising is sometimes seven-fold 
 what these same papers would gladly accept for ordinary 
 advertising? Do you know these things, and yet ask me 
 not to press my bill? What have you come here to do, 
 as representatives of the people whose votes sent you, as 
 honest men, to work in their interest? Is this working 
 in their interest to beg of me to withdraw my bill that 
 would save them hard-earned money? Is it working in 
 their interest that when they are forced by law into the 
 legal column of a newspaper that they must needs pay 
 seven times as much as they would have to pay were they 
 advertising their goods or produce for sale?" And many 
 more things did I ask the members who had gathered 
 round in my hotel to beg of me to allow my bill to die 
 a natural death. 
 
 Many of them shamedly crept away until but few of 
 tli cm remained, and these the more persistent. 
 
 "Do you know," asked one, who voiced the sentiments 
 of his fellows "do you know," he repeated, with great 
 earnestness, "that if it were not for the legal printing 
 that many of the newspapers could not exist?" 
 
 "No," said I quietly, "and I thank you for the informa 
 tion, for now I shall surely press the bill with greater 
 energy in the double interest of the people." 
 
 "We know what you say is true," continued the
 
 324 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 spokesman ; "but if you press your measure it will accom 
 plish no good and do us great harm in any event. We 
 dare not vote for it, as thus we antagonize the papers, 
 and if we do not vote for it we antagonize our constit 
 uents. You are a lawyer, are you not?" 
 
 "I am so called," said I. 
 
 "Then what need you care what legal printing costs? 
 You don t have to pay the bill." 
 
 "I am a lawyer, tis true, but I would be a patriot first." 
 
 "Indeed !" with a sneer. "Well, young man, you are 
 greatly out of place up here, then, and we don t think 
 you will return. Eh, boys?" 
 
 "I sincerely trust I shall not ; but while I am here I 
 shall do my duty as I see it, and my bill will be pressed 
 if it get but my own vote ;" and when I did press it to a 
 vote, mine was the only one it received. 
 
 No pariah was ever more alone than I during the re 
 maining weeks of the session. Even the pages would 
 have turned me down. 
 
 I am fortunately devoid of all sensitiveness when in 
 the line of duty, and this ostracism by my fellow-members 
 was rather a pleasant sensation to me. 
 
 Doubtless the people for whom I had aimed to do a 
 service think of me, if at all, as anything but an honest 
 man their opinion having been formed for them by the 
 "papers," which go right on charging them "legal rates." 
 
 I would not refuse to accord justice, however, where 
 it is merited, and will say that on most public matters 
 these same papers work valiantly for the general good.
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 They may be accounted as great, but greatness alone has 
 never yet taken the place of contentment. 
 
 Bill and Beatrice have long since been married, and, 
 like Edward and Anita, are living in their own mansion. 
 
 Helen is no longer the prattling child, but the young 
 woman just entering society. She is even more beauti 
 ful than was her promise to be. 
 
 Her childhood wish to see Highmont has often been 
 gratified, for with Anita and Beatrice she has spent 
 many a summer among the scenes I once loved so dearly, 
 and revisit with such delight. 
 
 She is not only beautiful in face and form, but her char 
 acter is one of those that brighten the world about her. 
 While she has society as a worshiper, she never forgets 
 those who know little of joy. Her father calls her the 
 family philanthropist, and allows her unlimited means to 
 gratify her desire for doing good, yet so quietly are her 
 deeds done that few aside from the recipients know of 
 them. Those few, however, are never idle. They ply 
 her with begging letters for all possible and impossible 
 purposes. They are most persistent in their requests, 
 which many times amount to demands. Investigation, in 
 some instances, proved that the writers really live off the 
 charitable, who are touched by the seeming merit of the 
 cases. These letter beggars, by long experience, are such 
 adepts they could almost extract gold from the rocks. 
 
 325
 
 326 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 With her multiplicity of social duties and her charitable 
 work, her time was so taken up that I seldom saw her. 
 
 I don t know why, but I soon found myself wishing 
 that she was a child again, that I might be "Mister 
 Ruben" as of old. She never called me "Mister Ruben" 
 any more. I felt myself drifting away from her, and 
 when I occasionally saw her in society she was so sur 
 rounded by the younger men that I felt a return of that 
 old feeling of being forgotten by the children who had 
 once loved me. I fain would withdraw from society, but 
 before the evening was over she would always come to 
 me for a little while to say some pleasantries. 
 
 "Ruben," she would say, "it is so restful to talk with 
 you. One does not have to be so precise." No, nor 
 would one have to be to an inferior. 
 
 Was it a compliment she was paying me, or did she 
 think of me as a person for whom she had no desire or 
 care to please? I would leave the house long before the 
 end of the reception, and quite resolve that I would ac 
 cept no more invitations, but a something I know not 
 what would ever cause me to break that resolution. 
 
 If I were conversing with a lady with any degree of 
 interest, Helen would thereafter show in her manner more 
 than in what she would say that she was not pleased 
 w r ith that particular lady. I could but silently note this 
 in her, and wonder at it, for she seemed so free from 
 dislike for any one. 
 
 Why should she care to whom I was agreeable ? I was 
 now but little to her, and with her widening circle of 
 friends, was fast growing less. 
 
 She had been in society a year when a cousin of Anita 
 came to visit America. He was very callow, this cousin, 
 but, to compensate for manly bearing, he was an earl, 
 which in the minds of too many condoned all else. The
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 327 
 
 pigmy with a title too often outweighs every manly qual 
 ity in the native American. He may lack every gift that 
 marks the true man, and yet be held in greater esteem 
 than the American with them all. This title worship has 
 been the cause of many a wasted life, and yet new 
 "moths" are ever being dazzled by the light and led away, 
 wearing a coronet on the head while the joy they had 
 hoped for never reaches the heart. They may be ac 
 counted as great, but greatness alone has never yet taken 
 the place of contentment. 
 
 ft was not long until it could be seen that the earl had 
 made his choice, and that choice was Helen. Why should 
 this have been aught to me? I must have known that 
 she would some time marry and drop out of my life, and 
 forget her "Mister Ruben" of childhood; but yet I felt 
 it deeply when this time seemed to have come. I with 
 drew entirely from everything social. 
 
 I had been successful even beyond my hopes. The 
 world had called me a great lawyer, a great financier ; but 
 this did not bring me any happiness. I found no joy 
 in a single personal success, save when some other had 
 been benefited. I had wealth, but I saw many a poor 
 man who seemed so much more content that I envied 
 him. 
 
 I sought to break this feeling in travel, and spent a 
 year abroad, seeing all the places of interest in the old 
 world ; but returned with a heavier heart than when I 
 started. I visited my old home, but the places I had 
 once loved seemed to have lost all charm for me. I 
 came back to the city and sought in my work the relief 
 I had failed to find in recreation, but in vain. 
 
 Was this the reward of success? Was this my com 
 pensation for years of struggle to reach that pinnacle 
 on which I had hoped to find true happiness? I would
 
 328 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 seek out the friends of long ago and live over with them 
 the days when life was so free from care. But where 
 were these friends? I sought for them, but found no 
 friends. I saw many of those I had known when I first 
 came to the city, and more whom I had met during my 
 years at law school, but none of them seemed to me as 
 I had known them. They were all changed. When we 
 had exhausted the merest commonplaces our conversa 
 tion was at an end. There was a barrier through which 
 we could not penetrate. I asked one of them who had, 
 in the old days, been a very dear friend, "Why are you so 
 changed from the merry-hearted Jack I knew long ago ? 
 
 "It is you who are changed," said Jack, "not I. Good 
 fortune has led you away into smooth paths. The world 
 has accorded you a place in the first ranks ; it does you 
 homage for great success ! You forget the early strug 
 gles in your years of continued prosperity, and now when 
 you see the old friends who have been living on in the 
 same dull routine, you ask, Why have you changed? 
 
 "And yet," I asked, "why should those whom once I 
 loved drift away from me, and never seek me out? Do 
 they no longer regard me? Have I clone aught that 
 would estrange me from them? Can they forget the 
 ties that once bound us in friendship? 
 
 "Ruben, this is a strange world. The higher one goes 
 up, in the temple of fame, the further one gets away 
 from his less successful friend. The friend may regard 
 him, and watch his ascent with no envy, but with pride ; 
 yet he feels that to presume on the old friendship is to 
 intrude, and he quietly drifts away, and when in after 
 years they by some chance meet, each thinks the other 
 has changed. They part, and possibly see each other no 
 more." 
 
 Was this true ? Must I feel that those whom mv heart
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 329 
 
 had called friends had dropped out of my life, and that 
 I must hereafter wander on alone, with none save those 
 who are bound to me in a business or professional way? 
 I cried out at the curse of success ! Would that I might 
 go back to the old days to the old joys ! The people 
 we meet beyond the bounds of youth are seldom friends 
 of the heart. They may admire our ability, some quality 
 of manner or intellect, but there is little of affection. We 
 meet, admire, but seldom love these friends of later life. 
 They may excel the old friends in all things good or 
 great, but they can never be bound to us by those sweet, 
 heart tendrils which twined us to the friends of long ago. 
 
 Here was I, scarce thirty years old, and yet I seemed 
 standing alone. I had outrun in life s race my boyhood 
 mates whom I would yet love, but my success had taken 
 me out of their world. On the other hand, this success 
 had surrounded me with people who paid homage to the 
 position I held, and who would have done the same 
 homage to that position held by another and forgotten 
 me had reverses lost it to me. 
 
 I had not even the pleasure of a material want. My 
 means were so great that all needs were supplied ere it 
 had become a pleasure to want for them. Oh, the void 
 in my heart, which the mines of earth could not fill ! 
 
 I analyzed my life, but all to no purpose. I knew my 
 condition, but this did not lighten the load. 
 
 It was long before I would admit to myself the real 
 cause. I could not believe my heart would serve me so 
 ill to love that which could never be mine. "Never be 
 mine!" rang back the mental echo. "Be mine!" it re 
 verberated. "Mine !" it ended. Oh, that this end might 
 be true! And yet I dared not allow myself to hope it, 
 even had I dared to hope so rich a consummation. 
 
 I lived in the past. Often I found myself repeating
 
 330 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 the words of little Helen ; but never could I make them 
 seem the words of Helen the grown lady. "I will be 
 your Helen forever and ever, and never forget you. I 
 will love you always." How sweet these sentences, 
 though spoken years ago by a child ! 
 
 The earl was now a constant visitor at the home of 
 Mr. DeHertbern. Society connected his name with 
 Helen seemingly as a matter of course. In the early 
 summer he returned to England, as all said, to arrange 
 for the coming event, which "event" was to take from 
 out my world the only one I had ever truly loved !
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 Is the stream less strong or its zvaters less pure for the 
 rocks over which it has been dashed in its course? 
 Some of its life may have been beaten into mist, but 
 see all along the way the ferns and flowers ivhich 
 have been given life by that mist. 
 
 Shortly after the earl s departure Beatrice, Anita and 
 Helen, with the children, went on their yearly visit to 
 Highmont, which had been brought much nearer to the 
 outside \vorld by a railroad which I had built more in 
 sentiment for the old home than for an investment. 
 
 The week following, Bill came into my office one day 
 holding a letter he had just received from Beatrice. 
 
 "Listen to this," he began : We will be looking for 
 you out t\vo days after the receipt of this letter/ " 
 
 "Well." said I, "of course you will not disappoint 
 them." 
 
 "You mean we will not disappoint them," quietly re 
 plied Bill. 
 
 "Why," I asked, "is Edward going with you?" 
 
 "No, you dull boy. I mean that you and I are going. 
 We are both looked for. " 
 
 "Bill," 1 protested, "I am sorry to disappoint you, but 
 it will be impossible for me to go at this time." 
 
 "Oh, it is not me you will disappoint, you stupid fellow. 
 Look at this postscript. Do you recognize the writer?" 
 
 In a daint hand were these words : "Oh, Mister
 
 332 
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 Ruben, be your old self again, and come home." There 
 was no name no name was needed. I knew the hand 
 that had penned that request, and quietly said: "Bill, I 
 will go." 
 
 "Be your old self again !" Had she, too, noted the 
 change? How could she, when she had seen me so 
 seldom since her entrance into society? Before that 
 time we were very much together, always as man and 
 child ; but since the world of society had claimed her, 
 I had quietly dropped away and remembered her only 
 as the child Helen. And for the first time in years, I 
 was again "Mister Ruben." What a volume of sweet 
 memories those two words brought back to me ! I looked 
 about and wondered why the world seemed so much 
 brighter. The load on my heart which had ever grown 
 heavier as the months went by, seemed all at once to 
 grow lighter, and everything about me changed as though 
 by a touch of magic. This happy feeling was too much 
 of joy to last. Doubts and questions began flooding my 
 mind until I almost regretted that I had promised to 
 go with him. "Why does she want you to come home? 
 She has been there a week, and already she is tired of the 
 monotony, and would even have so stupid a fellow as 
 you to amuse her ! Yes, Ruben Mister Ruben go 
 home and while away the time until the earl s return, 
 and then you will be of no more interest to her. Go 
 home !" 
 
 Soon I was even more despondent than before. The 
 apples of joy seemed to turn to bitter fruit, as the doubts 
 and questions filled my brain. Would I break my prom 
 ise to Bill and again refuse to go? No, I will keep my 
 promise, though my heart be broken by the going. I will 
 know my fate, though that fate be my undoing ! 
 
 I shall ever carry with me the picture I saw at the
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 333 
 
 station at Highmont that bright June morning, as Bill 
 and i looked from the car-door. The long, winding 
 street, set against the mountains in the distance; this 
 street bordered by houses that ever grew smaller on 
 each of my returns from the city, while in the immediate 
 foreground were my old father and mother, with Pauline 
 and Evelyn May, now grown to womanhood, surrounded 
 by Anita, Beatrice and Helen, all with bright, smiling 
 faces turned toward us with such a warm welcome, was 
 a picture that could hang forever in the choicest nook 
 of the heart s gallery. 
 
 I tried to greet all alike, but somehow the greetings 
 were more or less hurried until I had reached Helen, who 
 had arranged to be the last, when we wandered off to 
 gether, I almost forgetting that she had not come alone, 
 while she seemed in her happy spirits to forget for the 
 moment that a certain earl has ever existed. 
 
 Oh, the joys of those days at Highmont! Little ex 
 cursions were taken to every point of interest for miles 
 around. The evenings were filled in with innumerable 
 > entertainments, in which I always aimed to have the 
 village friends participate. I brought companies of 
 actors from the city and gave these good people what 
 they had never before seen real plays. And yet many 
 of them said that Robbins Exhibition" far surpassed 
 them all, showing, after all, that excellence is only the 
 point of view from which it is taken. 
 
 Neither lielen nor I had once spoken the earl s name, 
 or even made mention of him she, no doubt, from a 
 delicacy, and I lest my joys would come to an end by 
 confession from her. 
 
 Two weeks had passed so swiftly along, freighted with 
 their hourly pleasures, that T had scarce noted the time, 
 when there came a day that stands out and beyond all the
 
 334 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 other days of my life till then. 
 
 The occasion was a drive of some ten miles to the 
 Cascades, the one really romantic spot of all our country 
 side. 
 
 A little rivulet starting on the very mountain top was 
 fed by innumerable springs along the course as it turned 
 down a deep gorge in the cliffs, until it was soon a 
 dashing, furious torrent as it rushed on to the quiet valley 
 below. All along its tortuous course was cascade after 
 cascade, and no two alike. Some sheer leaps of a hundred 
 feet to the rocks below, others of lesser fall, but all full of 
 wondrous beauty. Here and there were deep pools hol 
 lowed out by the endless ages through which the stream 
 had flowed, and in these pools sported the beautiful moun 
 tain trout. 
 
 Never before had the Cascades seemed so full of 
 grandeur as on that day. The rhythm of the falling 
 water seemed to be in perfect harmony with the music 
 in my heart. There was music in my heart, and yet I 
 dared not analyze it. I was happy because Helen was 
 near me. She might not be for long, but her presence 
 numbed the future and for the time I was content. 
 
 After the picnic dinner, spread on a smooth plateau 
 half-way up the mountain side, we wandered off from 
 the rest of the party, Helen and I, "to gather ferns and 
 wild flowers," but soon forgot our mission as we seated 
 ourselves in the shade of a great overhanging oak in 
 one of the few quiet spots along the water course. 
 
 "How like one s life," said I, "is this stream ! It begins 
 small and uneventful, runs along on a high plane, gathers 
 strength as it goes, but ere long it begins to ruffle and 
 break into little riffles, swirls over obstructions, falls away 
 and dashes itself on the rocks below, only to gather itself 
 together for more precipitous plunges further on !"
 
 The occasion was a drive of some ten miles, to the Cascades, tin- 
 one romantic spot of all our country side. I age .f.l).
 
 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 335 
 
 I shall never forget the sweet, quiet reply Helen made 
 to my impassioned simile. "Ruben, look away down 
 there below. See this same stream here so rough and 
 boisterous, there so smooth and placid as it flows away 
 toward the great ocean. Is the stream less strong or the 
 waters less pure for the rocks over which it has been 
 dashed in its course? Some of its life may have been 
 beaten into mist, but see all along the way the ferns and 
 flowers which have been given life by that mist. That 
 life loses naught which contributes to other life." 
 
 "Yes ; but, Helen," I replied, "some streams and some 
 lines dash on to the end. There is no rest, no quiet 
 eddies, no smooth ending." 
 
 "That may be true, Ruben; but many a life is wasted 
 over rough and tortuous ways, where a smooth course 
 might have been more easily taken and all the rocks 
 avoided, and the end reached in peace." 
 
 Could she know what she was saying? Would I not 
 have gladly escaped the precipitous rocks over which I 
 had been carried during the years since she was my own 
 little Helen? Could I choose my way when another held 
 the course I would take ? Xo, mine was a life not fitted 
 to the one of peace of which she so sweetly spoke. Look 
 ing up at me, she said almost abruptly and quite inno 
 cently : "Ruben, I have watched your course for a long 
 while, and have felt that your life was saddened, for some 
 cause, and now in your simile of the stream I see it 
 clearly ; but why should your life be sad you, who 
 have met with success rarely attained by one of your 
 years? You have gained wealth almost beyond desire; 
 few have ever reached your position in the law so early 
 in life, while your friends are legion. You, above all 
 others, should be the happiest of men !" 
 
 Oh, that I dared tell her the cause and know my fate !
 
 336 MY FRIEND BILL. 
 
 But, no ; T would go on to the end, was my thought when 
 she continued: "Some have honors without merit, titles 
 which they have never earned, position which birth has 
 thrust upon them, while you have nobly earned both 
 honors and position, and, as I believe, you care not for 
 titles. 
 
 "Titles !" Why should she speak so lightly of them, 
 when so soon she would bear one? I could not resist 
 saying: "Helen, you surprise me in thus speaking of 
 titles, when the world has already connected your name 
 with one which it says is soon to be yours !" 
 
 "Oh, Ruben! are you, too, one of that foolish world? 
 I could not have believed this of you, Ruben !" 
 
 I scarce knew what I was saying in my surprise and 
 joy, when I exclaimed: "What! are you not going to 
 marry the earl ?" 
 
 "Marry the earl ! I marry the earl ! Oh, Mister 
 Ruben ! you never believed that story, did you?" and her 
 merry laugh was so hearty that for the first time in years 
 she seemed the child again. I clasped her hand I could 
 not help it as I asked : "Then you are free to have me 
 tell you why my life has been saddened?" 
 
 "Free as the child whose life you once saved." 
 
 "Then, Helen, it was because I felt that I had lost 
 forever the only one I have ever truly loved that child 
 whose life I saved ! May I ever protect, as my own, 
 that life?" 
 
 "Ruben, I will be your Helen forever and ever, and 
 will never forget you. I will love you always !"
 
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