The Parlor Begat Amos 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR STURGES HILDEBRAND 
 
 \ 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY
 
 COPYRIGHT, IQ22, BY 
 HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. 
 
 **INTtD IN TUB O. S. A. BY 
 
 THl OUINN ft BODKN COMPANY 
 
 RAHWAY. N. J.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PHANOR ENDAY was married to Isabel Webster 
 on the first of January, 1874. 
 
 " Crickey, what a day! " he would say, whenever he 
 thought of his wedding. " How it did rain and freeze, 
 and all! " 
 
 " Any man that will get married on the first of Janu- 
 ary don't deserve to have his friends come to see it." 
 
 This was the opinion of Edward Pillsbury, a school- 
 time friend of Phanor's. Edward was a traveling sales- 
 man and could tell a good story, and Phanor used 
 often to repeat the joke, and laugh about it, especially 
 since the weather of the wedding day turned out to be 
 so awful. 
 
 Phanor had chosen to be married on the first of 
 January because he could not possibly wait any longer. 
 This was what he intended Edward, and Isabel, and 
 every one else, to think, and what he intended to think 
 himself. 
 
 Phanor's sister Emily was first out of bed on the 
 wedding morning, and as she looked down the garden 
 to see what sort of day it was to be she was filled with 
 apprehension, for she was certain that the worst had 
 
 i 
 
 2136338
 
 2 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 happened. Sure enough, it was snowing big fluffy 
 flakes that fell straight and settled wearily, covering 
 the flower-beds and obscuring from sight even the 
 nearest neighbors' houses. 
 
 "Oh, my goodness me! " she exclaimed. "Isn't 
 that too terrible for words! Nothing but trouble, 
 every single blessed minute! " 
 
 The family had breakfast in the kitchen, that morn- 
 ing, since the other rooms in the house were ripped up 
 in preparation for the wedding, and as they sat around 
 the table, raising their eyes from time to time to glance 
 out at the white world beyond the windows, they won- 
 dered in their hearts why nothing could ever go quite 
 right where they were concerned. 
 
 Mr. Webster was gloomy and sulky, and kept re- 
 minding them of the desperate state of affairs. 
 
 " I've seen some mighty bad weather in my time," 
 he told them, boastfully. " But I've never come 
 across anything quite so bad as this. I don't see why 
 it don't show signs of clearing up." 
 
 While the dishes were being cleared away he sat at 
 the living-room window, looking out, and turning to 
 speak over his shoulder whenever any one came into 
 the room. 
 
 " I've been hoping it would clear up," he would say. 
 " But it don't show any signs of it." 
 
 Then Mrs. Webster, or Isabel, or whoever it was, 
 would tell him to stay where he was, and keep out 
 from under foot, and go rushing on to do one of the 
 fifty million things that had to be done, glancing sav-
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 3 
 
 agely at him, as if he were sitting there in the window 
 condvcting the progress of the weather. 
 
 At noon it was raining a warm white rain that made 
 the ground steam, dripping noisily from the leaky gut- 
 ters of the little old house, running in streams down 
 the garden walks, and generally making life a miserable 
 thing. 
 
 By four o'clock, which was the hour set for the cere- 
 mony, a bitter wind had come roaring out of the west, 
 the rain stopped, the mist vanished, and the foot- 
 prints and carriage-tracks in the slush froze hard as 
 iron. 
 
 Every one was chilled and discouraged, and felt 
 abused. 
 
 " I've been looking for it to clear up, all day," Mr. 
 Webster said. " But I don't see as this . . ." 
 
 "Now, father! Don't complain," Mrs. Webster 
 admonished him, sinking wearily into a chair at the 
 other window. "There's enough to think about with- 
 out that. We'll just have to make the best of it." 
 
 Emily Enday, in the background, glared at them, 
 and thought, " Oh, yes; you'll sit there and mope, and 
 leave everything for me to do. What Phanor can be 
 thinking of, to marry into a family like this, I can't 
 see." 
 
 She threw a shawl over her head, and went out to 
 pour some boiling water on the thin coating of ice that 
 was beginning to form over the front steps, to avoid, at 
 least, one more possibility of tragedy. The wedding 
 guests were all somewhat decrepit, because of a con-
 
 4 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 genital timidity of spirit, and their bones were deemed 
 valuable. When they began to arrive, she found a place 
 for them to put their things, and it was she who saw to 
 it that their umbrellas weren't mixed. She was almost 
 the only person present capable of constructive activ- 
 ity, and her energy accentuated the helplessness of the 
 others. 
 
 They all felt that a wedding day was the happiest 
 of all possible days, but they said nothing of it, on this 
 occasion, for fear of contradiction. With weather like 
 this, there simply wasn't any use in pretending to be 
 happy. 
 
 As a matter of fact, a wedding day, in the families 
 of the Endays and the Websters, was a day on which 
 special precautions must be taken against unpleasant 
 occurrences. 
 
 " Well, I hope the minister gets here, that's all," 
 said Phanor's aunt Edna. "After us coming all this 
 way! " 
 
 "The train was late," said old Mr. Enday. 
 "Twenty minutes, wasn't it, Emily? Weren't we 
 twenty minutes late getting to the junction? Seems 
 to me I heard somebody say so." 
 
 " Well, we're here now," Emily answered. " What 
 I'm worried about is getting home again. If the har- 
 bor should freeze, so's the boat didn't run, we'd be in 
 a fix." 
 
 " I've seen it freeze, clear out into the Sound," Mr. 
 Enday said. "About five years ago, wasn't it? 
 When was it we had that hard winter? Seems to me
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 5 
 
 it was about five years ago. Why, we didn't have any 
 boats, then, for more than three weeks. They went 
 out with sleds to the edge of the pack, but they 
 couldn't land anything. Or did they get some of the 
 mail ashore? I forget." 
 
 Phanor and Isabel resented all this pessimism. 
 After all, they were the ones who were being married. 
 
 Their marriage was not an unhappy one, as mar- 
 riages go and can there be any other criterion? but 
 it had bad weather in it, as time went on, with exactly 
 the same senseless perversity of bad weather in daily 
 life. They felt the symbolism of it, and thought that 
 a stormy wedding day was quite the natural thing for 
 them. 
 
 " You might know it would be rotten! " Phanor 
 said. 
 
 "Isn't it just like it to be so horrid! " sighed 
 Isabel. 
 
 It seemed as if even the arrival of the minister 
 would be unable to make any change in the depressing 
 atmosphere. 
 
 Mrs. Webster was confused by the uproar, and the 
 excitement of having so many people about, but she 
 held out bravely, and refused all suggestions of lying 
 down to get a little rest. When the guests began to 
 arrive, she made an effort, and kept in sight, so that 
 she might be interviewed. 
 
 She made them all feel that Isabel might have mar- 
 ried almost any one. But she admitted that she was
 
 6 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 greatly pleased with the present match, and confessed 
 to being happy in the thought that the Arrow of 
 Cupid this was the phrase she used had so beauti- 
 fully struck its mark, and had, at the same time, 
 pointed so unmistakably in the direction of good 
 sense. 
 
 There had been other suitors oh, yes, indeed; no 
 lack of suitors but these had since been rejected, or 
 had died, or, more vaguely, " gone away," and it had 
 become evident, in these cases, that Cupid had not 
 shot his arrow with proper respect for the ways of the 
 world. The mother and daughter had continued their 
 search. 
 
 Then Phanor Enday appeared. He had a solid and 
 dependable quality about him that Mrs. Webster was 
 quick to appreciate, and there was, moreover, an unde- 
 sirable strain in his ancestry or she thought there 
 was which argued for him, rather than against him, 
 since it brought into prominence his own merits, in 
 contrast to the excuses which must be made for his 
 parents. 
 
 " Phanor Enday is the most brilliantly mediocre 
 man that ever lived," some one had once said to Mrs. 
 Webster. 
 
 But this was clearly a mere attempt at saying some- 
 thing clever, and it wasn't fair to Phanor, either. 
 
 He was dead set and determined to get ahead. His 
 one idea was to get himself on the safe side of the 
 gates of achievement and close the gates behind him, 
 so that he should never have to worry about anything
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 7 
 
 again. This was a pleasant contrast to many of the 
 youug men of the day, who planned brilliant careers 
 for themselves, and seemed to care for nothing if only 
 they might die on the march, bravely fighting towards 
 their goal. 
 
 He was the only man in his class at college who had 
 not a full beard, and Isabel was attracted to him at 
 once. He was always very gay and merry when he 
 first fell in love, and Isabel liked him for it, though 
 she had momentary suspicions that he was not, per- 
 haps, properly serious-minded; as the arrangements 
 wore on, however, he lost most of his joyousness, and 
 she told her mother that she thought they might go 
 ahead. 
 
 Accordingly, Cupid was told to shoot. He shot. 
 Phanor was selected. Thereafter, the responsibility 
 was Isabel's. 
 
 She had had a humiliatingly hard time getting him 
 to ask her to marry him, but, in the end, she had suc- 
 ceeded in making him do it. The engagement was an- 
 nounced at once, to cut off Phanor's retreat, for he was 
 not in a position to marry at once, and Mrs. Webster 
 and Isabel were delighted. The match was reliable. 
 Its superlative reliableness, they felt, would later serve 
 as a monument to their discernment. The Websters 
 had always been reliable people, and they sought no 
 more, nor would take any less, for their only daughter 
 Isabel. 
 
 Mr. Webster had taken no very active part in the 
 match-making, since he saw that any interference on
 
 8 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 his part would be superfluous. He thought Phanor a 
 very good sort of boy, and he was sure that Isabel 
 would make a good home for him. She was very like 
 her mother, who had always been an excellent home 
 maker. Phanor ought to consider himself very for- 
 tunate. He would have his work to think of, anyway. 
 
 Once or twice he had wandered into the parlor, 
 which was given up to the lovers, and lent them an 
 austere, vicarious sort of blessing, and on one oc- 
 casion he had quite a long talk with Phanor alone. 
 
 Mr. Webster was a printer, and he felt that too 
 many people considered his profession a mere trade; 
 he had several pages of fine old type framed and hung 
 up in various parts of the house, and he used them as 
 texts for his theme whenever he caught any one who 
 would listen to him. 
 
 " See that page of type hanging there on the wall? " 
 he had asked Phanor. 
 
 Phanor had often seen it, and had wondered what it 
 was doing there. It was printed in Dutch, and he 
 didn't know any Dutch. But he got up and crossed 
 the room obediently, when Mr. Webster told him to, 
 and peered into the frame as if he were trying to see 
 the wall behind it. 
 
 " Beautiful, isn't it? " Mr. Webster asked. 
 
 " Um, murmured Phanor. " So clear! " 
 
 "Clear! " Mr. Webster exclaimed. "Look at that 
 type. Look at that capital there. Look at the spacing 
 and the margin and the make-up. Did you ever see 
 anything like that in your life? "
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 9 
 
 " Why, no; I don't believe I ever did," Phanor said. 
 
 " I guess not! You don't see real artistic work like 
 that, now-a-days. The art of printing has gone steadily 
 down hill, ever since the very beginning." He glared 
 at Phanor for a moment, and then added, with fierce 
 emphasis, " If you want to know! " 
 
 " Yes, indeed," said poor Phanor. 
 
 He took the trouble, directly after this, to read up a 
 little on the art of printing, so as to have something 
 ready for the next interview. But before any further 
 opportunity presented itself, Isabel reported that her 
 father was frightening Phanor, and the interviews 
 ceased. The two met alone only once again before the 
 wedding, when Phanor called to ask " if it would be all 
 right " for him to marry Isabel. 
 
 The Endays had come originally from Nantucket. 
 Old Mr. Enday, Phanor's grandfather, had been a 
 whaler, and had risen to be captain of a ship, in which 
 he had made several very profitable voyages. 
 
 It seemed incredible that this old gentleman, whom 
 Phanor remembered only as a fixture of the chimney 
 corner, had ever done anything so definitely vigor- 
 ous as to lower a boat at the cry of " Thar she blows! " 
 and pull six miles to windward after whales. Phanor 
 could hardly believe this; but then, it didn't matter. 
 Life was a very different thing in his grandfather's 
 day, and Phanor saw it differently. " Progress," he 
 called it. 
 
 The old man had retired from the sea, at an ad-
 
 io THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 vanced age, very rich, as riches were counted in those 
 days. But the whale fishery was started on its final 
 decline, and Mr. Enday saw that there could be no 
 future in it for his son, even if Obadiah for that was 
 the boy's name had shown a liking for it, which he 
 did not. He had, therefore, old as he was, started a 
 new venture, and set up in the marine hardware busi- 
 ness. Perhaps he was in a field too foreign to his na- 
 ture, perhaps his market wasn't right, perhaps his re- 
 sentment at the failure of his old calling was not a 
 sufficient motive to warrant success in the new; at any 
 rate, the business was already tottering, when, at his 
 death, he turned it over to his son. 
 
 Obadiah Enday saw it decrease until it was little 
 more than a name, and he withdrew from it only in 
 time to save a remnant of the family fortune. There- 
 after, he employed his slender capital in half-a-hun- 
 dred enterprises, in which he never risked enough, nor 
 persevered enough, to win success. 
 
 He resolved that his son Phanor should branch out 
 into a new line, and to that end sent him to college. It 
 was an experiment. Phanor was the first of the family 
 to receive such advantages. But so great was his feel- 
 ing of responsibility, and so determined was he to re- 
 trieve " the fallen fortunes," as he said, that he seemed 
 in a fair way to justify the experiment, and pay back, 
 in coin or in kind, the money that had been risked 
 on him. He worked hard, and took an engineering de- 
 gree well up in his class. It was during his Junior 
 year at college that he had found Isabel.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS n 
 
 David Fleetwood, a class-mate of Phanor's, had left 
 college without waiting to take his degree, to accept a 
 position with the Wilton Thread and Novelty Yarn 
 Mills. He had prospered, married, and settled down. 
 Then, having time to look about him, he had run over 
 his acquaintances in search of likely material for the 
 business, and had at once, for the two were very good 
 friends, hit upon Phanor. 
 
 In consequence, on David's recommendation, an 
 offer of employment was put before Phanor, who, after 
 long deliberation, " hastened to avail himself " of the 
 opportunity. He resented the necessity of accepting 
 the work before he knew whether or not he should like 
 it, and as time went on, and he kept turning it over in 
 his mind, he was further and further from being sure. 
 As soon as he had posted the letter, he wished it back 
 in his hands again; he liked nothing better than the 
 state of not having made up his mind. 
 
 However, there was Isabel, who, though she knew 
 enough not to actually clamor, still was obviously 
 looking to him to do something about her, and might 
 at any moment " get away." So, " everything consid- 
 ered," Phanor thought he had done the best thing, 
 " under the circumstances." He had gone to Wilton, 
 and had started work in the Mill immediately after his 
 graduation. 
 
 His start was not brilliant. He began to learn the 
 business from the bottom, as was then, and still is, 
 the customary procedure for young men who feel so 
 uncertain of their ability to go far and fast that they
 
 12 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 must start below their natural level to achieve a sense 
 of long and rapid progress. But he had too little imagi- 
 nation to be anything but diligent and devoted, and 
 he had David to look out for him. The field was new 
 to the Enday family, and any step in it looked like 
 progress. 
 
 He felt that his father had escaped being a total 
 failure only because he had had sense enough to drop 
 his business when it got too hot to hold, and for some 
 time he kept a watchful eye on the condition of the 
 Mill, but it gave no sign of unsteadiness, and he began 
 to see, with real satisfaction, that he was in a business 
 that could not fail, or, what amounted to the same 
 thing, could not fail because of him. So he bent over 
 his desk, never made a move except for safety, and 
 prospered rapidly. By the Autumn of the year 1873 
 he was in a good position, and was sure of his salary, 
 which was eleven hundred dollars a year. He had, 
 besides, more than seven hundred dollars in the bank. 
 
 He could see, then, no further real reason for delay- 
 ing his marriage. He was a little lonely, and wanted 
 a home of his own. Moreover, he thought that mar- 
 riage would burn his bridges, for he was convinced 
 that if he ever cut loose he would be a very devil of a 
 fellow, which he did not in the least want to be. By 
 being married, he saved himself the revelation that he 
 could not possibly have been a devil of a fellow at all. 
 
 Isabel was delighted when he wrote her that she 
 could name the day. " Naming the day " was a privi-
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 13 
 
 lege accorded her by tradition solely, for obviously she 
 could not name a day too advanced for Phanor's finan- 
 cial circumstances, nor any day at all until he told her 
 that she might, but she took full advantage of the tra- 
 ditional right, such as it was, when his letter came. He 
 had drawn up that letter with the greatest care, as if it 
 had been a contract, in which he must " protect him- 
 self," and the timidity of the phraseology almost im- 
 plied a negative answer. 
 
 Isabel chose the first of December. But that was 
 only two months off, and Phanor revised it. They 
 " compromised," as he actually had the unconscious 
 hardihood to say, on the first of January. He felt a 
 little guilty at the thought of how he had put her off, 
 but she talked so happily of the idea of starting the 
 new year together, and began such eager preparations, 
 that he felt all right about it again. The loveliness of 
 her eagerness did not escape him, and he began to 
 think that he was not good enough for her, nor any 
 man good enough for any woman. Still . . . well, it 
 might have been " more prudent " to have kept the 
 matter open for a few more months. 
 
 He didn't really trust Isabel, in the bottom of his 
 heart. There was no telling what she might make him 
 do. 
 
 " Why, it's just this, Isabel," he had said to her. 
 " I want to go to some small town, that's growing, and 
 shows some progress and enterprise, and grow up with 
 the community. A man's got to get established."
 
 14 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " You mean a place like Wilton? " Isabel asked. 
 
 "Well, Wilton, or some place like that. It don't 
 have to be Wilton, specially, of course. I might find 
 better opportunities somewhere else, of course." 
 
 " Of course, I want to do just the very best thing 
 for your position, Phanor." 
 
 " Well, yes. But it's not just a matter of my posi- 
 tion. A man's got to be respectable, and have some 
 standing, you know. It don't do to be flighty." 
 
 " Oh, we're going to be the two happiest people in 
 the whole world, dear! I've every confidence." 
 
 Phanor wasn't entirely reassured by this, but he 
 couldn't see what more he could do to make his posi- 
 tion secure. So long as he had his health, and Isabel 
 didn't make him alter his ideas as to what was essen- 
 tial in life, he supposed he had no good reason to 
 complain. 
 
 On the wedding day, Phanor kept out of sight as 
 much as possible, while the guests were arriving, and 
 no one had missed him, nor asked where he was. When 
 Emily Enday came out of the bed-room, with her 
 mouth full of pins, to say that Isabel was all ready, 
 she found Phanor and David Fleetwood sitting to- 
 gether on a settle at the end of the upstairs hall. David 
 was telling some of his very best stories, and Phanor 
 was laughing heartily, with somewhat of his old delight 
 in life. When Emily appeared, however, he seemed to 
 remember, and his merriment left him. 
 
 He went and got Isabel, and they took up their sta-
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 15 
 
 tion at the head of the stairs, nervously awaiting the 
 signal to go down. 
 
 Phanor had short legs, and a rather round body, 
 which his Prince Albert emphasized, rather than con- 
 cealed. One of his shoulders was considerably higher 
 than the other, from long bending over his desk at col- 
 lege and in the Mill, but his wedding clothes had been 
 made before this peculiarity evidenced itself, and gave 
 him an uncouth, paralyzed appearance. 
 
 But then, he felt uncouth, down to the very bottom 
 of his soul. His round face was glowing with excite- 
 ment, and his dust-colored hair was stuck close to his 
 head. His bristling stiff mustache was the only thing 
 about him which seemed to be able to resist the sub- 
 duing and flattening influence of the catastrophe. He 
 was limp and faintly grotesque, and there was a hunted, 
 miserable expression in his eyes. 
 
 Out of reluctant consideration for the fact that Isa- 
 bel was almost as tall as he was, she had refrained 
 from wearing high-heeled shoes. 
 
 Isabel looked calm, though this effect was achieved, 
 perhaps, by an effort a little too obvious. She was 
 sweet and pretty. Her brown eyes lacked the look of 
 experience; indeed, every curve of her sensitive face 
 and every line of her body showed a failure in every- 
 thing but receptiveness. She was dressed more be- 
 comingly than she had ever been before; she seemed 
 not to be Isabel Webster at all, but simply a pretty 
 little suppressed woman waiting to be married. She 
 kept tapping the floor with her foot and looking across
 
 16 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 at Phanor, as she clung tight to his arm, as if to assure 
 herself that he was not beginning to fade away before 
 her eyes. 
 
 There were no unpleasant occurrences. The two 
 clocks, one upstairs and the one down, had been cor- 
 related with split-second accuracy, which assured exact- 
 ness, in the first place. Matilda Strong, who was at the 
 piano, began the wedding march with a thunderous 
 vigor that shook the house, and made certain that there 
 would be no misunderstanding of that signal. On the 
 tick of the clock she struck the first chord; at the first 
 note of the fourth measure Phanor and Isabel started 
 down the stairs, followed by Mr. Webster. Mr. Web- 
 ster had been carefully trained, at rehearsals, in the 
 task of walking so slowly; he justified the time spent 
 on him, and kept time to the music without once over- 
 balancing. 
 
 Nineteen steps from the foot of the stairs they 
 halted before the minister; Phanor took a step to the 
 right; Mr. Webster took two steps backward; the min- 
 ister opened his book; the music stopped. It was per- 
 fect. Every one saw that things were going as they 
 should, and felt easier in their minds. 
 
 The actual ceremony took eight minutes in the read- 
 ing; that left twenty-two minutes for good wishes, 
 hand-shakings, and kisses. At the stroke of four- 
 thirty the bride and groom withdrew. Isabel's travel- 
 ing dress had been put out on the bed precisely as it 
 should be; the person who had been detailed to place 
 the baggage checks in the lower right-hand pocket of
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 17 
 
 Phanor 's waistcoat had placed them there. As they 
 came down the stairs again the carriage drew up at 
 the front door. 
 
 There were brief farewells. Isabel wept for a mo- 
 ment on her mother's shoulder, and received a blessing 
 and a kiss from her father. They made their way 
 down the steps, which were freezing again, watched 
 by all the tearful nearest and dearest in the doorway, 
 and at six minutes past five they were gone. And all 
 this by people who had never operated a railway nor 
 organized a coronation! 
 
 As they rumbled away over the icy hummocks in the 
 stuffy padded carriage, Isabel put her hand in Phanor's, 
 very simply, and enjoyed the sense of having all her 
 life in view at once. She was Mrs. Phanor Enday. It 
 seemed a very important thing. Although she had 
 known for years exactly how happy she would be at 
 this moment, and how definitely she would start to be 
 the sort of wife she wanted to be, yet now she felt not 
 so much happy, as bewildered by the importance of the 
 occasion, not so sure of herself, as impressed with the 
 difficulty of adapting herself to her part. She had 
 heard the words which made her Mrs. Phanor Enday; 
 yet, somehow, she was not being Mrs. Phanor Enday. 
 She felt like Isabel Webster. Then she remembered 
 that she did not have to solve this problem alone, or 
 anything else ever again, and she began to look to Pha- 
 nor to tell her what to do. 
 
 Phanor was tremendously relieved to have it over
 
 1 8 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 with. He covered his real happiness, which he would 
 not for the world have allowed to reveal itself, with an 
 affectation of savage discontent at the weather. He was 
 always made most irritable and disagreeable by any 
 feeling of abnormality, and certainly being married to 
 Isabel made him feel more abnormal than he had ever 
 felt in his life. Gruffness seemed the easiest way out 
 of it. God knew there were reasons enough! Here he 
 was, to put it no more elaborately, a married man, and 
 just as he was getting started! 
 
 " If I'd have known it was going to be like this," 
 he said, " I'd have been in favor of waiting." 
 
 Isabel said nothing. 
 
 " If this old hack should fall to pieces," he went on, 
 " we'd be in a pretty pickle! " 
 
 " I guess it won't," Isabel said. 
 
 " It looks liable, though. Ice everywhere! " 
 
 Isabel was silent. 
 
 The driver suddenly turned up a side street, to avoid 
 a solid sheet of ice on which his horses had fallen, an 
 hour before, when he was on his way to the house. 
 
 " Hey, there! " Phanor cried. " Where is he going? 
 We want to go to the station! " 
 
 " He knows it, goosie! " Isabel said. 
 
 " I'm not so sure he knows it." Phanor leaned for- 
 ward and rapped on the window. " Hey! You know 
 we want to go to the station? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the driver, with an elaborate effect 
 of boredom.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 19 
 
 "There; you see? " said Isabel, with a quick side- 
 long glance at Phanor. 
 
 " Well, I'm not going to make assumptions," Phanor 
 said. " None of these fellows have any idea of where 
 they're going." He reflected a moment. "We've got 
 a train to catch, you know." 
 
 They rumbled on for a time, and at last turned down 
 another street, and headed once more for the station. 
 
 " I'll bet the train will be late," Phanor growled. 
 " I always said this was a rotten jay road. Ice and 
 everything! " 
 
 Isabel said nothing. 
 
 " I'll have to go and see about the trunks. I hope 
 they're there, that's all." 
 
 "How absurd, Phanor! " Isabel exclaimed. "You 
 saw them put them in the wagon yourself, you know 
 you did! With your very own eyes! " 
 
 " Well, that's not saying he's going to take them to 
 the right place though, is it? He may think we want 
 to go on the boat." 
 
 " Of course he don't think so! " 
 
 "Well, I hope he got it right, that's all. I can't 
 afford to lose them." 
 
 Isabel said nothing. 
 
 u You go right on the train and see if there's any 
 chance of getting a seat," Phanor went on. " I'll go up 
 to the baggage car and see that they put them on all 
 right." 
 
 It was evident that Isabel would take no responsi-
 
 20 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 bility. What did she think, anyway? Leaving every- 
 thing for him to worry about, of course. 
 
 " What's the matter? " he asked, suddenly. " Are 
 you sick? " 
 
 Isabel squeezed his hand. 
 
 He reflected bitterly that she was only a woman. 
 He didn't suppose he could expect anything else. 
 Good Lord! What had become of everything? He 
 had done for himself now! He had thought he knew 
 which side his bread was buttered, and he had gone 
 ahead and hung a millstone around his neck! 
 
 It wasn't enough that he should check the trunks; 
 he was expected to see that they were put in the car. 
 He would buy the tickets, yes; but was that the end 
 of it? No, he would have to see that he got on the 
 train himself, and find Isabel, and wonder if she had 
 been able to find a seat; he would have to worry about 
 getting there, and about every inch of the track, all 
 the way to Wilton. Worry and fret and fuss about 
 things; that was all he was good for! 
 
 The carriage finally got to the station, more by good 
 luck than anything else; the train came in, by some 
 freak of Chance; the baggage-men actually bungled 
 into the act of getting the trunks aboard; the trainmen 
 were unanimous in their opinion that this train was 
 going to Wilton. 
 
 Phanor climbed on, discovered that he was in the 
 smoker, backed out again, and got in farther down; 
 he started down the aisle, looking anxiously from side 
 to side for Isabel. He went through several cars with-
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 21 
 
 out finding her. Had she taken a wrong train? Had 
 she been able to keep a seat? It was so simple a thing 
 to do; there could be no excuse for not having done it. 
 
 At last he saw her. She half rose in her seat, smiling 
 brightly at him over the heads of the people in front 
 of her, waving her hand to attract his attention. Dear 
 little Isabel! 
 
 He reached her side, and she moved over to make a 
 place for him.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE first business of the Endays, when they ar- 
 rived in Wilton, was to settle down. That was 
 what they came for. Indeed, it was what they lived for. 
 If settling down, by some chance, had been denied 
 . . . but this would have ended them, then and there, 
 and there's no use discussing it. 
 
 For the first few days they went to a boarding house 
 which Phanor had selected before he went away to be 
 married; it was the best they could do, but they did 
 not like it. They were not the sort of people to live at 
 a boarding house. The other inmates were respectable 
 enough; but Phanor and Isabel trusted no respecta- 
 bility but their own. The atmosphere of the place 
 brought them down, and made them feel like other 
 people a feeling which they resented and hated, be- 
 cause it was so truthful. Phanor used to look back on 
 those early days, when they had drifted far away into 
 the past, and talk of the desperately hard and humiliat- 
 ing time he had had in getting started in life. 
 
 In consequence of all this, they were not long in 
 finding a real place to live. 
 
 As they were on their way home from church, on 
 their first Sunday in Wilton, they saw it; a little white 
 house with a demure, old-fashioned manner, set far 
 back from the street behind big trees. 
 
 22
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 23 
 
 "Oh!" Isabel exclaimed. "Isn't that perfectly 
 dear! " 
 
 " It's bully," Phanor said. 
 
 The gable end of the house faced the street; it had a 
 very steep roof, and the verge boards were ornamented 
 with jig-saw work, like the icing on the cakes that one 
 sometimes saw in caterer's show-windows. There were 
 wooded wigglings, too, along the ridges of the roofs. 
 In the peak of the gable there was a round-headed win- 
 dow, of which the blinds were open, and hanging on a 
 nail from the rafters within was a derelict brass bird- 
 cage, clearly visible from the street. The sight of this 
 bird-cage, in some manner or other, made Phanor and 
 Isabel sure that they must live in this little house. It 
 seemed to cry out for them. 
 
 The principal entrance was at the side, under a 
 porch also jig-sawed out of all reason and as they 
 crept across the mossy boards to peek in at the door, 
 they held tight to each other's hands, and struggled to 
 keep back their delight. The dim interior aspect was 
 forlorn enough, but it sent a thrill through them, and 
 wrung their hearts. 
 
 A sign on the porch post asserted that the house was 
 " For Sale or Rent," and gave the name of the man 
 whom they should see about it. Isabel copied down the 
 address, with a determined directness of manner that 
 frightened Phanor. He would have liked to think it 
 over until the house had been rented to some one else; 
 then he could enjoy in safety his hopes for it, and the 
 recital of all its advantages. He began at once to think
 
 24 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 up arguments to prove that he could not possibly af- 
 ford it, but Isabel was thinking only of getting in, 
 somehow, by hook or by crook, and starting to live. 
 
 On Monday, though Phanor begrudged the time 
 spent away from the Mill, they went to see the agent, 
 and he took them over the house. Phanor detected a 
 musty smell in the cellar, and said that the drains were 
 not in good condition, but Isabel was sure she must 
 have it, by hook or by crook, plumbing or no plumbing, 
 and she gave the agent to understand that it would be 
 all right. In two hours she had talked Phanor into it, 
 though he said that the price was absurdly high, and 
 asked her where she thought the money was coming 
 from. 
 
 He worried over it, as soon as it was done, pointing 
 out that he was only " reasonably sure," after all, of 
 remaining in Wilton. He wanted to keep the illusion 
 that he was likely, at any moment, to pull up stakes and 
 go somewhere. However, he was dragged into it, and 
 the door of the decision was slammed behind him. 
 When all was said and done, in spite of the worry of it, 
 a man must have a home. 
 
 In two weeks, by judicious picking in the stores, and 
 by raids on the stocks of cast-offs in the garrets of the 
 Websters and the Endays, they had accumulated 
 enough furniture to fairly well fill the small rooms. At 
 last they got rid of the painters and paper-hangers; 
 Isabel went over everything in one more spasm of 
 cleaning; Phanor cut the grass of the front lawn, and
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 25 
 
 they moved in. They were at home then, at 97 Elm 
 Street. They stayed there for more than forty years. 
 
 Phanor wanted ceilings without cracks in them, an 
 adequate furnace, a garden where he could dig and 
 fuss, a piano for Isabel to play, a dressing gown and 
 slippers, a double bed, a few books that he need not 
 read and a parlor. 
 
 He got all these things except the piano, and after a 
 year and a half he got that; it was merely a symbol, 
 for Isabel played only under compulsion, as a part of 
 her wifely duties, and neither of them knew or cared 
 the first thing about music. 
 
 Isabel wanted some pretty furniture, a bright sunny 
 kitchen at the door of which the grocer's boy would 
 call to receive her orders, a window which looked down 
 the length of the garden, where she could sit with her 
 sewing, planning for the future, a linen-closet and a 
 parlor. 
 
 The parlor had two broad windows looking out to 
 Elm Street. The sun poured in, all day long, through 
 the lace curtains; it was a bright and rather garish 
 room when it was finished. But, to be accurate, it 
 never was finished; it grew as they grew and changed 
 as they changed, and always exemplified and indicated 
 their life. 
 
 The wall-paper was light, ornamented with clusters 
 of red roses, held by knots of ribbon in silver, which 
 rubbed easily, and was visible only in certain lights.
 
 26 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 The carpet was light also, and repeated the motif of 
 the paper, except that the roses were larger, and there 
 were small dogs and birds among them. This carpet 
 fairly shouted for attention; it was the only thing visi- 
 ble on entering the room. The pattern had a tendency 
 to make the head swim, especially when one was not 
 looking directly at it, as was the case during ordinary 
 conversation in the room. 
 
 In front of one of the windows stood a cast-iron 
 table, heavily gilded, with a green marble top, and on 
 it stood whichever of the plants at the time most needed 
 the sun. Before the other window was a rubber-plant, 
 towering almost to the ceiling. 
 
 Isabel had a little rubber bottle with a spray top, 
 and she took great pleasure in spraying the leaves of 
 the rubber-plant with a bug-killing concoction, stand- 
 ing on a chair brought from the kitchen to reach the 
 topmost leaves. As she perched there she could see 
 her slender pretty figure in its soft white dress, re- 
 flected in the mirror over the mantel, and she used to 
 admire it, and sigh for Phanor's return from the Mill. 
 Whenever she did this, she felt that she had been 
 naughty, and would jump down and scurry away to 
 the kitchen to forget about it. 
 
 Between the windows stood a library table with a 
 red felt top, littered with various articles of use and 
 ornament: an ivory paper-knife from Niagara Falls, a 
 wrought brass bowl from Armenia, a pair of glass 
 whale-oil lamps from Nantucket, and a copy of Mar- 
 tin Tupper's " Proverbial Philosophy," bound in white
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 27 
 
 leather. On the shelf underneath the table was a tray 
 of visiting cards, and a big red and gold volume called 
 " Glimpses of Famous Gardens." 
 
 In their courting days, they used to sit in the parlor 
 at the Websters', side by side on the sofa, with their 
 arms about each other and the big book open across 
 their knees, looking at the pictures and dreaming of 
 home and Gardens and the Wide World. Since they 
 had come to Wilton, the book had never been opened. 
 
 Above the table hung a large picture, in a varnished 
 oak frame, called " Alone." It represented a sorrow- 
 ing young girl sitting in a row-boat among the rushes by 
 the shore of a lake. The water was very still, the light 
 was fading from the sky, and some lonely birds were 
 flying home. The girl's head was raised with a pa- 
 thetic, hopeful look, towards the horizon. The re- 
 flection on the glass made the engraving somewhat 
 difficult to see, but when clearly seen, it bit into the 
 soul of the beholder, and took away the sting of Death. 
 
 Against the side wall was a large sofa, upholstered 
 in slippery hair-cloth. The piano, when it came, was 
 a " square; " a vast, ungainly thing, like the mon- 
 strous offspring of a pair of degenerate tables; its 
 ponderous lid was covered with a blue felt spread which 
 Isabel had begun embroidering as soon as Phanor had 
 promised her the piano, and at either end of it stood a 
 terra-cotta jar of pampas-grass, tied into a bunch with 
 a bow of green satin ribbon. 
 
 Scattered about the room were several chairs, with 
 crocheted or tatted cushions on their backs; one was a
 
 28 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 patent spring rocker, which snapped and creaked 
 whenever any one sat in it, and walked across the floor, 
 following the nap of the carpet, when it was rocked. 
 The arms and back of this chair were ornamented with 
 a pattern of incised lines in gold. 
 
 There was a white marble mantel-piece, the shelf 
 of which was covered with a silken scarf with a fringe 
 of puff-ball tassels. The shelf bore a gold clock, sur- 
 mounted by a pair of reclining Cupids in crystal, and 
 a set of Venetian glass tumblers. These things were 
 wedding presents, the clock, which had not run after 
 the first month, from Phanor's mother; the tumblers 
 from Edward Pillsbury, who was in the glass-ware 
 line. At each end of the hearth stood a jug of peacock 
 feathers. 
 
 The mirror above the mantel was a fine old piece, 
 also from Nantucket, and in its upper panel was a stiff, 
 but forceful, portrait of the whaling bark " Rosy 
 Dawn." To fit its position, the mirror really should 
 have been placed horizontally, but this would have set 
 the ship on end, and though the mirror's upright pos- 
 ture disturbed the composition of the ensemble, the 
 location was the most conspicuous in the house, and 
 was inevitable. The best things were in the parlor, 
 and the rest of the house took what was left. 
 
 This is not a complete catalogue of the contents of 
 the parlor, even at the beginning, when the Endays 
 settled down, and many things were added, and some 
 replaced, as the years went by; but it will serve to in- 
 dicate the general tone of the room, and, at first, of
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 29 
 
 the whole house. Later, when Phanor's salary enabled 
 them to gratify tastes which, had they been different 
 people, they really would have had, the parlor was en- 
 riched to such an extent that it was no longer a 
 reflection of the general tone of the house, but a 
 conspicuous feature, like a painted iron stag on a 
 lawn. 
 
 The rest of the house, indeed, was attractive 
 enough; the sitting-room was really a pleasant, home- 
 like place, since it did not try to express any attitude 
 towards life. Use and custom had worn little nests 
 and hollows in it something which could never be true 
 of the parlor. The closely-packed cushion of Phanor's 
 chair, the frayed rug by Isabel's feet, the worn news- 
 paper rack on the wall, the cleared working space 
 among the piled magazines on the desk these were 
 the tracks which the Endays left behind them as they 
 lived. They sank into the places which bore the im- 
 print of their bodies and their characters, and were 
 content. 
 
 The parlor was different. For one thing, it was an 
 inspiration. They never sat in it except when there 
 were visitors, when the stiff and formal air of the 
 place made them feel unnatural and put them on their 
 good behavior, but they loved it. It indicated that 
 they were established; they were out of the reach of 
 all trouble all trouble, that is, which was not in- 
 herent in life. If ever they should be threatened by 
 loss of Respectability, by lowered Tone, by hint of 
 Failure, it was only necessary to point out to these
 
 30 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Tendencies the fact that there was a parlor, and the 
 Tendencies would go away, and stop bothering. 
 
 The parlor showed them what they had done. They 
 had created something that did not exist before, just 
 as they had created a family out of two previously 
 separate individuals. They climbed to the top of this 
 their creation, and viewed the world. There were no 
 two ways about it: a successful man had a better home 
 than a man who was not successful, and the parlor was 
 the measure of it. When they came to take an inven- 
 tory for purposes of fire insurance, even Phanor was 
 surprised to see how successful he had been. It made 
 him proud and happy to see how much money he had 
 been able to spend on this symbol of his prosperity; 
 at the same time it made him cut down on expenditures 
 for the rest of the house for a time. 
 
 Sometimes, it did not seem possible that Phanor 
 Enday actually had a parlor. Why, it was only a few 
 years since he had lived in a miserable little lamp-lit 
 room at college, wondering how he was ever going to 
 be able to provide even so much for himself; and only 
 a few years more since he was a grubby little boy at 
 home, who sat dreaming over his school books in the 
 evening, listening to his father's complaints of the dif- 
 ficulty of living, and hoping desperately that some gen- 
 erous Deity would solve the problem of life for him, 
 since he could never hope to solve it for himself. 
 
 David Fleetwood had a little better position in the 
 Mill than Phanor, and his salary was bigger. David
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 31 
 
 was a little more of a success than Phanor. This gave 
 him a potential advantage, but he was kind-hearted 
 and good-natured, and made nothing of it. But Dolly 
 Fleetwood, who was a rather bouncing person of en- 
 tirely local intelligence, made everything possible of 
 the situation, often in so vindictive a manner as to 
 make Isabel's life a burden to her. 
 
 Dolly had been born in Wilton, and naturally knew 
 all the best people that is, the best of the Mill peo- 
 ple, which was all that was possible. She took it upon 
 herself to humble Isabel to a realization of her intrud- 
 ing inferiority, under the pretense of making her feel 
 at home and comfortable among her new neighbors. 
 Mrs. Fleetwood was not actually malicious, but there 
 was a strong band of condescension in her spectrum. 
 Isabel thought her horrid. But, of course, it would not 
 do to quarrel. 
 
 So brave was Isabel in her resistance, and so care- 
 fully did she cover her real feelings, that the contest 
 simmered down into a mere matter ^f rivalry in 
 parlors. 
 
 Tne earthen-ware stand under Isabel's rubber-plant, 
 for instance, was a challenge to Mrs. Fleetwood's sim- 
 ple wooden rack which David had knocked together 
 for the purpose of keeping the moist clay pot from the 
 carpet. Mrs. Fleetwood accepted the challenge, and 
 her response was a squat table of burnt bamboo. This 
 gave her an unquestioned advantage in stands, but 
 since the table was higher than Isabel's earthen-ware 
 support, it limited the size of the rubber-plant which
 
 32 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 could be put upon it. Isabel pointed this out to Mrs. 
 Fleetwood, who was unable to meet it squarely, and 
 shifted her ground. 
 
 She bought a large glass aquarium, filled with 
 sprawling water-plants and little ruined castles of 
 cement for the gold-fish to swim about. This was a 
 triumph, and Isabel, when she was called in to see it, 
 felt crushed and miserable, but was unable to do more 
 than admire the aquarium enthusiastically, which was 
 something, of course, but not any real answer. 
 
 By this time the Endays had their piano, and this 
 made up for a good many minor triumphs, but Isabel 
 decided to make sure, and bought an ebonized music 
 cabinet to match. Then she made Mrs. Fleetwood 
 come in and look at it. Mrs. Fleetwood had no piano, 
 and she could not pretend to any knowledge of music, 
 and she was fairly caught. The best she could do was 
 to say that she always dearly loved music, and in- 
 tended, if ever she had a daughter, to get an organ like 
 Professor Judd's, and have the child taught to play 
 on it. But this was borrowing strength from a future 
 generation, and did not count. After Mrs. Fleetwood 
 had gone, Isabel played for two hours. 
 
 In consequence of this rivalry, which went on, with 
 varying fortunes, for years, Isabel's pleasure in her 
 parlor was augmented. She took great delight in 
 spraying the leaves of her rubber-plant, cleaning the 
 Venetian glass, or polishing the mirror of the " Rosy 
 Dawn." These things were her very own; they had a 
 sacredness. The most hideous banality, in a store, was
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 33 
 
 only that, and nothing more, but if it was brought home 
 and put in the parlor, it became an intimate part of her 
 life, with which the rest of the world had no business. 
 It was this same feeling of sacredness which pre- 
 vented the Endays from keeping a servant, even long 
 after they could have afforded one. They did not want 
 a strange person around the house, making a ridicu- 
 lous pretense of knowing something and trying to 
 create the impression that they were somebody. In the 
 course of time, naturally, the prosperity overbalanced 
 the sacredness, and they took in a servant. It pleased 
 Isabel to be able to speak of her maid, and this, in 
 part, compensated for the assault on privacy, but it was 
 long before she was completely accustomed to it. Her 
 mother had never kept a servant. Certainly the En- 
 days were coming on. 
 
 Every morning at a quarter to seven Phanor got 
 out of bed, put on a dark brown dressing-gown over 
 his pajamas, and went down stairs to start the day. He 
 attended to the furnace, if it were winter, poked up the 
 kitchen fire, and moved the tea-kettle to the front of 
 the stove. Then he went to the front door to take in 
 his paper; he enjoyed doing this; it pleased him to be 
 thus visible for a moment, punctually every morning, 
 at his own front door, taking in his paper. There was 
 something so beautifully established about it. He 
 paused for a moment, to take a deep breath, and 
 imagined the neighbors saying, " There's Mr. Enday, 
 taking in his paper."
 
 34 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 When he came back upstairs to the bed-room, Isa- 
 bel would be partly dressed, and so perfect and pre- 
 cise was the organization of the Enday household that 
 she was always at the same stage of her dressing when 
 he pushed open the door. If she should happen not 
 to be, he asked if she were sick, and she hurried up. He 
 kissed her, roughly to cover his shyness, and sent her 
 off downstairs to get breakfast. The sound of the cof- 
 fee-mill came rumbling up through the house just as he 
 was tying his tie. It wasn't often he missed it. When 
 he got downstairs again, breakfast was ready. 
 
 During breakfast, he read the paper. This was not 
 because he did not care for her conversation, as he 
 had explained to her, once and for all, at the beginning, 
 but because he had no other chance to find out what 
 was going on in Wilton and the rest of the world. 
 From time to time he would find a head-line of inter- 
 est, and he would read out to her how some banker, 
 or real-estate man, had died, or that some one had been 
 ruined in a financial failure. Isabel would want to 
 know what the trouble had been, if it was a death, or 
 in the case of a failure, if the women and children had 
 been provided for. Sometimes these accounts of the 
 troubles into which other people got themselves were 
 so interesting, and kept them so long in discussion, that 
 Phanor would actually have to hurry to get to the 
 Mill on time. 
 
 As soon as the door closed behind him, Isabel would 
 go to the parlor window and wave her hand to him as 
 he turned the corner by the drug store. Phanor never
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 35 
 
 failed to look back. Then Isabel submerged herself in 
 her housework again, and Phanor went on into the 
 world of the Mill. 
 
 The Mill, built of gray granite, stood solidly beside 
 the river, taking up all one side of Center Street for a 
 third of its length. All day long the whirr and clatter 
 of the spinners echoed from that vast cliff of dingy 
 windows; at noon, when the whistle blew, and passers- 
 by stopped to compare their watches, the sudden 
 silence seemed like a stoppage of the revolution of the 
 earth. The horse-cars stood in long lines before the 
 main gate, and the throngs of workers poured out and 
 scrambled on precisely like gaily colored marbles 
 tipped from a box. 
 
 At night the windows gleamed darkly; the ma- 
 chinery was at last quiet, and the human part of the 
 world, dressed up in obvious finery, emerged to prome- 
 nade up and down before the brightly lighted windows 
 of the shops. The robust girls walked arm-in-arm in 
 rows across the sidewalk, bending double in occasional 
 screams of laughter, looking back over their shoulders 
 at the young men who stood in the store doorways, 
 smiling and nodding after them. 
 
 Beyond the Mill, an area of side streets was filled 
 with Mill-hands' houses; little boxes, all alike, painted 
 white, standing in rows; there were two doors and 
 four windows in the fagade of every house, chimneys 
 at each end, kitchen ells at the rear corners, and out- 
 houses in the back-yards. 
 
 Opposite the main gate of the Mill, Arbor Avenue
 
 36 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 ran out into the country. Along it stood the houses of 
 the people who had nothing to do with the Mill; the 
 Mill-people regarded them, as they regarded them- 
 selves, as of a different order of being. They were 
 stuck-up aristocrats. The Mill-people were common 
 toilers. 
 
 Off to the right of Arbor Avenue, a few quiet and 
 tree-lined streets contained the houses of the better 
 sort of Mill-people. The noise of the spinners never 
 reached these dull and comfortable houses, and the peo- 
 ple who lived in them found sanctuary from the dreary 
 world that is, the world of the Mill. By these pleas- 
 ant streets, where the birds sang in Spring and the 
 brown leaves fell in Autumn, the town measured its 
 growing prosperity. 
 
 From the rolling hills all about, where the muddy 
 roads wound down from the farms, the high gray walls 
 of the Mill showed above the roofs and tree-tops, and 
 the great chimney, with " W. T. & N. Y. Co.," done 
 vertically in yellow bricks, sending up a great black 
 plume of rolling smoke, proclaimed to Heaven that 
 here men had gathered to make life real. 
 
 In this world Phanor was forced to work and exist; 
 but he lived in Elm Street, to the right of Arbor Ave- 
 nue. The world was filled with people, and he didn't 
 like people. He wanted to be let alone. 
 
 When he came home for lunch, he was likely to be 
 completely changed by the events of the morning, and 
 at night, depending on what had happened during the 
 afternoon, he would be changed again. Isabel kept
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 37 
 
 careful watch of this, and tried to treat him as he 
 seemed to require. 
 
 All during the day, she was busy with her house- 
 work, and enjoyed it. There were times when she 
 found herself with nothing to do, but she was not a 
 person susceptible to boredom, and she soon checked 
 all tendencies towards despondency by the simple pro- 
 cess of reflecting on her blessings and advantages. 
 Now and again she was completely carried away by 
 her sense of happiness, and she would run into the par- 
 lor to contemplate her radiant face and bright eyes in 
 the mirror of the " Rosy Dawn," until she was compelled 
 to execute a fantastic dance out through the house to 
 the kitchen again, or upstairs to her sewing, from mere 
 excess of spirit. 
 
 In the evening, they lived. There was nothing so 
 fine, during the day, as coming home at night. Phanor 
 talked about the men in the Mill, or the new furniture 
 that they hoped to buy for the parlor, or the story that 
 David Fleetwood had told him of the trusted and 
 seemingly respectable man who had stolen some money, 
 and Isabel would bring forward her news, and tell how 
 she had been obliged to buy another dollar's worth 
 of milk-tickets, or how she had forgotten to empty the 
 pan under the ice-box, and had found a great puddle on 
 the floor. If Phanor didn't feel like talking, he pre- 
 tended to be worried about something, and stared at his 
 paper in silence, while Isabel brought out some fancy- 
 work or sat with a book before her and thought. 
 
 Rarely, some one came to see them, and then they
 
 38 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 turned up the gas in the parlor, and tossed remarks 
 back and forth, as if they were playing a game each 
 remark a challenge to think of something to say in 
 reply. They almost never went out; Phanor didn't 
 like to leave the house alone, and they were certain to 
 be late, lose sleep, and break up the routine of the 
 following day. He never made love to her, though 
 sometimes he would come behind her chair and curve 
 his palm under her chin, and sometimes he would catch 
 her hands as she was going upstairs ahead of him in the 
 dark. 
 
 All this seemed natural and right, and though they 
 both sometimes wondered why life seemed to have so 
 little in it, they never spoke of it. They knew the dan- 
 ger of expecting too much, and they had Phanor's suc- 
 cess to be thankful for. 
 
 So things went on. But at the end of a year an 
 event occurred which broke the continuity of life with 
 suddenness and finality.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ONE cold and windy night in December, Phanor 
 came home late from the Mill. He had sat at 
 his desk long after the clerks had gone; the roar of the 
 machinery had stopped; the clock was ticking noisily 
 and eternally; his was the only light in the long range 
 of frosty windows that stared out across the mill-pond. 
 He was fussing with the new shipping order, turning 
 over the printer's proofs, trying to imagine how the 
 thing would work when it was done. It was wrong, 
 but he couldn't mend it. Why the devil didn't printers 
 write like human beings? At last he tossed the papers 
 wearily up onto his desk, with the reflection that to- 
 morrow was another day, got his hat and coat, turned 
 out the light, and left. 
 
 At the door, the cold checked him. He turned up 
 the collar of his coat, drove his hands deep into his 
 pockets, and set out, thinking of home. The minutes 
 occupied in walking home, at the end of the day, were 
 among the pleasantest of Phanor's whole life. In his 
 imagination, he need not be consistent, nor reasonable, 
 as the Mill required him to be; he could just be him- 
 self, to stew over his worries, or reflect on his bless- 
 ings, with no one to stop him. 
 
 Now, then, did he not, in fact, have the best and 
 
 39
 
 40 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 happiest home a man ever had? To be sure, he had 
 done nothing to deserve it well, no; that was not 
 being fair to himself. His drudgery at the Mill, solid 
 and uncomplaining, was really faithful service, for 
 which the Mill was rewarding him. " Years of Faith- 
 ful Service " that was the phrase people used when 
 they presented loving-cups or engraved umbrellas to 
 men who had spent their lives at desks. Well, he was 
 getting on into years. Sometimes idlers and idealists 
 said that the world was not always just in rewarding 
 the faithful; Phanor, at any rate, had seen no evidences 
 of any injustice. Let a man work hard and faithfully, 
 giving " the best that was in him," and the world saw 
 to it that he had a safe home on windy nights. 
 
 Presently he would turn the corner by the drug 
 store, and see the lights of home. The Lights of 
 Home! How well the poets sometimes put things! 
 They must have watched people going home, and noted 
 their happiness. 
 
 What a good girl Isabel was, to be sure! Nothing 
 showy, perhaps; just a good, common creature, blos- 
 soming out into perfection by becoming his wife. Bless 
 her heart! The Lights of Home, and Isabel. 
 
 He rounded the corner, and started up Elm Street. 
 The lights did not appear. He slowed down, and 
 looked again. No light. Oh, yes, there ... no, that 
 was the Fleetwoods' light; he knew that red lamp- 
 shade. He walked faster, looking ahead against the 
 keen wind with such intensity that his eyes filled with 
 tears, and he was obliged to brush them away, theatri-
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 41 
 
 cally, with his hand. What could be the matter? Some 
 tragedy? Was Isabel out, at this time of night? 
 
 As he came nearer, there was no room for further 
 doubt; the whole front of the house was dark. What 
 could have happened? Robbers? Was Isabel lost in 
 the bitter night, wandering, cold and whimpering with 
 fright, through the wind-swept drifts? Or was it worse 
 even than that, and was she lying stiff and silent some- 
 where, and had she called his name before she died? 
 
 Oh, no ... there was a light in the kitchen. 
 
 Isabel was at home, then. His bewilderment 
 changed to rage when he saw how foolish he had been. 
 What was the meaning of this darkness in the front 
 hall? Did she think she could go ahead and break 
 all the Rules, without thinking of him at all? Well, 
 he would come stamping in, cold and weary, in his 
 Own Home, and demand his rights. " What's the 
 meaning of this? " he would ask. Then he'd see what 
 she had to say for herself. He'd find out what it was 
 all about. Trust him. 
 
 As he entered, he purposely tripped over the door- 
 mat, to emphasize the dangers of a darkened hall, and 
 ran noisily against the newel post at the foot of the 
 stairs. 
 
 The street lamp in front of the house shone in 
 through the parlor windows and traced on the walls 
 and floor the pattern of the lace curtains as delicately 
 as if by tropical moonlight. The huge shadow of the 
 rubber-plant, towering up, filled all one corner of the 
 room.
 
 42 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " What the devil . . ." he began, and then stopped, 
 so quieting was the effect of the fantastic shadows, and 
 so great a hush of spirit seemed to emanate from Isa- 
 bel, as she rose from where she had been sitting by the 
 window. He was full of questions for her to answer, 
 but she put herself at once into his arms, and he could 
 not ask. She put up her mouth to be kissed, and 
 Phanor kissed her, dumb with wonder. 
 
 " Phanor," she said. " I think we're going to have a 
 child." 
 
 He started, and caught her wrists strongly in his 
 hands, as if to force her to confess that it was not true. 
 She nodded her head. He put his arm around her, for 
 she seemed to want it, and stood waiting, without a 
 thought in his mind. Her sudden dependence put him 
 off his guard, and made him forget that he was stand- 
 ing in the parlor, still wearing his hat and overcoat. 
 
 " Isabel," he said, tenderly, and then, not knowing 
 what else to add, " Little girl." 
 
 Isabel felt a little guilty at the needlessly dramatic 
 manner in which she had chosen to make her an- 
 nouncement; she had been deeply moved at the con- 
 viction that her whole life, from thence forward, was 
 to be completely altered, but, even so, she knew that if 
 she should let her baby break into the daily routine, 
 Phanor would never forgive her. She was entirely de- 
 pendent on him now, and she realized the fact. Be- 
 sides, simply for herself, she could not allow life to 
 depart from its usual safe and satisfying channels.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 43 
 
 Phanor's thoughts were more definite. That a 
 trembling and timid woman should creep into his arms 
 in the darkened room, and tell him the thing that Isabel 
 had told him, was bad enough, but it was at its worst 
 when he realized that this ridiculous moonlight trick- 
 ery was associated with the most serious facts of 
 life. 
 
 For he saw at once the seriousness of the situation. 
 From now on, he would have not only a wife to sup- 
 port, but a baby. It meant an enormous increase of 
 responsibility, and the whole burden of it fell on the 
 one person who least wanted it, and could least sup- 
 port it. 
 
 He thought it over, as calmly as he could, and saw 
 what it amounted to. He had come to grips with the 
 Future which was always disarranging his plans, any- 
 way and had virtually set his hand to a promissory 
 note for ten thousand dollars, to be paid in instal- 
 ments of six or eight hundred each year, for as many 
 years as the child should be dependent on him and 
 God knew how much longer than that it might be! 
 all without the slightest security that the future would 
 protect him in the event of any emergency. 
 
 He had thought of having children, of course there 
 was no harm in just thinking of it but, Good Lord, 
 he hadn't realized! He could not reconcile himself 
 to the monstrous injustice of it. Life had played a 
 trick on him. 
 
 He blamed Providence for it, readily enough, but 
 Providence, somehow, seemed to shirk a share in the
 
 44 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 consequences. Here he was, just nicely started, and 
 then this had to happen ! 
 
 There was one encouraging feature of the situation, 
 he could blame Isabel. When they had discussed a 
 child, as a possibility, she had responded, with shining 
 eyes, in so tender and loving a manner as to make her 
 approval seem almost a request. It was she who had 
 gotten him in for it. It was true that she also had 
 made outrageous demands on the future, which it 
 would tax her to satisfy, but well, what had that to 
 do with it? He would try to be kind to her, he sup- 
 posed; but she needn't think she had any right to his 
 consideration. 
 
 " Well, I guess we're in a hole now, right enough," 
 he said, one evening. 
 
 " Why, what makes you say a thing like that? " 
 
 " Good Lord, Isabel! If you can't see it, I can't ex- 
 plain it to you! I hope I don't lose my job, that's all." 
 
 " Lose your job ! Why, what's happened to put an 
 idea like that into your head? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing's happened. But there's going to be 
 another mouth to feed before long, you want to re- 
 member. I hope I shall be able to meet my obliga- 
 tions." 
 
 "What nonsense, Phanor! Of course you will." 
 
 " That's easy to say. I hope the boy don't become 
 dependent on Charity when he's older, that's all." 
 
 He enjoyed this sort of talk, knowing that it was 
 himself who said it, and that it needn't be taken se-
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 45 
 
 riously. But when his Aunt Edna came to Wilton on a 
 visit, and talked in the same manner, he was bitterly 
 resentful. Why couldn't people let him alone? 
 
 " Ah! So there's a little stranger coming, is there? " 
 Aunt Edna said. 
 
 Phanor scowled at her, disapprovingly she was a 
 gray, mousy person, insignificant to look at, but sharp 
 as acid and Isabel merely nodded meekly in con- 
 firmation. 
 
 " Well, I hope you know what you're about," Aunt 
 Edna continued. " I'm sure I'd think twice before I 
 went ahead and took any such responsibility. Bring- 
 ing up a child, in these days, is something to think 
 about! " 
 
 " Of course," Isabel said, " Phanor and I appreciate 
 the responsibility." 
 
 " What do you know about it, child? Lands sakes! 
 The precious soul ! And left for Tom, Dick and Harry 
 to bring up! " 
 
 " I guess we'll do as well with it as anybody," 
 Phanor said, defiantly. 
 
 " Now, what makes you so cocksure? What expe- 
 rience have you ever had, I should like to know? Sup- 
 pose the child begins to eat you out of house and 
 home; what then, hey? Nothing but bills to pay, 
 morning, noon and night. Oh, you'll see! " 
 
 " Phanor's position . . ." Isabel began. 
 
 " Yes; and supposing something happens to Phanor? 
 What then? A private room in the hospital, like as not,
 
 46 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 for weeks on end, while he's getting back his strength, 
 and the doctors holding out their hands for the money. 
 That'll be a drain on you, I guess. Hey? " 
 
 "We've no reason to suppose that'll happen, Aunt 
 Edna," said Isabel. 
 
 " No, and the last person it happened to didn't have 
 any reason for supposing it would happen, either! 
 Well, all I can say is, I hope you know where the 
 money's coming from. Only, if I was in your shoes, 
 I'd have thought twice before I went and got all that 
 expensive furniture and fixings for my parlor. What 
 did you tell me you paid for that library table? " 
 
 " It was eighteen dollars," Isabel said. 
 
 " There; you see? Well, I hope the child don't be- 
 come dependent on Charity when he's older, that's all." 
 
 Phanor didn't try to protest, nor to meet Aunt 
 Edna's comment with argument; he took it out in 
 wishing she'd get along home about her business. He 
 hoped it was plain enough, now, that the whole thing 
 was unnecessary. Lord, things like this didn't happen 
 down at the Mill! 
 
 As time elapsed, he reached a state where the 
 thought of his obligations had less power to irritate 
 him, and he turned his mind to the problems of educa- 
 tion and conduct. On this point, at least, he wouldn't 
 be caught unprepared. 
 
 He knew how children should be brought up, for he 
 had had the experience of being a child himself. From 
 the vast jumble of ideas that swept in disorder through 
 his mind, he evolved a general theory that the proper
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 47 
 
 course was to give his child all the advantages he him- 
 self had lacked. It did not, in fact, occur to him to 
 give the child what he knew to be best, or what the 
 child seemed by temperament and character to de- 
 mand; he wanted only not to give it what was not 
 best, and to take care that it should not demand what 
 temperament and character ought not rightfully to 
 demand. 
 
 When he considered the probable sex of the child, 
 he found himself horribly embarrassed at the thought 
 that he might perhaps have a daughter. He felt that 
 he knew so little of women that he must inevitably fail 
 to create a good one, or even, since he had only the 
 vaguest notions of what went to make up a feminine 
 nature, of creating a complete one. He hoped very 
 much that his child would be a boy, or, if it had to be 
 a girl, that Isabel would have the definitive share in its 
 creation. 
 
 He was conscious of a lack of proper guidance in 
 his youth; he had not been told what life meant to him. 
 He intended to give his son the Key. The Key, that 
 is, which he had never had. Though he knew that he 
 should never have soared beyond the farthest stars, 
 even with the most favoring instruction, still, he might 
 have struck a higher mark if he had been released for 
 flight in the proper manner. 
 
 He thought he knew the deficiencies of his own up- 
 bringing, which was nearly the same thing, in his mind, 
 as knowing how to correct them, and he concluded that 
 the responsibility for being a father resolved itself, in
 
 48 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 the end, into a genius for correction, so that his son 
 should be, under him, what he himself would have 
 been had not his own father missed the essential idea. 
 
 His son would thank him for it, afterward. He had 
 heard that phrase before; now he knew what it meant. 
 
 If the child were a girl Oh, devil take it, what 
 should he do with a girl! He tried to discover what 
 happened to girls in the world, but he made no prog- 
 ress. It occurred to him that he might perhaps 
 treat her as if she were a boy. He had heard of that 
 sort of thing being done in plays, mostly. It was 
 reasonable, though. If he should try to make some- 
 thing of a girl, it would be only the same sort of thing, 
 in a lesser degree, that he would make of a boy. When 
 he tried to think out a plan for a girl's life, he could 
 see nothing but a series of shameful and degrading con- 
 tacts with things with which a girl had no business. 
 If she should want to marry, it would be practically 
 impossible to find a man good enough for her; there 
 was not a man in his whole circle of acquaintance 
 whom he did not know too well to trust in such a mat- 
 ter. However, the child would probably be a boy. 
 
 "It's quite a problem, isn't it? " he said to Isabel. 
 
 " I guess it is," she answered. " There's so many 
 sides to it. I suppose we'll just have to feel our way 
 along and do the best we can when the time comes." 
 
 " I don't like that way of going at these things," 
 Phanor objected. " It's best to have a whole program 
 thought out, and then you're not caught napping."
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 49 
 
 This was what Isabel hoped he would say. She 
 found herself being crushed and warped and turned 
 aside, at every step, by the relentlessness of life, and 
 she didn't see how she was ever to get through with it 
 unless Phanor had a program. Thank God she could 
 count on Phanor. 
 
 Of course, Phanor had no more thought out a pro- 
 gram than he had thought out anything else. He 
 simply did a great deal of serious worrying. 
 
 When the time arrived for Isabel to begin making 
 baby clothes, he saw that there was no escape. It 
 seemed as if she might, out of consideration for his 
 feelings, change her mind, and then there would be no 
 baby after all. But as the days passed she showed no 
 sign of changing her mind, and continued, in blind 
 faith, to make baby clothes. She was committing her- 
 self, and him. 
 
 She had lined a basket with soft materials and dainty 
 colors, ornamented with bows of ribbon, and as clothes, 
 and other articles, were finished, she put them away in 
 it to await the arrival of the owner. 
 
 Phanor would sit watching her at work, contemplat- 
 ing the basket in a reflective and dreamy manner, try- 
 ing to imagine it occupied, and trying to guess the 
 nature of the changes its occupancy would bring into 
 their lives. Bad as it all was, there was something 
 very sweet and moving in the way Isabel worked. 
 Phanor felt bungling and stupid, and unworthy the 
 gift of existence.
 
 SO THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " This youngster," he said, suddenly, like one who 
 had hesitated for a long time on the edge of speech. 
 " Do you think it will be a boy? " 
 
 " I don't know," Isabel answered. " I suppose we 
 can't tell. The doctor was telling me something about 
 heart-beats, but I didn't understand a word of what 
 he was saying. Would you like it to be a boy? " 
 
 " Oh, kind of," Phanor said. " I can't get used to 
 the idea of a girl. How can you go ahead with the 
 clothes and things, though, without knowing? " 
 
 " Babies are all alike for a little while," Isabel smiled 
 tolerantly. 
 
 " I see." Phanor was abashed. " Well, maybe a 
 girl some other time; but not this time." 
 
 He knew he was giving a false impression. He didn't 
 want ever to have another child, unless, that is, the pro- 
 cess of having this one should turn out to be easier than 
 he expected, which didn't seem likely. But he didn't 
 want to seem to be putting Isabel off. 
 
 " It's strange, isn't it? " he went on. 
 
 " It don't seem strange to me," Isabel said, soft-eyed, 
 stopping her work. 
 
 " I suppose not." Phanor saw plainly that she was 
 trying to make a fool of him. " Well, I hope it's a 
 boy. There's more sense to a boy." 
 
 "There's sense to a girl, too; I guess I know that. 
 But I'd like it to be a boy, too, if you want a boy." 
 
 Phanor scowled, and rattled his paper. 
 
 " Suppose he's sickly? " he said. " Lord, I hope 
 not! "
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 51 
 
 Isabel shut her lips very tight, as if she wanted to 
 prevent this thought from gaining entrance to her 
 mind. She was a poor weak woman, and life frightened 
 her at times; Phanor, who thought things out, had 
 been all through fear, and had come out on the other 
 side undaunted. 
 
 "Well, let's get a good doctor," Phanor went on. 
 " I wonder if this fellow knows anything about his 
 business." 
 
 " Everybody speaks very highly of him." 
 
 "Yes; well. Let's give the boy every chance we 
 can. It don't happen often. Crickey, I hope he's a 
 good husky youngster! A robust physique's a great 
 thing; gives a man a start. He'll never get anywhere 
 down at the Mill if he's got poor health to contend with. 
 Why wouldn't it be a good idea to get one of those 
 spring exercisers, like they have down at Hawley's, 
 and have him do exercises in the morning, and at night, 
 too, perhaps? I'm going to teach him to shoot; he 
 ought to know how to handle a gun." 
 
 " You foolish goose ! You talk as if he were a man 
 already. What do you know about handling a gun? 
 You didn't ever shoot. You'd have shot your silly 
 brains." 
 
 " Humph ! " said Phanor. " I guess not. That's 
 just it; it's a good thing; makes a boy self-reliant; 
 teaches him the value of life. If I'd had a gun when 
 I was a boy I'd know more than I do." 
 
 " Too bad you didn't." 
 
 "What does a woman know of that sort of thing,
 
 52 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Isabel? The boy's got to be brought up to know how 
 to take care of himself, hasn't he? I'm not going to 
 have him pampered. You'd make a molly-coddle of 
 him. That's ridiculous, Isabel." 
 
 " Well, of course, I don't want him to be a molly- 
 coddle. But it seems to me you're making your plans 
 pretty far ahead, when the baby isn't born yet. It 
 might be a girl, too." 
 
 " I think it will be a boy," Phanor said, as if he 
 were glad that they were making definite progress at 
 last. 
 
 " Well, you can't tell. But you'd better wait till you 
 see, I should think, before you go ahead and make a 
 great coarse shooter out of him." 
 
 "Humph! I suppose so. Only, if he's a good husky 
 youngster with red blood in him, I'm going to make 
 him into a man with red blood in him, too. None of 
 your Sissies for me! I was just speaking figuratively, 
 of course. He don't have to have a gun, of course. 
 Only it's a good thing for a boy to know how to handle 
 a gun. Why wouldn't it be a good idea to get one of 
 those little steel targets and set it up in the yard? 
 Crickey, I'd enjoy that, too! I'm going to have great 
 times with that boy of ours! " 
 
 Isabel finished the garment she was making, and 
 put it away in the basket. This was out of her world. 
 Phanor, of course, understood such things. She was 
 being asked to let her baby go out into the world and 
 be made gruff and rational . . . yet he would be a 
 source of happiness to her, even then . . . coming
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 53 
 
 back into the world where he had been born, a gen- 
 erous, kindly man, fond of his silver-haired mother, and 
 keeping his baby-love in his eyes. Yet here was a 
 basket, barely two feet long . . . 
 
 " I'm through for to-night, Phanor. Let's go to bed 
 early." 
 
 Phanor rose and started off about the house on the 
 round of going-to-bed duties, thinking of his plan for 
 a rifle range in the yard, where the neighbors would 
 see old Enday and his son, making fine sport together, 
 like the good fellows they were. 
 
 Isabel, too, in the weeks that followed, began to 
 think of her baby as a boy. It may have had an in- 
 fluence; at any rate, the child that came to the Endays 
 was a boy, with red blood in him, as the years were 
 bound to show.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 AMOS ENDAY was born on the seventh of July, 
 1875- 
 
 His parents called him "baby" as long as they 
 dared, because they had a stubborn notion that he was 
 no more than a sudden materialization of their mar- 
 riage, changing to Amos which was the name of his 
 great-grandfather, who had been the whaling captain 
 out of Nantucket only when he began to show a ten- 
 dency to become an actual person. 
 
 This tendency frightened them badly; to call the 
 baby Amos, to see him grow to a recognition of him- 
 self as Amos, to find him, in the course of years, actu- 
 ally becoming a person named Amos Enday, filled them 
 with apprehension. At times it seemed as if it would 
 have been better not to have given him a name at all; 
 that, surely, would have prevented his becoming any- 
 body. People would ask, " And who are you, my little 
 man? " and this materialization, this symbol, would 
 pipe up and say, " I'm Amos Enday." It was prepos- 
 terous. Why, they might have chosen a different 
 name for him, and then where would this " Amos En- 
 day " have been? If they had altered his name to 
 'Rastus, they would almost have expected him to 
 change color during the night, and greet them as a pic- 
 
 54
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 55 
 
 caninny in the morning. They called him " son " for 
 a time, and tried to fight it off by that road. But the 
 fact remained: they had a personality on their hands. 
 However, there was no stopping it now; the boy 
 was born, they had called him Amos, and he was being 
 Amos. They braced themselves, and prapared for the 
 worst. 
 
 Amos found himself, from the very first, in a world 
 of wonder and glory. But he also found himself sur- 
 rounded by dangers, and he fought against them. He 
 used to speculate on the beginnings of his own indi- 
 vidual life, feeling that if he could discover where he 
 came from he might gain a vague idea of where he 
 was meant to go. 
 
 He could see one trivial incident standing out 
 through the fog of his early experience, and this he 
 came to consider the dawn of his self-consciousness. 
 
 He could remember running around the parlor in a 
 circle, carrying a small stick cross-wise in his mouth, 
 like a horse's bit, and shouting the words " Ninety- 
 five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety- 
 nine, 'hundred," in what seemed to him to be thunder- 
 ing tones, in time to the beats of his foot-falls on the 
 floor. This activity left in his mind an impression of 
 grandeur. His resounding steps were stirring, like 
 charging horses, or freight-cars; the stick in his mouth 
 gave him an unhuman, machine-like feeling; the num- 
 bers from ninety-five to one hundred, which he had 
 no doubt just learned from his patient mother, had a
 
 5 6 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 mighty sound. He remembered the glorious unreality 
 of it; it was like Roman Legions on the march. He 
 remembered how his father had stopped his antics. 
 
 " Amos, quit that racket! You're not to run in the 
 parlor; you'll break something. And a stick, too! 
 Here, give me that stick. First thing you know you'll 
 run it down your throat." 
 
 Amos stopped, gave up his stick, and saw the hero- 
 ism fade out of life. He took up separately each asser- 
 tion that Phanor had made: how did his feet wear out 
 the carpet any faster than great Mrs. Fleetwood's feet, 
 when she came to call? Father didn't put her out of 
 the parlor. Why didn't he? What was he going to 
 break? The piano? How could he run the stick down 
 his throat if he held it cross-wise in his mouth? 
 
 He got an experimental stick from the wood-box, 
 and putting the end of it against the roof of his mouth, 
 tapped it gently with his hand. It would be terrible to 
 be gouged in the mouth with a stick. If he had been 
 holding it that way, he might, possibly, have run it 
 down his throat; but not when he held it cross-wise 
 between his teeth. He put it between his teeth and fell 
 elaborately, to test his theory, and pinched his lip so 
 painfully as he rolled on the carpet that he had to 
 struggle to keep back a cry. But he was satisfied that 
 it was an entirely different sort of injury from the one 
 which his father had predicted. 
 
 He would have liked to argue the question, point by 
 point, to see which was right. But he knew that his 
 father would be " busy " which was the same thing as
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 57 
 
 being cross, and he would merely be scolded for talk- 
 ing nonsense. 
 
 Well, there it was; as soon as he found something 
 splendid, it turned out that there was something the 
 matter with it. He never thought of the incident with- 
 out rage boiling up within him at having been so bul- 
 lied out of an intellectually unassailable position. 
 
 A short time before Amos was born, Mrs. Fleetwood 
 had told Isabel that she too was expecting a baby. 
 This was rather disconcerting to Isabel, and the man- 
 ner in which the announcement was made took away 
 none of the spirit of emulation which it implied. It 
 was a challenge. Isabel accepted it, since there was 
 no other way, but she hoped very much that Mrs. 
 Fleetwood's baby would not be a boy; then there would 
 be an obvious difference, and the inevitable process of 
 comparison would be more difficult. 
 
 Of course, in the face of the impending mystery, the 
 two women could not wage war quite unregardful, as 
 if the having of babies was no more than the adding 
 of ornaments to the parlor; they really achieved a 
 feeling of sister-hood which would have been impossi- 
 ble to them in their ordinary relations, and spent long 
 hours in talk together, like girls with dolls. Neither 
 of them knew exactly what she was doing, and the fact 
 of their common reliance on Nature brought them to- 
 gether as nothing else had ever done before, or ever 
 did again. 
 
 As for the fathers, they were proud and delighted 
 at the idea of having children, and let it go at that.
 
 58 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 But on the subject of the coming financial burdens 
 they opened their hearts to each other with passionate 
 abandon. 
 
 But Mrs. Fleetwood's baby was a boy also " by 
 chance," as Isabel said and the battle began again in 
 the field of training and education. 
 
 Naturally Amos did not know of these competitive 
 relations between his mother and Mrs. Fleetwood. 
 Dick occurred in Amos' life like a natural and unpre- 
 meditated fact; Dick simply was there. For Dick, 
 Amos was there, also. Though Mrs. Fleetwood suc- 
 ceeded in making a rather chesty young man of Dick, 
 the two got on well together until they were separated 
 by the progress of events. 
 
 Once Amos mentioned at home that he thought Dick 
 had a nicer mother than he had himself. 
 
 "Why, Amos! " cried Isabel, very much shocked. 
 "How can you say such a terrible thing as that? 
 What gave you that idea, I should like to know? " 
 
 He managed to convey the idea that he had noticed 
 a certain lack of restraint between himself and Isabel 
 which did not obtain between Dolly Fleetwood and 
 Dick. Isabel was angry at this, and took it out on 
 Amos, telling him that he ought to be ashamed of him- 
 self for not knowing that no one on earth ever had a 
 better mother than his own. Amos saw that it was 
 natural and right for parents to boast of their good- 
 ness, and call upon God to witness that no one sur- 
 passed them. 
 
 He began to suspect that perhaps Mrs. Fleetwood
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 59 
 
 was on her good behaviour when he was present since 
 she couldn't help regarding him as an ambassador and 
 a spy from Isabel. 
 
 He took Dick into confidence on this point, and 
 asked for particulars. He had noticed, on the oc- 
 casions when Dick came to his house to play, that Isa- 
 bel was exceedingly polite to Dick when the time came 
 to send him home, but that as soon as he was gone she 
 was very curt and business-like about putting away 
 the toys; in like manner, Dick said that Dolly was a 
 model of courtesy in shooing Amos out of her house, 
 but that she swept up the steamships and railroad 
 yards like an avenging cyclone when he had gone. 
 
 When he got home that night he watched his mother 
 carefully for a long time, and decided that she was 
 right about being the best mother a boy ever had, for 
 he liked her better than any one else in the world, even 
 unrestrained as she was. 
 
 Amos had once been given a book which described 
 the play-room of a little girl who lived in England; it 
 was a room made especially for her, and had a frieze of 
 lovely animals, following one another endlessly around 
 the walls; it contained the pictures that she liked best, 
 selected by herself in the shops; her favorite books 
 were in the corner, in her own book-case; it was spe- 
 cifically mentioned that she might, if she wished, draw 
 pictures on the floor with chalk. To Amos, this 
 sounded like a fairy-tale of the most improbable sort. 
 He played on the floor of his mother's sewing-room;
 
 60 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 the wall-paper had a stupid border of armorial bear- 
 ings; the pictures were stuffy and unreal, meaning 
 nothing; his books were kept downstairs in the gen- 
 eral family book-case; the floor was carpeted, and he 
 could not even " litter " it. He used to wonder what 
 it would be like to leave one's toys out on the floor, in 
 their proper places, over night, or, when one felt in the 
 mood, to look at a picture one liked. 
 
 He supposed that these things were true for the lit- 
 tle English girl because she was in a book. He liked 
 her, in the book, because of her room, and because of 
 the fact that her stockings were always carefully 
 pulled up a virtue which he could not himself achieve 
 and he resolved to marry her, if ever he should catch 
 her out in real life. 
 
 But real life, even, seemed to be different, for her. 
 She used to look from her window into a sort of street 
 that was called a " crescent." There were no Cres- 
 cents in Wilton. She took delight in gardens, and in 
 visits to the sea; she had a nurse and a governess and 
 a pony-chaise, and she used sometimes to get the gar- 
 dener to let her look at the bees. " The " bees as if 
 bees were a matter of course. There was a haunting 
 and sweet strangeness about it all. 
 
 Or was it he himself who was different? Certainly, 
 if that were true, it was a disadvantage; he was 
 plainly below the level of normal happiness. Yet the 
 Fleetwoods for example didn't have any bees, and 
 they never went to the sea. The sea. What was it, 
 really? His mother had told him that his great-grand-
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 61 
 
 father for whom he was named, had been to sea. But 
 that was long ago, and his great-grandfather was now 
 dead. Had everything happened long ago? Or was it 
 still going on somewhere? 
 
 In the quest for the reality of happiness, he used to 
 get what he could from the parlor. It was the very 
 best thing in the Endays' life, and where else was he 
 to look? 
 
 The red jardiniere made a sound like a temple bell 
 when he tapped it with his knuckles, and the rubber- 
 plant that sprouted from it could be used as a tropical 
 jungle where cannibals lived and where hunters made 
 monkey's throw cocoanuts at them. The dim space 
 under the table could be made to echo with the roars 
 of tigers ; the parlor table was better than other tables 
 in the house for such purposes, because it had a for- 
 bidden, secluded atmosphere, like a real forest. But 
 it mussed his blouse to crawl into the forest. The 
 carved lines on the back of the patent-rocker were 
 entertaining, because he could begin on one side and 
 follow through with his thumb nail all the intricacies 
 of the pattern until he came out on the other side, 
 having gone through every line and not using any line 
 more than once. There was something mysterious 
 about this. But to reach the top of the chair-back he 
 had to kneel in the seat, and that was bad for the 
 springs. The peacock feathers could be taken out of 
 the jars to be admired and dreamed over, and he found 
 that they were not difficult to balance on his nose.
 
 62 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 But there was always the danger that he would stag- 
 ger into something and break it. The piano had keys 
 made of elephant's teeth, grown yellow " because he 
 had no mother to make him brush them;" Amos used 
 to strike the lower notes reverently, thinking sadly of 
 the little orphan elephant, who had given up his teeth, 
 and was now wondering, perhaps, where they were. 
 But the sound of the notes was likely to be annoying to 
 people who were " busy." 
 
 The picture called "Alone" was one of the most 
 beautiful things in the world. It was lovely and sad. 
 Amos never discovered what it meant, but it filled him 
 with emotion. He used often to climb on a chair to 
 be near the lonely girl; he alternated between a feel- 
 ing of gratitude that he was not thus alone, as night 
 was coming on, with only one oar, in the middle of a 
 swamp, and a wish that he might be in exactly that 
 forlorn position, and be so beautiful and so melan- 
 choly. He would think of her when he was lonely in 
 bed; she knew that he was there, and he knew that she 
 was in the parlor in her boat, and that made things 
 seem easier. 
 
 But he could not always take away with him the 
 imagination of the parlor. There was too great a con- 
 trast between the parlor and the world. 
 
 If he could make the parlor come true! If only he 
 could get his hands on the ... on the ... on what 
 the parlor represented ... on what the parlor should 
 have represented. If only . . . 
 
 But the parlor was surrounded by a fence of pro-
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 63 
 
 hibitions. All the interesting things were labeled 
 " Do not touch." The parlor door was open, some- 
 times, to the body, but it was never open to the spirit. 
 It was fine and wonderful, but it was not for such as 
 Amos. 
 
 " Amos! " said his mother. " How many times must 
 I tell you that you're not to lie on the floor in the par- 
 lor? Look how you've mussed up your clean blouse!" 
 
 " What are you up to now, Amos? " This was 
 Phanor speaking. " You're not to climb in that chair; 
 you'll break the springs. Now mind what I say." 
 
 " When you're older, Amos, and can behave like a 
 gentleman, I've no objection to your sitting in the par- 
 lor as much as you like." 
 
 " Well, I should think that was a fine place to play 
 with trains! In the parlor! " 
 
 When Phanor said, " First thing you know you'll 
 have that rubber-plant over onto the floor," it was a 
 sign that Amos was invoking the spirit of the jungle. 
 
 Naturally enough, he banished the parlor from his 
 affections as soon as he could afford to do so. 
 
 The evening was the best part of the day. When 
 Phanor came home from the Mill, Amos went to meet 
 him in the hall. Phanor was usually glad to get home, 
 and that, in itself, seemed to brighten things up. Some- 
 times, too, he had presents in his pockets; a bag of 
 lemon drops, or a ball, which " must not be thrown in 
 the house," or some thread bobbins from the Mill. 
 The bobbins were of varying sizes; the larger ones 
 made good locomotive wheels or lumber trucks, and
 
 64 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 the smaller ones were useful as kegs of nails, drums, or 
 mortar-tubs. Phanor always handed them out rather 
 contemptuously. 
 
 After he had emptied his pockets, Phanor changed 
 his clothes, to emphasize the difference between Home 
 and the Mill, and then they had supper. Supper was a 
 pleasant meal, because they were all together at it, in 
 a more real sense than at breakfast or lunch, and be- 
 cause it was a prelude to the delightful evening of 
 reading that was to come. 
 
 As soon as the supper dishes were cleared away, 
 Isabel read to Amos from the book which he had se- 
 lected while she had still been busy in the kitchen. 
 The land of wonderful things was reached again 
 through books, and Amos would sit at his mother's 
 feet, his chin on his hands, listening and dreaming, and 
 wondering how the books could manage to know such 
 delightful people and places. 
 
 What an extraordinary thing it was that there should 
 be a charcoal-burner, who lived in a wood and had a 
 beautiful daughter! How wonderful that there should 
 be a gentleman from Ceylon who lived across the 
 street! Where were the vast ranges of snow-capped 
 mountains, the great rivers, the philosophers and the 
 poets and the ruined castles, the bells that rang for 
 Dick Whittington, and the people who never seemed 
 to have to think of bed-time? 
 
 He used often to interrupt when things were not 
 sufficiently clear, and he absorbed the explanations 
 that were given him as eagerly as he absorbed the
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 65 
 
 story itself, but it never entered his mind to attempt to 
 put into words the main question: how could it be true 
 that there should be two worlds, one filled with ro- 
 mance and wonder, and the other hard and literal and 
 common-place, and that both these worlds should be 
 true? 
 
 To be sure, one of the worlds was in books. But the 
 books always told exactly where things happened. It 
 was in London, or in the country, or somewhere 
 somewhere else. What was the trouble? Alice had 
 solved the problem by going down the rabbit-hole and 
 through the looking-glass. But that was not a true 
 story. There were so many things, and the days were 
 going by, and he was missing them! 
 
 He had asked his father and mother to help him ex- 
 plain the paradox, but they never had any answer 
 ready at the time, and later, when they had thought 
 up something to tell him, he seemed to have forgot- 
 ten about it. Moreover, they were eager to put it ouc 
 of their minds as soon as he would let them, for it was 
 simply another annoying manifestation that there were 
 now three Endays living at 97 Elm Street, instead of 
 two. After all they had done to prevent it hopes and 
 prayers and steady resistance here was Amos Enday, 
 going his own way! 
 
 " I don't know what's got into that boy," Phanor 
 said to Isabel, one night after Amos had gone to bed. 
 "He sits and thinks so much."
 
 66 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 "I know," Isabel answered. "I wonder what he 
 thinks about? " 
 
 " It's beyond me. I caught him at it to-night, and I 
 said c A penny for your thoughts,' and what do you 
 suppose he asked me? " 
 
 " I don't know. What? " 
 
 " Well, he said, ' Where do people that write books 
 live? ' Did you ever hear of such an idiotic question? " 
 
 " I wonder what made him ask that? What did you 
 tell him? " 
 
 " I said they lived up in trees, at first. And you 
 ought to see the way his eyes stuck out! Then I saw 
 he was serious, and I told him they lived in houses, 
 same as other people. And then he said, ' What 
 houses? ' Of all the fool questions! " 
 
 " Well, you know how boys are," Isabel said. 
 
 " Yes, but ... I don't know. I wonder if he'll ever 
 amount to anything, when he grows up? " 
 
 Isabel smiled in a far-away manner. 
 
 " He will, of course," she said. " But it seems such 
 a long road! " 
 
 " How does Amos get on with his lessons? " Phanor 
 asked suddenly, one evening. 
 
 " Oh, good enough. He's not a dull boy. But I 
 think he ought to be going to school in the fall." 
 
 " Oh, Lord! More trouble! I haven't got any con- 
 fidence in that MacReady woman, I tell you that 
 much."
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 67 
 
 " Everybody speaks very highly of her, though." 
 
 " Sap-head! " said Phanor. 
 
 "Well, of course, Dolly's going to send Dick to 
 Waverly." 
 
 " Good idea. I'll bet they know something, down 
 there." 
 
 " It's not in our ward, you know; it'll cost extra." 
 
 " What's the cost got to do with it when the boy's 
 whole future's at stake, Isabel? " Then Phanor 
 thought for a moment. " I suppose Miss MacReady 
 knows as much as any of them though, at that." 
 
 " How you talk! What have you got against Miss 
 MacReady, I should like to know? " 
 
 " She's a sap-head. The whole lot of them are sap- 
 heads." 
 
 "Why, Phanor! She keeps a good school; every- 
 body says that. The children are nice children. Oh, 
 I saw three of the cunningest little tots go by the house 
 to-day! They had their books done up in straps. 
 They live over the bridge; I see them nearly every day. 
 And the water was running down the gutter and they 
 stopped to watch a stick go down and they laid their 
 books right down smack in the mud." 
 
 " Dirty little Micks! " said Phanor. 
 
 " I went out and spoke to them. ' For shame/ I 
 said. ' To put your nice books down in the mud like 
 that! ' " 
 
 " What did they say? " 
 
 " They ran."
 
 68 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Phanor pondered a moment, wondering why people 
 couldn't have some consideration for other people's 
 feelings. 
 
 " Well," he said. " I hate to have a boy of mine 
 go out in the street and play with the dirty Micks. It 
 seems a shame. The boy's so sensitive to influences. 
 But I suppose there's no way out of it." 
 
 " Then do you think he ought to go to school hi the 
 fall? " 
 
 " What do you ask me for? It's you that's got the 
 boy's bringing-up in charge, not me." 
 
 " What an idea! Your own boy! " 
 
 " What do you want to keep running to me for? I 
 don't know what conditions he's going to meet, do I? " 
 
 " Well, I'm glad we kept him home as long as we 
 did; I think he'll get ahead faster, now. But he's over 
 nine; I think he ought to go in the fall." 
 
 "And play with dirty Micks in the street? No, 
 thanks! " 
 
 " Well, what do you want him to do? " 
 
 " Do? Do? There you go again! " 
 
 " I should think you'd take some interest, Phanor." 
 
 "That's ridiculous, Isabel! Just because I don't 
 want to have the boy made a hoodlum of, you say I 
 don't take any interest. I didn't say I thought he 
 ought to go to school, did I? I just suggested that he 
 asked a lot of fool questions. And you try to make 
 out I want to chase him out of the house." 
 
 In short, it was decided to send Amos to school in 
 the fall.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 69 
 
 The day came when the matter was brought to the 
 attention of Amos himself. Isabel asked him what he 
 would think of putting away his toys and going to 
 school like other boys. He was delighted with the idea, 
 and accepted it with enthusiasm, though he didn't quite 
 like to put away his toys. Still, it would mean that he 
 was grown up, and that would be worth everything. 
 
 But as the day drew nearer, and became, from a 
 vague " some day," to " some day next week," and 
 finally to " to-morrow," he felt his courage slip away 
 from him. It was a terribly important thing to be 
 grown up; he had no faith in his ability to act the 
 part. It was evident that it would make him over 
 into an entirely different sort of person, and, in his 
 heart, he was not sure that he could stand being dif- 
 ferent. At least, not just yet. These things always 
 came upon one when one was so desperately unpre- 
 pared for them! 
 
 On the great morning, which arrived inexorably, in 
 spite of his prayers for delay, he was hustled through 
 an unusually punctual breakfast, and dressed in his 
 best clothes new corduroy trousers, a fresh white 
 blouse with a broad stiff collar and a flowing red tie. 
 As his mother knelt on the floor before him to give the 
 final brush to his yellow curls, he noticed that she 
 looked grave, which she wouldn't have done, he rea- 
 soned, unless there had been some basis for his own 
 apprehension. She did not seem to be able to help him 
 out of the pit of fear into which he was slipping. He 
 did not know, of course, how frightened she was.
 
 70 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 He made a last stand. 
 
 "Mother," he said. " Couldn't I just go on being 
 your little boy? " 
 
 Isabel smiled tenderly and patted his shoulder. 
 
 "You'll be mother's little boy just the same, dar- 
 ling." 
 
 Somewhat comforted by that, but trembling and on 
 the edge of tears, he took her hand, and they set out.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE school-house was a dingy brick building 
 about ten blocks from home, set on the very 
 edge of town, at the end of Arbor Avenue, in a district 
 where vacant lots and curbless streets were struggling 
 for supremacy with cheap yellow tenements in the first 
 rawness of their youth. It was a region new to Amos, 
 and it filled him with horror; the tenements seemed 
 unreal and terrible, because none of the people he 
 knew lived in such houses, and the forlorn and muddy 
 streets seemed pitiful lonely and unprotected. 
 
 But he forgot his terror in contemplation of the 
 school-house itself. It stood bleakly alone in the waste, 
 a cheap candy-store across the road from it, a brown 
 wooden chapel on the corner near it; these buildings 
 constituted a group, huddled together as if for mutual 
 protection, in a primeval world. It was hard to rea- 
 lize that the school-house was the center of the knowl- 
 edge of all the Universe. In fact, passing strangers 
 had several times mistaken it for an Insane Asylum. 
 
 He held tight to his mother's hand as they crossed 
 the play-ground. As he looked at the boys and girls, 
 he was fascinated by the thought that they were 
 school-children, that they knew. They watched him 
 with curiosity as he passed; he thought he saw con- 
 tempt in their eyes, and a challenge. 
 
 71
 
 72 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 He was taken into a dim office, which smelled of 
 chalk-dust, and introduced to Miss MacReady, the 
 Principal, a hard, grim woman, who was poor in spirit, 
 and resented it. 
 
 " I hope you're going to be a good boy," she said, 
 putting her large firm hand under his chin. 
 
 He nodded his head free of her grip, wondering why 
 she thought there was a possibility that he would not 
 be a good boy. 
 
 " I hope you'll learn a great deal," Miss MacReady 
 continued. 
 
 He was very much interested in all the arrange- 
 ments. Everything was different, and strange. When 
 the principal spoke to him, he had just noticed that the 
 walls of the room were entirely surrounded with black- 
 boards, so that her remark seemed like an interrup- 
 tion; he was wondering if these blackboards were the 
 school equivalent of the floor in the little English girl's 
 room, on which she could draw with chalk. 
 
 Then the bell rang, and the children came trooping 
 noisily in; the Principal and Isabel and Amos set out 
 down a long corridor, passing the doors of school- 
 rooms. On the walls of the corridor were pictures; he 
 noticed a portrait of George Washington, and a picture 
 of a lion in a cage the cage was made of slats of 
 wood, screwed to the frame of the picture and a 
 scene representing some women in filmy clothes, danc- 
 ing under trees. Later he found that none of the chil- 
 dren ever looked at them, and he never did so himself. 
 
 He was presented to Miss Whittier, who also made
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 73 
 
 some remark about being good, and then he was left 
 by Miss Mac Ready and his mother who gave him a 
 farewell smile to which he was too miserable to re- 
 spond at an inky little desk in Grade Two, behind a 
 girl with yellow pigtails, who kept turning around to 
 look at him. His mother had gone. He supposed that 
 all the other children had come alone when they had 
 first begun school, and it amazed him to think of their 
 fortitude. He would never be able to manage things 
 like that. 
 
 He learned that the girl in front of him was named 
 Harriet. Miss Whittier seemed kind, and took an in- 
 terest in making him feel comfortable and at home. 
 She announced to the room in general that he was 
 Amos, a new boy, whom she hoped they would like, and 
 they all turned and stared at him, nearly killing him 
 with embarrassment. He wondered if he could ever 
 hope to be like other people. 
 
 There was some talk of addition and subtraction, 
 and vague hints with respect to knowledge of penin- 
 sulas and rivers, but in these activities Amos had no 
 part. He sat at his desk at " position," with his hands 
 folded before him, and listened. He had been prepared 
 to put his trust in school, and school seemed unwilling 
 to accept him. He was out of it forever. 
 
 When whispering recess came, it was worse. The 
 buzz of conversation did not include him. Miss Whit- 
 tier raised the window to expectorate; he watched her 
 in a dreadful fascination. Noticing his look, and seem- 
 ing to resent it, she suggested to the class that the new
 
 74 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 boy was lonely, and that it would be nice if some of the 
 other boys would speak to him. Amos smiled grate- 
 fully at her. 
 
 The boy across the aisle moved into Amos' seat, an- 
 nounced that his name was Bert, and suggested that 
 they make spit-balls. 
 
 " Make 'em small," he said. " We'll put 'em in our 
 pencil-boxes, to keep. They get hard. I got a nair- 
 gun." 
 
 Amos chewed paper eagerly, and made spit-balls. 
 When Miss Whittier wasn't looking, Bert flipped one 
 across the room, and Amos ; in plain sight, was about to 
 follow his example, when Bert stopped him, and said 
 that you weren't supposed to throw spit-balls. 
 
 " I got my pencil-box full," he said. " She'd be 
 mad. Let's get yours full. You got a good 'raser. 
 Gimme it? " 
 
 Amos nodded. " You can have it," he said. 
 
 The windows were opened wide, and they all stood 
 up and did exercises. Amos managed fairly well to 
 keep in time with the rest, and wondered what connec- 
 tion this activity would ultimately be revealed to have 
 with the process of knowing all about everything. 
 
 Then whispering recess was over, and Bert moved 
 back to his own seat, taking with him Amos' new 
 eraser, which his mother had given him. This made 
 him very unhappy. Still, it had bought him Bert's 
 friendship. He had managed to get himself included 
 in the school. He sat again at "position," thinking
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 75 
 
 that Bert was the finest person he had met in the whole 
 outside world. 
 
 The session closed with singing. Amos found the 
 place in the book, though he could not make out the 
 words at the speed with which they were sung. He 
 sat listening to the shrill chorus. This was fine. They 
 sang of the loveliest things in the world; a song which 
 asserted: 
 
 " The summer time is coming, 
 The Spring is on the wane . . ." 
 
 a sentiment which filled Amos almost to bursting with 
 a cloudy idea of the beauty of life. How lovely! 
 " The Spring is on the wane! " This was fine. 
 
 But it had to end. They all stood up, did the " I 
 pledgallegiance tomy flag," the doors were opened by 
 Tony, the boy who sat in the corner seat, and the room 
 full marched out, two by two, to the coat-racks in the 
 hall. 
 
 Amos saw that he was going to learn all about every- 
 thing. This, he thought, was what he had been waiting 
 for. It might have been better, to be sure, if he had 
 been put in touch with it sooner. But he was in 
 touch with it now. He had found the Great World. 
 
 He was through, now, with Home. Now came 
 school. His loyalty was divided; he now had two pre- 
 ceptors, instead of one. They taught him different 
 things, and, since he couldn't make up his mind which
 
 76 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 of them to trust, he spent six lonely years in deciding 
 to distrust them both. He was heart-broken at the 
 thought of turning away from any one or anything that 
 would accept his affection, but there seemed no help 
 for it. 
 
 Well, if it had to be hard, let it be hard. They 
 would find that he could go through with it, in spite of 
 everything. 
 
 He ran home as fast as he could go, thinking how 
 delighted his mother would be when he told her. They 
 would talk it over together, and get things straight to 
 start. They would get things straight, and then . . . ! 
 
 He came bursting into the house by the front door, 
 calling for his mother. She answered from the kitchen. 
 For a second he stood silent. How should he begin? 
 It was so tremendously important to begin at the proper 
 place, and he knew so little how to select the proper 
 place. If he could get this first gesture to come right 
 now, at this supremely important moment, then the 
 whole of life would be solved. 
 
 He arrived in the kitchen. 
 
 " Mother," he said. " Miss Whittier spits out the 
 window." 
 
 Isabel was obviously surprised. 
 
 " Oh, no, I guess not," she said. 
 
 " Yes, she does, too," Amos insisted. " In whisper- 
 ing recess. I saw her. It's three minutes. She put 
 up the window like this . . ." He began to illustrate. 
 
 Isabel thought best to forget her incredulity.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 77 
 
 " Have you been a good boy? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Mother's little school-boy," Isabel said. 
 
 Amos stared back at her. What had gone wrong? 
 
 " Did you forget your cap? " 
 
 " It's on," said Amos, putting up his hands to his 
 head. 
 
 " Yes; well, take it off in the house, my son. Run 
 upstairs and change your clothes. Mother's put every- 
 thing out on the bed. Fold the things neatly, remem- 
 ber." 
 
 Amos wandered off upstairs and took off his best 
 clothes. 
 
 Here was bad news, to be sure. There had been 
 some mistake. It had all been so wonderful, so filled 
 with promise . . . but you couldn't get around the 
 Conspiracy. People just wouldn't tell. 
 
 He went down to the parlor, and pushed himself 
 back into a deep corner of the sofa. It couldn't be 
 that he was the only one who saw things to be ex- 
 plained. No; it was just that they would not tell. 
 Why, they would not even confirm his suspicion that 
 there was something to tell about! Some vast, all- 
 including Something, the understanding of which would 
 make all plain. You couldn't get around the Con- 
 spiracy. 
 
 They had all seemed to know about it, there at school. 
 They had sung a song about " the Spring is on the 
 wane." He didn't know what that meant, but all the 
 rest did. He tried to sing it, although the tune had
 
 78 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 entirely escaped his memory Oh, it was pitiful! So 
 great and glorious an idea, so close to the heart of the 
 matter, and he could come no nearer to it than this 
 vague meaningless wail! And he had given away his 
 new eraser! 
 
 When Isabel came to find him, he was on the edge of 
 tears. 
 
 " What's the matter, little man? " she asked. 
 " Something gone wrong? " 
 
 " Nothing," Amos sobbed. 
 
 " Try and tell mother all about it." 
 
 Well, perhaps he could trust her after all these 
 years; perhaps it was not too much to hope that he 
 could begin again. Before that thought, his tears 
 vanished. 
 
 " We did ' I pledgallegiance tomy flag ' in school," he 
 said. " When the boy opens the doors, and it's over, 
 we all stand up, like this, and we go like that, and we 
 say ' I pledgallegiance ' and go get our hats. Bert's 
 got a nair-gun." 
 
 " Who's Bert? " 
 
 " Boy by the name of Bert," Amos explained. 
 " What does it mean, ' I pledgallegiance '? " 
 
 Isabel rose and gave the salute. " I pledge al- 
 legiance to my flag, and the Republic for which it 
 stands . . ." 
 
 " Yes! " cried Amos excitedly. " We did like that! 
 What's it for? " 
 
 " It means the United States," Isabel said. 
 
 She knew, all the time!
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 79 
 
 " We sang a song about the Spring is on the wane," 
 he went on. " What does it mean? " 
 
 " I'm afraid I don't know that song," Isabel said. 
 " How does it go? " 
 
 Amos began his dreary chant, and Isabel was 
 forced to interrupt. 
 
 " Well, Mother's got to go get supper now." 
 
 Amos followed out to the kitchen, and took his seat 
 by the window, asking questions, to which Isabel flung 
 replies. She wasn't trying to answer anything, but 
 only to return each shot. He struggled on for a time, 
 but at last gave up. 
 
 He had a revival of hope when he heard his father's 
 step in the hall. Phanor wasn't likely to be communi- 
 cative, but some hints might fall. 
 
 " Hello," said Phanor. " Been to school, hey? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Amos. 
 
 " Well, what did you learn to-day? " 
 
 What had he learned! Here was a question! It 
 seemed that the best reply would be " Everything," 
 and yet that seemed far from the truth, too. He cast 
 about in his mind for something that should be an 
 adequate symbol of his achievements, but he had to 
 hurry, because Phanor was nearly out of his coat and 
 was taking the newspaper from his pocket, and the 
 time was short. 
 
 " We learned about a istum," he said. 
 
 " A what? " 
 
 " A istum," Amos repeated. " It's a narrow land 
 with water."
 
 8o THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " Oh, I guess you mean an isthmus." 
 
 " Yes, sir; an Is Must. Where is one? " He had an 
 idea that he might go out after supper and look at one. 
 It couldn't be true that geography, too, was all some- 
 where else. 
 
 " Well, Siam's one," Phanor said. 
 
 " What's Siam? " 
 
 " It's an isthmus, young feller," said Phanor, and 
 unfolded his paper. 
 
 During supper Amos was silent. The worst of it was 
 that he had no real grievance. All his questions had 
 been answered. He had been able to call for answers; 
 it was explanations that he couldn't get. They must 
 see what he wanted. Well, he would find out from 
 some one; Bert, perhaps. And school had just 
 begun. 
 
 He was sent to bed early, "so as to have a clear 
 head for school." That must mean that he was to find 
 the explanation for himself, and that he might expect 
 it to come from school. Well, then. 
 
 He dropped off to sleep with somewhat the same 
 feeling that Columbus must have had when he went to 
 sleep on the night of the third of August, 1492. 
 
 School was rather too well organized. Being good 
 appeared to mean obeying the rules, and the rules, al- 
 most without exception, were stupid they were mere 
 obstacles. When he found that there was a fairly 
 large group of boys whose aim in life was to break 
 the rules, and that this group included all the boys
 
 8i 
 
 whose respect he cared for, and who had won his own 
 respect, he allied himself in thought and action with 
 the party which so well expressed his resentment. 
 
 He admired these boys because they were acting as 
 he felt. They were against the Conspiracy. 
 
 He soon came to see that there was no need to try 
 to keep out of the way of trouble, for the world was 
 full of it, and the sooner he learned to face it and get 
 through with it, the better. 
 
 The chief trouble, in those early school-days, was 
 that caused by going to school cross-lots. 
 
 It was strictly forbidden, because the lots were filled 
 with roving bands of Micks. But Amos knew the 
 Micks as friends. His father and mother did not seem 
 to grasp the adequacy of this reason as they saw it, 
 he couldn't possibly know and like the Micks, who 
 were not real boys, but attributes; symbols of wicked- 
 ness, evil associations, and God knows what. 
 
 Time after time he was called into the parlor to be 
 scolded. One after another the arguments against the 
 lots and the Micks were brought out; patiently, or im- 
 patiently, the moral was pointed. Amos was as obsti- 
 nately opposed to this reasoning as his parents were 
 obstinately in agreement with it. 
 
 For who will deny life because of arguments? 
 
 In summer the lots were green and lovely expanses 
 of waving meadow and brown marsh lands, with swal- 
 lows and flowers and soft winds and in that divinity 
 he felt himself divinely included. " The Spring is on 
 the wane; " that was what it meant: the sunlight was
 
 82 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 on the lots. From such a feeling, could he be turned 
 aside because of arguments? 
 
 In Winter the lots were a dreary waste brown stub- 
 ble and patches of snow, forlorn hay-ricks standing in 
 solemn desolation and Nature, shut up to sleep for 
 the Winter, waiting for Spring to touch the wane again, 
 was outside and beyond him, and he felt complete in 
 himself. Was it to be expected that precepts would 
 cloud such a vision? 
 
 Across the lots ran a small river, a coffee-colored 
 stream that wandered sedately from somewhere to 
 somewhere. By the respectable route to school, the 
 river was crossed by the Arbor Avenue Bridge, but to 
 go to school cross-lots, another bridge was used a 
 shaky structure of clattering planks, such as might be 
 built by pioneers, whose only object in life was to cross 
 a river. 
 
 Just beyond the bridge, a path started out across 
 the lots. At the left stood a solitary house, alone and 
 dreary, with no smoke ever arising from its chimney, 
 and no one ever appearing near it, though it was sup- 
 posed that a hermit lived there. On the right ran 
 Arbor Avenue, and the backs of the barns that be- 
 longed to its houses formed the boundary between the 
 great world and the respectable town. Ahead was the 
 school-house, crouching with its back to the lots and 
 protecting itself from the wilderness by a high board 
 fence. The path ran from the shaky bridge to the 
 corner of the school fence; a caravan route through 
 the desert, a trail across the plains!
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 83 
 
 On the path, there were three fences to cross, a small 
 drainage canal, not too wide to jump, a clump of tall 
 trees to be traversed robbers here, and elves and the 
 spirit of the forest and a sun-warmed gravel pit. 
 Near school time there were always other boys, ahead 
 to be called to, behind to be waited for, and the path 
 itself always furnished things to talk about and things 
 to do. 
 
 Here the Micks met. Amos was one of the crowd. 
 He did not like them, as individuals, because he did 
 not like noise and dirt and brutality, but they were the 
 boys who went to school cross-lots, and nothing else in 
 life was half so fine as that. 
 
 The Micks were freed from the restraints of Re- 
 spectability; they could think of things to do that 
 were quite beyond the grasp of ordinary imaginations. 
 Phanor and Isabel might storm and argue and plead, 
 but the wind in the tall tree-tops was speaking of far- 
 off things, and Romance, bright and glorious, was 
 waiting in the gravel-pit. 
 
 In spite of Amos' care to go around to the front door 
 at school, as if he had come by the approved route, he 
 was often caught, and singled out from his companions 
 for punishment. 
 
 " Amos," said Miss MacReady. " Don't you know 
 that your father and mother don't want to have you 
 come to school cross-lots? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " What do you suppose your mother would say if she 
 knew? "
 
 84 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " She'd say I ought to be ashamed of myself for 
 doing such a thing." Amos knew both sides of this 
 dialogue by heart. 
 
 " Well, why do you persist in it, then? Don't you 
 know that the nice boys don't come that way? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Do you enjoy being punished for it? Do you think 
 I like to have to talk to you this way? " 
 
 " I shouldn't think you would." 
 
 Miss MacReady smiled broadly, but Amos didn't 
 see it, so that she might as well not have smiled at all. 
 
 " You're not a bad boy, are you? " 
 
 " No, ma'am." 
 
 " Well, then, run along, and try to behave." 
 
 Often he was caught as he arrived home, and he was 
 cornered on the parlor sofa to listen to the pleadings of 
 his mother. Once or twice he had tried to explain why 
 it was that he preferred the romance and adventure of 
 the lots, even though they brought him into contact with 
 the Micks. But though Isabel seemed to hear what 
 he was saying, she did not understand it; though she 
 caught a hint of the spirit of it, she did not see how it 
 could possibly be anything in the life of her own son. 
 He gave up trying to explain. Much as he would have 
 liked to share it, he was forced to keep it to himself. 
 
 It was evident that one must choose between Re- 
 spectability and happiness. When the natural an- 
 tipathy between the Micks and Respectability broke 
 out into open warfare, as sometimes happened, Amos
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 85 
 
 was always on the side of Respectability. By his com- 
 rades he was somewhat admired, in fact, for daring to 
 lead a double life. 
 
 But Phanor and Isabel knew nothing of it. They 
 saw that they could do nothing more than point out 
 to him his own folly and wickedness. They did not 
 know that he had made a cold and deliberate calcula- 
 tion to get what he could from life. He had never had 
 the courage to tell them. 
 
 How could he take pleasure in things of which they 
 did not approve? Why must they explain to him, over 
 and over again, that their way was best? Why could 
 he not see that they were safe, and he was not, and that 
 therefore he must be wrong? How could any one worth 
 bothering about be so blind as not to follow the lead of 
 Phanor and Isabel Enday? Most of all, their own son? 
 
 It wasn't that they had forgotten what they were 
 like when they were children. They could remember 
 getting into just such scrapes as this, out of sheer per- 
 versity. But, of course, they hadn't gotten in quite so 
 deeply, and the scrapes weren't quite so significant. 
 Only, now that they were older, why the devil couldn't 
 they be believed when they said they knew what they 
 were talking about? 
 
 They were desperate with worry. They prayed, 
 they threatened, they begged, they argued, they scolded 
 they did everything but think. 
 
 Then, when it seemed as if matters couldn't possibly 
 get worse, there occurred the great Battle of Wilson's 
 Barn.
 
 86 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Coming home along the cross-lots path, one day in 
 Spring, Amos met Cliff Smoot, who was a leader among 
 the Micks. 
 
 " Come on over to our house," Cliff said. " All the 
 Army's going to be there." 
 
 " What you going to do? " 
 
 Cliff leaned close, though there was no one within 
 half a mile. 
 
 " We're going to kill Bert Wilson and Dick Fleet- 
 wood." 
 
 " You can't do it." 
 
 " What's the reason we can't, I'd like to know? " 
 Cliff asked, haughtily. 
 
 " Bert's gone home long ago," Amos said. 
 
 "They're going to play in Wilson's barn. We're 
 going to attack." 
 
 " I got to go home." 
 
 " Well, come over as soon as you can." 
 
 Dopey Higgins appeared on the trail behind them, 
 and ran up, calling to them to wait. He carried in his 
 hand some object that swung from a wire. 
 
 " I got a stink-pot," said Dopey, arriving breathless. 
 
 " That's good," Cliff said. "Where'd you get it? " 
 
 "Made it," said Dopey. " It's got everything in it. 
 Smell." 
 
 He thrust it under the noses of the two; it gave forth 
 a horrible putrid stench, and both boys gagged and 
 turned away. 
 
 " That's great! " said Amos.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 87 
 
 " Oh, you wait! " Dopey cried. " You wait till old 
 Dickey gets this in the side of the puss! " 
 
 " Come on; hurry up," Cliff said. " We got time to 
 make some more." 
 
 The three set out along the trail, Dopey carrying 
 the stink-pot at arm's length. 
 
 When they crossed Elm Street Amos left them. 
 
 " Hurry up, now, and get over," Cliff said. 
 
 " I don't know if I can come to-night." 
 
 " Well, try. Don't forget Thursday." 
 
 Amos found Isabel in the kitchen, making dough- 
 nuts. 
 
 " Mother, can I go over to Bert's? " 
 
 " Yes, dear. Only be careful of your clothes. Keep 
 out of the barn." 
 
 " Can I have a doughnut? " 
 
 " Yes, dear. Don't you want to take one for each of 
 the other boys? " 
 
 Amos took a handful of crisp, warm doughnuts, and 
 set out on the run for Wilson's barn. There were signs 
 of preparation for the approaching battle; Dick Fleet- 
 wood was in a clump of alders in the corner of the 
 yard, cutting quarterstaves, and Kenneth Rogers was 
 on guard at the great barn door. The Micks, under 
 the personal direction of Cliff, were organizing their 
 attack, which was to be across the fence in the rear. 
 
 "Hey, Amos! " shouted Kenneth. " Hurry up! " 
 
 Amos arrived at the door. 
 
 " Who goes there? "
 
 88 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " Friend." 
 
 " Advance, friend, and give the counter-sign." 
 
 " St. George for England." 
 
 " Gimme a doughnut. Hey, fellers, here's Amos." 
 
 Amos presented himself to Bert, the Commander, 
 and gave him a doughnut. 
 
 " We got you and me and Dickey and Ken and Phil 
 and the two girls," said Bert, reckoning up his forces. 
 " We'll kill 'em." 
 
 " We ought to get some stink-pots," suggested Amos. 
 
 " Oh, gee; yes! " cried Bert. " The girls can make 
 'em." 
 
 He called to Dorothy Wilson. 
 
 " Hey, sis,, want to make some stink-pots? There's 
 cans in the second stall, and you can get the fillers in 
 the cow-shed. Hurry." 
 
 Dorothy, with Doris Spencer, accepted the halves of 
 the remaining doughnut, and disappeared into the 
 stall, where they were heard rummaging about in their 
 search for suitable containers. A moment afterwards 
 they repaired to the cow-shed, their arms filled with 
 cans. 
 
 " Let's get some of this ammunition up-stairs," Bert 
 said. "If they should happen to capture the down- 
 stairs, we got to defend the hay-loft." 
 
 A trap-door in the floor above was opened, and 
 fruit-baskets filled with mud-balls were hoisted up 
 with rope and pulley. The upper floor of the barn, a 
 great bare room, broken up only by the heavy timbers 
 which supported the roof, was a veritable arsenal;
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 89 
 
 lath swords hung in racks on the walls; bean-pole 
 lances were stacked in a corner; bills and halberds 
 made of rake-handles and pitchforks leaned against 
 the columns; while in the center a great pile of mud- 
 ball ammunition was piled as high as a boy's head. 
 The top of the stairs was protected by a portcullis, 
 made from the lid of a piano-box, which could be raised 
 and lowered; close beside it lay two twenty-pound iron 
 dumb-bells, in position to be rolled down upon the 
 heads of the attackers. 
 
 In the midst of this the boys paced up and down, 
 telling of what they would do when the Micks came, 
 brandishing their weapons in illustration of their boasts, 
 and pausing now and again to hurl jeers and insults 
 from the back windows. 
 
 Dick came in with his arms filled with quarterstaves, 
 which he passed around; Ken followed him, dragging 
 a piece of water pipe which might, he said, " come in 
 handy." 
 
 " I locked the big door," Ken said. " Let's shut the 
 portcullis." 
 
 " No ; the girls are down there yet, making stink- 
 pots," said Bert. He went to the head of the stairs 
 and called down to them to hurry. 
 
 " I bet Cliff's afraid to come," said Philip. 
 
 " Cliff Smoot, lost his boot," chanted Bert from the 
 window. 
 
 " I'm going up to the cupola and spy on 'em," said 
 Dick. He mounted to the cupola, climbing in notches 
 cut in the king-post of the roof-truss.
 
 90 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 He had barely reached the cupola when the fight 
 began. 
 
 The girls, to get more light for their work, had 
 opened the door of the cow-shed; when Cliff led his 
 men over the fence, in the first step of his campaign, 
 the unprotected door yawned before him, an unex- 
 pected point of advantage. The Micks dropped their 
 scaling-ladders, and charged the door. Before the girls 
 could realize their danger, Cliff himself appeared be- 
 fore them, and a stink-pot came buzzing through the 
 opening and crashed against the opposite wall. Doris 
 replied with their own product, and Dorothy, against 
 the shower of sticks and mud-balls, actually managed 
 to close the door, though it opened outwards, and bolt 
 it in the face of the leader. The shrill squeals of the 
 girls announced this skirmish to the leader on the sec- 
 ond floor, and a moment later the girls came breath- 
 lessly up the stairs and gasped out the news. The 
 portcullis was dropped behind them, and Cliff, re- 
 pulsed, reverted to his former plan, and turned again 
 to his scaling ladders. 
 
 Dick threw himself full length on the floor of the 
 cupola, thrust his head and shoulders down through 
 the lubber-hole, shouted, " Here they come! They're 
 trying to get in over the cow-shed roof! Here they 
 come! " and disappeared again. 
 
 Above the cow-shed roof there was a small window, 
 boarded up on the outside; Cliff and his men arrived on 
 the roof, and attacked the window with a clothes-pole 
 battering-ram.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 91 
 
 Clouds of choking dust arose. Every one was mad, 
 shrieking, rushing back and forth, trying to injure the 
 invisible enemy by absurd devices which only the 
 frenzy of desperation could have suggested; the air 
 was thick with whirling swords and flying spears and 
 clattering mud-balls; the crash of the battering-ram 
 shook the building; the girls screamed. 
 
 The head of the ram came bursting through the 
 boarding of the window; a splinter, two feet long, went 
 singing across the room and struck Bert Wilson full in 
 the mouth; down he went, the blood dripping from his 
 chin. Panic madness swept through the defenders; 
 they howled with rage, and threw whatever their hands 
 found to throw. 
 
 " Dirty damn Micks! " screamed Dorothy Wilson, 
 and whirled a stink-pot at the face of Cliff, appearing 
 at the opening. A dozen bean-pole lances choked the 
 space, and Cliff vanished. 
 
 Dick appeared again at the lubber hole in the cupola 
 floor, screeching till he skinned his throat. 
 
 "They're coming up over the big roof! " he yelled. 
 "They're coming up over the big roof! Gimme some 
 mud-balls! Gimme ammunition! Quick! They're 
 coming up . . ." 
 
 Something pushed him violently from behind; he 
 toppled through the opening and came sprawling down, 
 head first, passing in the air the basket of mud-balls 
 that was being handed up to him. He fell half on his 
 feet, staggered for a second, and pitched down through 
 the open trap-door to the lower floor of the bam. In
 
 92 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 an instant he was on his feet again, running in crazy 
 circles, holding his hand to his mouth, his scared eyes 
 staring out over his dirty wrist. 
 
 A puff of smarting white smoke came down through 
 the cupola, and a red glare of fire. A trunk full of 
 blazing hay was being pushed down through the lub- 
 ber hole. It fell, split open on the floor, and roared. 
 Ken Rogers rushed at it, clawing it apart with his 
 halberd. 
 
 Through the smoke Dopey Higgins appeared, slid- 
 ing down the king-post from the cupola; " Now we got 
 'em! " he screamed, balancing on the cross beam. 
 Cliff, behind him, leaned in at the lubber hole, pelting 
 mud-balls. 
 
 Amos drew back and sent a rake-handle lance flying 
 at Dopey; it struck him in the stomach, doubled him 
 up, and knocked him off the beam. He fell, clutching, 
 into the midst of the swarming defenders, who seized 
 and bound him. 
 
 Bert, in the background, faintly visible through the 
 dust and smoke, was walking aimlessly back and forth, 
 lifting his feet high in pain, mopping the blood from 
 his face with his hand. 
 
 Down below, the great front door was wide open 
 where Dick had fled for home with his dislocated 
 thumb. Ken had mastered the fire. A Mick appeared 
 at the opening over the cow-shed roof, plucking away 
 the tangle of spears and wriggling through. Doris and 
 Dorothy rushed at him and scratched his eyes and 
 stole his cap.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 93 
 
 Amos struggled up the center column of the barn, 
 fell upon Cliff with his lath sword, and drove him from 
 the cupola out across the roof. Cut off from his com- 
 rades, Cliff made for the ladder. Amos ran after him, 
 caught the ladder and threw the top of it away from the 
 eaves; it went soaring down into the barn-yard, Cliff 
 still clinging to it, and landed on the pile of corn-husks 
 at the foot of the wall. 
 
 The battle was over. 
 
 Amos, tired and dusty,. went home to supper, think- 
 ing that the affair was of no special significance, and 
 settled down to a quiet evening of reading with his 
 mother. 
 
 A few hours later, however, Mr. Wilson called to 
 ask if any one had been injured, and thus gave away 
 the whole horrible truth. After Mr. Wilson had gone, 
 Phanor, blazing with rage, called Amos into the parlor, 
 interrupting Isabel's reading, and found out that Amos 
 had actually been in the fight. 
 
 " Why can't you keep away from those dirty Micks, 
 I wonder!" Phanor said. His round face was glowing 
 with indignation, and his mustache stuck out like a 
 brush. 
 
 " I wasn't with any Micks. I was with Dick and 
 Phil and ... 
 
 " What's the sense in trying to tell me a thing like 
 that? Don't I know? You were over in Wilson's 
 barn, weren't you, when the whole thing happened? " 
 
 " Yes, but ... " 
 
 " Well, then."
 
 94 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Isabel had come to the door of the parlor to assist. 
 
 " And to think that you'd go and flatly disobey me, 
 Amos! " she put in. " I told you, word for word, to 
 keep out of the barn and not to muss your clean blouse 
 all up." 
 
 " Oh, he don't care for that! " Phanor assured her, 
 sarcastically. " It don't matter to him what's said to 
 him. Good Lord, boy, I should think you'd want to be 
 decent! " 
 
 " I wasn't doing anything, I tell you! " 
 
 "Your mother told you not to go into the barn, 
 didn't she? " 
 
 " Yes, but I didn't say I wouldn't." 
 
 " Crickeyl What's that got to do with it, I should 
 like to know? What you can be thinking about all the 
 time I can't see, for the life of me." 
 
 " Oh, listen, and I'll tell you," Amos cried. " I was 
 coming home from school, and I met Cliff Smoot, and 
 he " 
 
 -ll^ 
 
 " I've told you you weren't to have anything to do 
 with that Smoot boy," Isabel said. " I don't approve 
 of him." 
 
 " Well, I can't help it if I meet him, can I? " 
 
 " Where did you meet him? " Phanor asked. 
 
 " In the lots," Amos said, before he thought. 
 
 " In the lots! Good God! You've been told to keep 
 out of the lots. I wonder why the devil you keep on 
 doing things you're told not to! " 
 
 " Well, anyway," Amos went on, " Cliff said there 
 was going to be a battle, and he wanted me to go and
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 95 
 
 fight with them, on their side, and I knew you wouldn't 
 want me to and I said I couldn't come over, and then I 
 had to go and help Bert and Dick and the rest, didn't 
 I?" 
 
 " What's the reason you did? " Phanor asked. 
 " Walking right into trouble! " 
 
 " Oh, have I got to explain all that? " Amos ex- 
 claimed, with elaborate weariness. " I should think 
 you'd be glad I was on the side of the nice boys." 
 
 " I don't want you to be in any fights, no matter 
 what side you're on. What do you mean by fighting, 
 hey? " 
 
 " Oh, I guess it won't hurt me any," Amos said, in- 
 solently. " I'm used to fights." 
 
 "Oh, hush your jabber! " Phanor cried. "Of all 
 the boys you could play with you have to go and pick 
 out the lowest rotten, dirty Micks. What's the matter 
 with you, anyway? Are you a degenerate, or what? 
 No more decency than a damn dirty pig! " 
 
 This was too much for Isabel. 
 
 " Phanor! Have you forgotten yourself, before your 
 own child? " 
 
 " Well, what does he mean by talking that way to 
 me? " Phanor said, sulkily. 
 
 " That's no excuse for your shouting so the neigh- 
 bors can hear." 
 
 " Young reprobate! " 
 
 " Well, how can you expect . . ." 
 
 She was interrupted by the discovery that Amos, 
 wearied beyond endurance by the sickening tedium of
 
 96 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 a fight where nothing is at stake, had begun to cry. 
 This was taken as a confession of guilt and a sign of 
 repentance, and Phanor began again. 
 
 "Now, I want it understood that you're to keep 
 away from that Smoot boy. You hear? And when 
 your mother says you're to keep out of the Wilson's 
 barn, I want you to do it. Now let that end it." 
 
 " All right," Amos said. 
 
 "All right! " Phanor shouted, his anger breaking 
 out again. " Let me tell you, if I hear one more yip 
 out of you, off you'll go to the Reform School. If 
 they'd take you in. I don't know. Maybe the Insane 
 Asylum . . ." 
 
 Isabel cut this short by suggesting that no further 
 good could come of talking, and hustled Amos off to 
 bed. 
 
 Upstairs, they spent a further half -hour in talk, and 
 Isabel drove home the moral of the story. Amos was 
 no longer to permit the existence of a world which per- 
 mitted Micks. When he said his prayers, he added, 
 in bitter scorn, " God make me like Papa and 
 Mamma," but the implication of it was entirely lost on 
 Isabel. 
 
 She went down stairs to Phanor, and told him, with 
 tears in her eyes, that she was sure Amos would never 
 be so naughty again. 
 
 Very well then; that was all Phanor had to say. 
 
 It was evident that Amos had lost his case. All 
 hope of establishing the romantic and the adventur- 
 ous was forever impossible. He had been caught red-
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 97 
 
 handed; he had said absurd things; he had wept in 
 shame and true repentance. And nothing was gained. 
 None the less, they were frightened; they called for 
 help. They called on Matthew Burton.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 MATTHEW BURTON was Superintendent of 
 the Sunday School and Assistant to the Pastor 
 of the Congregational Church. 
 
 At the Seminary he had been forced to wait on table 
 in a student lodging house and care for neighbors' fur- 
 naces, in order to pay his way; he had graduated an 
 obscure and underdone young man with a love of the 
 better things of life and a stubborn determination to 
 declare the Glory of God. 
 
 He had fought with Poverty, in the Seminary, and 
 had come through all right; this was God's doing. 
 After graduation, he had run against the "hard 
 world," and had found it soft as mush in comparison 
 with what he had expected; this meant that God was 
 bearing him up in his hands. He had come down with 
 tuberculosis, but some philanthropic persons had come 
 forward with a sum of money which they had col- 
 lected, and he had been sent to Switzerland, whence 
 he had returned cured or at least cured for all prac- 
 tical purposes and eager to enter his field of work; 
 surely it must be evident, from all this, that God had 
 plans for him. 
 
 During his last year in the mountains, he had writ- 
 ten a book of travel sketches and reminiscences, which, 
 
 98
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 99 
 
 though it did not sell very largely beyond the limits of 
 the group of kindly people who had paid his bills and 
 were " watching his career with interest," yet neverthe- 
 less served to preserve his self-respect. He had then set- 
 tled down in Wilton, where, from the very first, he had 
 wanted to be, and had obtained the post of Assistant 
 to the Pastor, at a salary of nine hundred dollars a 
 year, which he had accepted, after investigation, as a 
 sign that God was lighting his path. He hoped, some 
 day, to be able to return to Switzerland, and have 
 another crack at independence. 
 
 The people of the church admired him somewhat for 
 having been to Europe; there was something appeal- 
 ingly quaint in the idea of a minister going abroad. 
 But, of course, he had had his poor health as an ex- 
 cuse. 
 
 He used to say that he had been through hell 
 though people knew that he was only joking and that 
 it was God's Grace that had brought him back to Wil- 
 ton. In the case of an ordinary civilian, such a state- 
 ment would have been damaging, for a man couldn't 
 go through hell, even in fun, without bringing back 
 some contamination with him. But people could trust 
 a minister, they supposed. 
 
 He was pleasant and polite and zealous in his duties, 
 and he prospered. He had married Fredrika Stubbs, 
 a plump young woman from his home town, and they 
 had a little daughter. The parish could ask no more. 
 But Burton himself felt that he must, in some way or 
 other, achieve success as a man.
 
 ioo THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 One Sunday morning after the episode of Wilson's 
 barn, Isabel stopped Burton as he was coming out of 
 church, and, in considerable embarrassment, made her 
 request. 
 
 " He's such a nice boy," she said, " and really good, 
 at heart. But so often he plays with children who 
 aren't so nice, I'm afraid, and they lead him astray. 
 I was wondering if you couldn't suggest something 
 that would make him a little more careful in choosing 
 his associates." 
 
 " That's such a common difficulty with children, 
 Mrs. Enday," Burton said. 
 
 But Isabel wasn't going to have this; hers was 
 an individual problem, and the stock methods of 
 training ordinary children, in the mass, wouldn't an- 
 swer. 
 
 Burton saw his error, and changed his tactics. 
 
 " I'm sure I should be only too happy to do what- 
 ever I can," he said. 
 
 " That's very kind indeed of you," Isabel said. " If 
 you could gain his confidence, and try to get him inter- 
 ested in other things, I'm sure we could work wonders. 
 He's not a bad boy, only it does seem, sometimes, that 
 he don't follow the good example that's been set for 
 him, but only the bad ones." 
 
 As she went home, she was half sorry to have ap- 
 pealed. As soon as steps were taken to meet the diffi- 
 culty, it seemed much less real. But the boy's whole 
 future was at stake, and she couldn't afford to be too 
 proud.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 101 
 
 In due course, Burton called, and sat for some time 
 on the edge of a chair in the parlor, slinging phrases 
 back and forth and keeping up a pretense of not know- 
 ing why he had been summoned. Then Amos came 
 in from school, and was called in to be presented. 
 
 Isabel said, " This is the boy." 
 
 " I'm very pleased to meet you," Burton said, hold- 
 ing out his hand with a smile of friendship that went 
 straight to Amos' heart. 
 
 " Oh, most assuredly I should let him come to Sun- 
 day school," Burton went on, continuing the conversa- 
 tion with Isabel. 
 
 As soon as Amos had confirmed his suspicion that 
 Burton was calling in an official capacity, he excused 
 himself, and left the room. 
 
 They were palming off a minister on him, were they? 
 Well, he would show them. If they thought he was 
 going to be praying all the time, and listening to ser- 
 mons, and add the problem of being morally good to the 
 problem of being ethically good, they had another 
 think coming. Pish, indeed! To know Burton as a 
 man was all very well, and would give him opportunity 
 to learn all sorts of interesting things about life which 
 Burton, the man who had, among other things, been 
 to Europe, actually would be able to teach him; but 
 the minister part could go and pound sand in a rat-hole. 
 He didn't want any old minister hanging around with 
 his " yea, verily," business. 
 
 He was pleased with the joke of stealing some real 
 life from a man who was a minister.
 
 102 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Amos was sent to Sunday school. Burton had gen- 
 eral charge of the school, and conducted the Young 
 Men's Bible Class, which was very popular; Amos was 
 too young for the Bible Class, but he was put in a pen 
 with some other boys of his own age and taught all the 
 uninteresting things about interesting people, and Bur- 
 ton often threw a smile in his direction, and sometimes 
 stopped to talk with him after school. 
 
 Burton had told Isabel that he didn't want to arouse 
 the boy's suspicions, and that these matters must not 
 be forced; in consequence, the acquaintance between 
 the two did not begin to become friendship until Bur- 
 ton, one Sunday morning, suggested that they walk 
 home together. 
 
 " I don't want you to think me a fusty old minister/' 
 Burton said as they set out. 
 
 Amos regarded this remark with deep suspicion. 
 What made Burton think that any one would regard 
 him as a fusty old minister? 
 
 " You know, I'm absolutely shut off from life, in my 
 position," Burton went on. " As soon as I appear, peo- 
 ple change; they know I'm a minister, and I never 
 find out what they really think." 
 
 Amos considered this a terrible indictment of the 
 ministry, but he did not say so. 
 
 " I wish you'd help me," Burton continued. 
 
 " How can I? " Amos asked. 
 
 " You can go to places where I can't be seen. You 
 can talk to people on their own ground. With me,
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS x 103 
 
 people aren't natural. Don't you see what a tremen- 
 dous help you could be to me? " 
 
 " I'll help you if I can," Amos said. 
 
 Burton stopped, right there in the street, and grasped 
 Amos by the hand. Amos was greatly embarrassed; 
 it was bad enough to walk home from Sunday school 
 with a minister, without being seen shaking hands with 
 him, for no apparent reason, right in broad daylight. 
 
 " I thought we were going to be just friends," Amos 
 said. 
 
 "So we are! Very good friends, I hope. We'll get 
 to understand each other. But, oh, if you knew the 
 discouragement of trying to work in the dark! Of 
 wanting to do so much, and being blinded! " 
 
 Amos thought that Burton didn't seem very willing 
 to accept the consequences of being a minister. 
 
 After a few minutes of general talk, they separated 
 at the corner of Burton's street. 
 
 Amos liked Burton, and hoped for something very 
 splendid in friendship with him; he was a grown man, 
 he knew all about the things that Amos wanted to 
 know, he had been abroad, he was frank and friendly, 
 he had read books. There was an assumption of in- 
 tellectual equality between them something that had 
 never before obtained with any one. It was too bad 
 that this must all be spoiled by trying to patch up an 
 alliance which had for its object helping Burton out 
 of the hole he had gotten himself into by being a min- 
 ister. Still it was better than nothing; indeed, there
 
 104 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 was nothing in life, so far, that offered greater possi- 
 bilities. 
 
 When he got home, he explained his lateness by say- 
 ing that he had been walking home with Burton, and 
 that they had stopped to talk. Isabel said, " How 
 lovely 1 I'm so delighted! " 
 
 Amos didn't want to accept Burton as a teaspoonful 
 of medicine from his mother, and succeeded in avoid- 
 ing him for two solid months. 
 
 Amos had grown up in his father's physical image, 
 rather short and closely knit, though he was thicker 
 through the chest, and generally stronger, than Phanor 
 had ever been, and there was as yet no stoop in his 
 shoulders. He had a frank, round face, and rather 
 merry blue eyes, and he was continually bubbling over 
 with energy and enthusiasm. From the hearty and joy- 
 ous manner in which he played with his contempo- 
 raries, Phanor and Isabel saw that he really cared for 
 nothing but being happy. But his greatest happiness 
 always drove him away from the world into his own 
 friendly company, and he spent his most serene, and, 
 he thought, his most significant hours alone. They 
 noted this tendency, too, and worried over it. 
 
 But could he go to his father, or Dick Fleetwood, 
 or fuzzy old Miss Mac Ready, and confess that he 
 thought life a lovely thing? He was continually mak- 
 ing discoveries, and rushing away alone to think about 
 them. There seemed no other way to make life real. 
 
 He was by this time in the seventh grade in school,
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 105 
 
 popular with his school-mates, and really respected by 
 his teachers. Of course, they kept pecking away at 
 him, trying to awaken him to a sense of the impor- 
 tance of learning his lessons, trying to get him to obey 
 the rules, trying to drag him away from himself by 
 precept and punishment and sarcasm and all the rest 
 of it. But he held the whole tribe and the whole sys- 
 tem in contempt, because it had not demonstrated its 
 ability to explain life. He ignored them rather than 
 fought them, and this being plainly evident, they were 
 furious, and became unreasonable. He was hideously 
 bored, but he endured it, because the time had not yet 
 come for definite action. Some day, he was going to 
 grasp life by the door-knob and swing it around his 
 head but not yet. 
 
 In the meantime, he was trying, as best he could, to 
 find things out for himself. 
 
 Rose Purdy sat across the aisle from him. She was 
 a dark-browed, contemplative mite, with stiff braids 
 and straight legs; she puckered her freckled nose when 
 she giggled, and her black eyes gleamed like shiny 
 shoe-buttons when she was mad; she was irresistibly 
 delightful. 
 
 He wrote her a note, in which he told her that she 
 was the most beautiful girl in the world, and put it in 
 a conspicuous position on her desk during recess. Bert 
 told Amos that he had been a fool to sign it. Amos 
 did not think so. 
 
 He watched for her to find it, expecting her to be 
 instantly transformed into an even more radiant angel,
 
 io6 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 but she sniffed when she read it, and pretending that 
 she thought it intended for somebody else, dropped it 
 on the floor, where it lay in the dust with Amos' torn 
 heart. 
 
 Later he recovered it, under pretext of picking up 
 his ruler, cleaned it reverently, and took it home to 
 show to his mother. Isabel drew him to her and kissed 
 him. " Writing letters to the girls, is he? " she said. 
 
 The next day the news of Amos' romance had spread 
 through the school. He was expecting this, and was 
 braced for the storm of ridicule which, it seemed to 
 him, was a natural consequence; but to his surprise, 
 Rose achieved in the eyes of the whole boys' side of 
 the school somewhat of the romantic desirability with 
 which he had invested her. An association was formed 
 for the purpose of kissing her. 
 
 Amos didn't like that. All the boys had "best 
 girls," or pretended as much; he wished they'd let 
 Rose alone! He couldn't, obviously, claim her as his 
 own best girl, and as such protect her, for the story 
 of his rejection was public property. But he resented 
 the lack of dignity inherent in kissing. The ideal of 
 love was so much finer than its attainment! How- 
 ever, he joined the association, and drew lots for his 
 turn. But the first boy on the list got his face slapped, 
 and the movement died. Amos was glad. Anyway, 
 Rose wasn't as beautiful as Belle Brooke. 
 
 Once this had begun, there seemed to be no end to 
 it. Phanor and Isabel had been fearing it, but now
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 107 
 
 that it was upon them, there seemed nothing they 
 could do. Accordingly, they did nothing, and took out 
 their uneasiness in hoping that it would all blow 
 over. 
 
 As for Amos, who could not think of his parents as 
 real people at all, he saw that they did not feel, and 
 never could have felt, as he did. He could no more 
 imagine Phanor in love than he could imagine him 
 flying. In fact, he could much more easily imagine 
 him flying. Isabel sometimes called Phanor " dear," 
 but there was no passion in that nothing like what 
 was to be found in books besides, she called nearly 
 everybody dear. At first, he thought that they never 
 mentioned love because they were unwilling to share 
 their knowledge with him; later, he began to see that 
 they were most probably ashamed of it; in the end, 
 he concluded that they did not really know anything 
 about it. 
 
 He had once asked Burton why unmarried people 
 never had children, and Burton told him that all things 
 were pure to the pure. 
 
 A few months after this, Isabel, in a hesitating and 
 shame-faced manner, had given him a book which pur- 
 ported to explain everything which he had so labori- 
 ously discovered for himself; he accepted it in high 
 hope, but the hope died when he opened it, and he 
 was enabled to add nothing to what he already knew, 
 nor anything to his ability to interpret. 
 
 He had thrashed out the whole matter with Dopey
 
 io8 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Higgins. Dopey had put forward the facts, as a hy- 
 pothesis. 
 
 " What's the matter? " he had asked, when he 
 finished. " Don't you believe it? " 
 
 Amos mumbled something about God. 
 
 "Sure; what the hell!" Dopey had exclaimed. 
 " God gives life to a baby, of course." 
 
 There seemed no more to be said. Yet it was strange 
 that, in every department of life, there should be this 
 same struggle between what was true and what was 
 permissible. 
 
 The study of geography was the only subject of his 
 school work of which he was not openly contemptuous. 
 But he did not stand well in it; he never achieved 
 great skill in telling what Borneo was like, because he 
 was too thoroughly occupied in wondering what it must 
 be like. 
 
 He got so far as to write, " The chief products of 
 Borneo are timber, rice, jungle produce . . ." and 
 Borneo itself lifted a shimmering bulk above the hori- 
 zons of far tropic oceans, shutting out from view the 
 Geography Test questions, the blackboard, the school- 
 room . . . 
 
 He was exploring the mountain passes in the interior. 
 Great bare hills lifted their huge sides above him, tow- 
 ering to the sky; in the still valleys lay the steaming 
 forests of passionate life gross flowers and mon- 
 strous leaves and the friendly savages came out into
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 109 
 
 the streets of their villages to barter jungle produce for 
 looking-glasses and beads ... No; he had a house 
 there, a substantial house of stone; it stood on a shoul- 
 der of the hills, looking out to sea; costly rugs covered 
 the floors, and the walls of the rooms were surrounded 
 with books; a table, set on the screened verandah, 
 shone with white napery and gleaming glass; in that 
 oasis which he had made for himself in the heart of 
 the jungle he would live forever, shut in with the joys 
 of his own outpost of civilization . . . Why couldn't 
 it be true? Why must he stay shut up in this restless 
 jail? 
 
 He stirred in his seat and drew a long breath of 
 agonized impatience. He put his hand in his pocket, 
 impelled to activity of some sort, found a match, drew 
 it out, and sat regarding it ... 
 
 No; better yet he was on a tramp steamer a roll- 
 ing, roaring tramp, bound round the world and the 
 thud of her screw awoke the echoes along the silent 
 sunny coasts . . . the sea was blue, blue ... he 
 turned his ship into the mouth of a river flowing out be- 
 tween the hills, and she crept slowly in, spreading the 
 ripples from her bows . . . the whistle hooted, and set 
 the birds to screaming in the forest . . . the engine- 
 room bell clanged and died away ... a wharf ap- 
 peared around the bend, and on it stood a great ware- 
 house, marked " Enday " in glaring white letters, and 
 men in white suits ran out and naked natives hauled 
 ashore the lines, and they asked what sort of trip he had
 
 no THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 had, and what was the news from home, and looked seri- 
 ously at yellow bills-of -lading . . . Fizzt! Puff! 
 Horror! 
 
 He had picked at the head of the match with his 
 thumb nail, and lighted it! 
 
 He blew frantically, and a column of smoke, as vast 
 as from a volcano, rose in the air and hung betray- 
 ingly above him. He glanced up at the teacher with a 
 hunted look; he was the center of a ring of scared 
 faces. So well did he know what was coming that he 
 was half out of his seat before he heard the stern 
 command. 
 
 " Amos, leave the room ! " 
 
 He left in shame and terror. Gee, what a thing to 
 do! He had lighted a match in school! It was un- 
 precedented. He didn't know what would happen. 
 
 He stood at the window in the hall, hidden by the 
 long row of hats and coats that hung on the rack. The 
 window was open, and the sweet clean air of Spring 
 blew on his cheek. A wagon rattled past in delicious 
 and unappreciated freedom; the driver leaned forward 
 to club his horse with a stubby whip. The hall was 
 very still. Far away in another part of the building 
 the children were singing a song about the coming of 
 Summer; he remembered the song, and listened sadly 
 to the whack of the ruler on the desk, beating time. 
 That would be Miss Whittier's room. 
 
 And he had lighted a match in school! He would 
 have to endure a tedious interview, and be kept after 
 school, and they would want to know what made him
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS in 
 
 do it, and where the match had come from as if he 
 had murdered somebody and stolen a match! 
 
 Anyhow, it wouldn't do to be caught with matches. 
 He hunted through his pockets and found another, 
 which he threw out of the window into the yard. Just 
 in time. He heard an official step. Perhaps it was the 
 principal. Perhaps she wouldn't see him. He fixed 
 his attention on the row of hats and coats, keeping 
 very still, hardly breathing . . . that was Louis Tay- 
 lor's fuzzy cap; he seemed to see Louis under it 
 . . . Too late! 
 
 " Well, Amos, what does this mean? " asked the 
 Principal, glaring down at him. 
 
 Out with it, he thought. 
 
 " I lit a match in school," he said. 
 
 " You did what? " Her amazement was gratify- 
 ing, and Amos found himself becoming interested in 
 the impending situation. He repeated his statement. 
 
 " Well, I should think that was a pretty foolish 
 thing to do, and a dangerous thing, too. Tell me how it 
 happened." 
 
 He explained as best he could, but he was bored 
 agam, now that the affair promised no more than an 
 ordinary scolding. He took pains that his boredom 
 should be evident in his tone. 
 
 " And this was in a Geography Test? " 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " Amos, why won't you pay attention to your work? 
 Your father and mother do everything for you, and 
 you have good teachers. And I must spend my time
 
 ii2 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 scolding and punishing and reproving you because 
 you don't pay attention. Why do you make me do 
 it?" 
 
 He spread his hands, wishing to imply that he didn't 
 want to take her time. 
 
 " Ever since you've been in school," she went on, 
 " it's been the same old story. You're not a dull boy; 
 it's just because you won't pay attention. Your 
 thoughts are always wandering off. And now this! 
 In a Geography Test, you're ' sitting and thinking J 
 and lighting matches! What can I do? I can't send 
 home a good report to your father, can I? " 
 
 " Oh, no," Amos said quickly. He meant that he 
 did not want her to lie on his account. 
 
 " You don't seem to realize the importance of your 
 work. What do you think is going to become of you 
 when you grow up? " 
 
 Here was the weak point the dismal cloud of 
 failure. 
 
 Amos wished he was out of it. Why couldn't he 
 realize that the results of misbehaving were always 
 the same? 
 
 " It just went off," he said, inconsequentially. 
 
 " What were you doing with matches? " Miss Mac- 
 Ready demanded, struck by a new thought. " It's dan- 
 gerous, don't you know it is? Have you got any 
 more? " 
 
 " I had another one, and I threw it out of the win- 
 dow." 
 
 " You did what? "
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 113 
 
 " This window," said Amos. 
 
 " Go out and see if you can find it." Miss Mac- 
 Ready's tone implied that this was the last straw. 
 
 Amos went out and found the match at once, lying 
 on the cement which formed the pavement of the yard. 
 He handed it up to the Principal. 
 
 She lighted it on the sill of the window, blew it out 
 with an elaborate show of finality, moistened her fin- 
 gers and ground away the cold ash, and then, after 
 another searching inspection of the stick, which by 
 this time looked quite innocent, threw it out of the 
 window again. Amos was thinking how stupid he had 
 been not to have thought of this in the first place, and 
 so saved all the trouble. 
 
 " Now it can't do any harm," she said. " You 
 wouldn't like to be responsible for setting fire to this 
 building, would you? " 
 
 Amos saw about what the chances must be, and was 
 ready to burst with indignation and scorn. Why, if 
 Miss MacReady considered this a desperate chance, 
 she must live in terror, day and night! 
 
 He told her that it was not his intention to burn 
 down the school, but he was so sarcastic that she was 
 angry again. 
 
 At that moment the bell rang, and a sudden roar 
 from all the rooms indicated a stampede of feet and 
 the putting away of books. School was out. 
 
 " Go to my room and wait till I come," Miss Mac- 
 Ready said. 
 
 The level afternoon sunlight came streaming in
 
 ii4 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 through the windows of the Principal's office, and made 
 the dingy little room seem almost gay. Amos leaned 
 on the high sill of the window, sighing, looking out 
 over the green expanse of the lots, watching his com- 
 rades dwindle to specks as they followed the trail, 
 thinking unutterable things. Some far-away windows 
 caught the glare of the sun and blazed it back again 
 ... he turned away, so as not to see it, and, in a mood 
 of high revenge, set about memorizing the chronology 
 of the Revolutionary War, which was written upon 
 the blackboard for the pupils' confusion. Then he 
 heard the Principal coming, and sank into despair. 
 
 It was a tedious interview. Miss MacReady 
 couldn't beat him for such an offense as this, but she 
 could bore him, and she did it. He tried to tell of his 
 fancies about Borneo, though he knew it was a waste 
 of time, and she pointed out to him that he had all day 
 to think of such things. She urged him to say he was 
 sorry, and to promise that he would never act so again, 
 which he readily enough did, and let him go. 
 
 There remained the problem of explaining at home 
 his reason for arriving late. There seemed no better 
 way out of further trouble than the truth. So he told 
 Isabel that he had been kept after school for having 
 lighted a match, and added, in explanation, the whole 
 story of Borneo. 
 
 Isabel pretended never to have heard of so mad a 
 thing. Amos asked her if his fancies about Borneo 
 were not really as true as Geography. 
 
 "Certainly not," Isabel said. "In a Geography
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 115 
 
 Test, your whole duty is to pay attention to your 
 work." 
 
 Amos gave it up. Your imagination was evidently 
 to be used only in odd moments, when you had noth- 
 ing better to do. Imagination was all very well in pri- 
 vate, but it would not mix with the world. 
 
 On his way home from the Mill that night, Phanor 
 had happened to meet Miss MacReady, and she told 
 him all about the match-lighting episode, partly to ex- 
 cuse herself for letting such things happen, and partly 
 to let Phanor understand that she could not, with a 
 clear conscience, send home a better report for Amos 
 than the one that had been shaping itself in her mind 
 as she walked home. But her real reason was to aid 
 Parents in their crusade against Youth. 
 
 Phanor would have preferred to do his own spy- 
 ing, but the matter was by no means " over and 
 done with," and he wanted to " get to the bottom " 
 of it. 
 
 In the evening, Amos was sitting at the desk in the 
 corner, his arithmetic book open before him. He had 
 created a harp-like instrument with a rubber band 
 stretched over a ruler, and was picking at it, holding it 
 close to his ear. 
 
 " Stop that noise," said Phanor suddenly. " Haven't 
 you got any work to do? " 
 
 " Just some examples," Amos said, putting away the 
 ruler. 
 
 " Well, get about it, then. Good Lord, boy, don't 
 you take any interest in your work? "
 
 u6 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " All right," Amos answered, and turned to his arith- 
 metic. 
 
 " Well," said Phanor, and pegged one for last word. 
 
 Amos computed how many sheep A would have left 
 if he gave three-eighths of his flock to his eldest son and 
 two-fifths to his second son, and fell to stabbing an 
 eraser with a pen. 
 
 " What a shiftless, good-for-nothing boy you are, 
 anyway! " Phanor exclaimed, glaring over the top of 
 his paper. " How do you ever expect to ever amount to 
 anything in the world? " 
 
 Amos bent over his arithmetic again in silence. 
 
 " What do you think he did to-day in school, Isa- 
 bel? He was sitting playing with matches, in a Geog- 
 raphy Test! " 
 
 " Yes," Isabel said. She had some idea of defending 
 Amos. " He came home and told me all about it." 
 
 " Did he, though? " said Phanor. " It's a wonder he 
 wasn't ashamed of it." 
 
 " Well, what did you expect me ta do? " Amos said. 
 " Lie about it? " 
 
 "Don't talk like a fool! " 
 
 " Well, you always try to make out I'm no good." 
 
 " I suppose you think you're a brilliant scholar. 
 What you think to come to, I don't know." 
 
 " Oh, Gee! You'd think lighting matches was a 
 crime! " 
 
 " Be careful of your language, my son," Isabel put 
 in. 
 
 " Don't you try to twist my words around, you
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 117 
 
 idiot," Phanor cried. " You know perfectly well what 
 I mean. Why wasn't your mind on the Geography, 
 that's what I want to know, instead of something 
 else? " 
 
 " It was on the Geography. I was thinking about 
 the Geography so hard I never noticed . . ." 
 
 " Oh, stick your face in a book and stop talking non- 
 sense! " 
 
 " How can I study if you keep talking to me? " 
 
 Amos turned about and faced Phanor over the back 
 of his chair. It seemed as if he had had about all he 
 could stand, for this one day. 
 
 " Crickey, boy, I don't see what's going to become 
 of you. What do you think they'd do with a boy like 
 you down at the Mill? " 
 
 " Fire him out," Amos conjectured promptly. 
 
 " Yes; well," said Phanor. " I guess so." 
 
 He sat for a moment regarding his paper. He had 
 done all he could, God knew it; and now his son was 
 headed for failure, and didn't seem to care. 
 
 " Don't you realize the importance of your work? " 
 
 Amos cried, " No, I don't! I don't think school 
 has got anything to do with life at all! " 
 
 Phanor laughed. 
 
 " A lot you know about life! " he said. 
 
 " Well, I do! You're always trying to make out it's 
 nothing but school. Lots of great men didn't go to 
 school at all. Lincoln didn't." 
 
 Isabel came into the conversation. 
 
 " Lincoln studied at home," she said quietly.
 
 n8 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " Well, that's what I'm trying to do, and you won't 
 let me," Amos retorted. 
 
 " I suppose you think you're going to be a great man, 
 hey? Is that it? " There was an ugly pneer in Pha- 
 nor's voice. " Hey, Isabel, look at the young Abe 
 Lincoln! " 
 
 Amos burst out in a scream of rage. 
 
 " Oh, it makes me sick! " he cried. " I'm sick of 
 the whole damn business! " 
 
 Phanor jumped to his feet, flinging his paper across 
 the room, and advanced on Amos, white with anger. 
 
 " One more word out of you, you young 
 blackguard," he shouted, " and I'll send you up to 
 bed! " 
 
 " You can't do it! " Amos flung back. " You've got 
 to let me do my arithmetic." 
 
 Isabel rose and stood between them, trying to pro- 
 tect Amos from his father's wrath. 
 
 " Well, you get about it then," Phanor said. " I'd 
 like to beat you within an inch of your life! " 
 
 "Phanor! Phanor! Not so loud!" said Isabel. 
 Then she added, to Amos, " Tell mother where you 
 heard that naughty word." 
 
 Amos' anger had been frightened out of him by this 
 time, and he was sorry that he had revealed his fa- 
 miliarity with profanity. 
 
 " Some men," he said. 
 
 " Well, I don't want you ever to say such a thing 
 again. You hear? "
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 119 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 They went back to their seats, and Amos turned 
 again to his arithmetic. He finished his examples, and 
 went off upstairs to bed. 
 
 Alone in the dark, he saw the day's results somewhat 
 differently. His parents got mad, and said stupid 
 things, but it was his own worthlessness that made them 
 do so. Perhaps, after all, they did know something. 
 Phanor was a successful man, worked in the Mill, was 
 married, and everything. Phanor was safe. The world 
 couldn't touch him. This was probably life's greatest 
 achievement; Phanor said it was, and seemed proud 
 of it. Phanor ought to know what was necessary, 
 then. And he said that Amos had no chance at 
 all. 
 
 No, black doom had been written on the wall for 
 him, since the very start of Time. He could never 
 hope to be safe. Some day, the world would demand 
 of him the very things that he had not had the patience 
 to learn; then the results of his folly and wickedness 
 would fall upon him, and he would be a failure. That 
 was what was meant by not amounting to anything. 
 It meant Failure. Safety was safety from Failure. 
 No; he was a gone bird; there were no two ways 
 about it. 
 
 Downstairs he could still hear their voices, and he 
 felt a momentary return of rage at the thought that 
 they were still discussing the wickedness of lighting 
 matches.
 
 120 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 He did not know that they were talking about Mat- 
 thew Burton. 
 
 A few days after this, while Amos was engaged in 
 cutting the grass of the front yard, Burton arrived, 
 with every appearance of casuality, and asked Amos 
 to come over and spend the evening with him. Amos 
 was pleased; he had been afraid that Burton thought 
 him unfriendly. 
 
 Isabel made him put on his best clothes, which he 
 thought foolish couldn't a boy go to call on his 
 friends without getting all dressed up as if he were 
 going to church? Isabel reminded him that Mr. Bur- 
 ton was a minister, so that going to see him was not 
 unlike going to church. 
 
 Burton presented Amos to his wife and daughter; 
 the girl was a fair, pale thing without distinction, and 
 Mrs. Burton babbled and gushed, so that Amos was 
 glad when the ladies withdrew and left them alone in 
 Burton's study. 
 
 The study was a depressing room, atrociously fur- 
 nished and filled with musty smells, but there was one 
 nice thing about it: the walls were covered to the ceil- 
 ing with books, and the books were books that were 
 used. Amos had never seen anything like this before; 
 it was like the things one read of. 
 
 After a period of gay and boyish conversation, of 
 obvious artificiality, designed to make Amos feel at 
 home, and to dispel the fusty old minister impression, 
 Burton came to the real subject of the meeting.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 121 
 
 " Do you remember saying that you'd be willing to 
 help me, old man, if I needed it? " Burton asked. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, the time's come. I want your advice in a 
 matter that's been close to my heart for some time." 
 
 Amos supposed that Burton had gotten himself into 
 some scrape by being blinded when he wanted to do so 
 much. People had to be good, of course, and pious 
 and all that, but the professionals always seemed to 
 have the hardest time of it. 
 
 " I've always wanted to do boy's work," Burton went 
 on. " That has been one of the things I've had ahead 
 of me, through all my life. Recently, I've come to see 
 that I shall never have more time for it than I have 
 right now, and I'm going to go ahead. I've got a plan, 
 for a beginning, and I'd like your opinion of it." 
 
 " Well, I don't know," Amos said, warily, not know- 
 ing what was coming. " I don't see how my opinion 
 can be worth much." 
 
 " Yes, it can, my friend; you're a boy yourself." 
 
 "Gee, boys don't know what's good for them! " 
 Amos said. 
 
 " Maybe they don't," Burton admitted, much 
 amused. Then he proceeded. 
 
 A party of four or five boys in which Amos, of 
 course, was to be included was to be taken to Europe 
 under Burton's guidance. They were to sail as soon 
 as school was out in the Spring, go through France and 
 Italy, Switzerland, Germany, Holland, England, and 
 home, at the end of two months, from Liverpool. Now,
 
 122 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 did Amos think such a plan would work, and did he 
 think the boys would like it? 
 
 Amos was too delighted to think of any boy other 
 than himself. He would enjoy it! A captive sea-bird 
 would enjoy being released from a cage. It would 
 work with him! The plan of being happy would al- 
 ways work. He danced about the room; he sang and 
 laughed and cried; he hugged Burton; he fluttered the 
 leaves of the guide-books which Burton dragged out 
 to show him ; and in the end he went dancing off home 
 to tell the news. 
 
 He burst in. There sat Phanor with his paper across 
 his knees, and Isabel busy at some embroidery. 
 
 "Listen! " he cried. "Oh, listen! Mr. Burton's 
 going to take a crowd of us boys, with walking clothes 
 and everything, and look after us and talk the lan- 
 guages and go to Europe! " 
 
 Phanor and Isabel stared for a moment; they could 
 hardly make out what he was trying to say. 
 
 " This summer, when school's over," he cried again. 
 "We're going to Europe! " 
 
 There was silence for a moment. 
 
 Then Phanor chuckled, and Isabel threw back her 
 head and laughed. This, really, was too ridiculous! 
 Amos, going to Europe? Amos Enday, their own son, 
 talking of going to Europe, just as if ... Amos? 
 Why, they themselves hadn't even been to Niagara 
 Falls, to say nothing of Europe. And Amos was talk- 
 ing ... he ... they . . . well, that was good! 
 
 That finished that.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 123 
 
 Burton said he didn't see how he could make it that 
 year, anyway, and substituted the idea of a Travel 
 Club, to meet at his house on alternate Friday even- 
 ings, and read papers on the different countries they 
 would imagine themselves visiting.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 AMOS had kept steadily before him the hope that 
 some day he would reach the age of twenty-one, 
 and could tell his father and mother to go to hell. He 
 did not doubt that they would do his bidding at once. 
 Then having cleared the air about him and the road 
 before him, he could begin at once to be himself; it 
 seemed to him that nothing but freedom from his par- 
 ents was necessary for this. He considered his char- 
 acter formed and his whole plan of life arranged, ready 
 for instant release when the time should come. 
 
 Yet he saw, too, that though there were several long 
 years to be endured before this could happen, he ought, 
 in some way or other, begin to prepare himself for it. 
 But he did not know what steps to take. 
 
 It was clearly impossible to start the process of being 
 himself by slow and cautious steps, for everything fine 
 and inspiring which he had so far met in life had either 
 been laughed out of him by his parents, or postponed 
 " until he was older." Besides, no one ever heard of a 
 really fine person being cautious. There seemed noth- 
 ing for it, then, but to wait. 
 
 He saw, sweeping down upon him, the termination 
 of Grammar School. He had long ago decided that it 
 would perhaps be advisable to omit going to High 
 School altogether, thus avoiding the cruel embarrass- 
 ment of not knowing how to act. Now it was immi- 
 
 124
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 125 
 
 nent, and he must go through with it, whether he knew 
 how to act or not. 
 
 Well, he had felt the same about marriage: he 
 couldn't imagine himself ever asking a woman to marry 
 him, because he didn't know how to act. People in 
 books went through with the ridiculous ceremony with 
 poise and distinction, but then, they were in books, and 
 the lives of actual people were obviously quite different. 
 He supposed that when the matter became imminent, 
 and he found himself on his knees before the last 
 woman on earth, some sense of the inevitability of the 
 situation would clutch him and drag him through. Or, 
 he might quote from the books if they happened to 
 be books that his particular woman had not read, that 
 might not be so bad. 
 
 But, with High School, there weren't even the models 
 in the books. The only real way out would be to give 
 up High School altogether, and retrace his steps over 
 the road of life. Yet the sun rose, day after day; High 
 School, like the peak of a terrible mountain, rose over 
 the horizon. 
 
 As his own contribution to the graduation festivities 
 he was to recite Lincoln's Gettysburg speech, and the 
 nervousness with which he anticipated his appearance 
 on the platform added to the natural apprehensiveness 
 of the occasion. It was a day on which special pre- 
 cautions must be taken against unpleasant oc- 
 currences. His part in the cantata of the infamous 
 legend of Floyd Ireson was inconspicuous enough, and
 
 126 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 caused him no uneasiness, but Lincoln's speech was put 
 late in the program, and he worked himself into a hope- 
 lessly perspiring state of agony long before there was 
 any need of it. 
 
 His time came at last, and he launched himself into 
 the sea of Lincoln's great words in a spasm of haste 
 and dread. His mother was in the audience, and she 
 smiled up at him to encourage him, so that when he 
 was half-way through, and saw that he was not going 
 to forget his lines, or explode, or find himself suddenly 
 without his clothes, he slowed down, breathed easier, 
 and began to use some of the gestures he had been 
 taught. 
 
 He had never before been so grateful for his mother. 
 When he had finished and made his bow, he looked 
 down at her as he was leaving the platform, and saw 
 her nodding and smiling up at him under her pretty 
 lace hat and clapping her little gloved hands in what 
 seemed to him to be complete approval. He quite 
 missed the idea that she was, in reality, applauding her- 
 self for having so brilliant a son. 
 
 He sank gratefully into his seat beside Bert Wilson, 
 and seemed to look back over a long life of complicated 
 achievements.' 
 
 Bert leaned over and whispered behind his hand, 
 " I'm going down to Waddy Brooke's after school. 
 Come on down." 
 
 Amos felt that this was too special an occasion for 
 mere play after school, and he hesitated. Must he not, 
 somehow, be different, now that he had graduated?
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 127 
 
 " Come on," Bert insisted. " Belle's going to be 
 there; she wants you to come." 
 
 Amos felt a thrill. Belle Brooke had sent for him! 
 That could only mean that she loved him. 
 
 " Well," he said, not wishing to betray the eagerness 
 which he felt, " I got to go home first." 
 
 " All right. I'll come with you, and then we'll go 
 right on over." 
 
 Accordingly, when the celebration was finished, and 
 the children had filed out of the dingy old school-house 
 for the last time, carrying their diplomas and feeling 
 stiff and formal in their best clothes and important in 
 their new setting out into life, Bert and Amos freed 
 themselves from the crowd, and set out for Elm Street. 
 
 Isabel had stayed at school for a congratulation con- 
 test with some of the other mothers, and was not at 
 home when Amos arrived. The house was shut up and 
 deserted. Amos would have wept if Bert had not been 
 watching. It was so sad a thing to be shut out of one's 
 house. And this was so important an occasion! 
 
 The two boys walked all around the house, inspect- 
 ing all the carefully locked windows. Finally, Amos 
 climbed the pole in the back yard and hid his diploma 
 in the bird-house. The symbol of all his new achieve- 
 ments, hidden in the bird-house! He half hoped it 
 would be stolen, or carried off by the birds; how 
 would his mother feel then? 
 
 This was just as Amos had always feared; some great 
 change would come, and Home would not even be 
 aware of it.
 
 128 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 The Brookes lived in a house of magnificent size, or 
 so it seemed to Amos. Belle was a Queen, on a throne; 
 she was shut off from the world by tall iron gates, and 
 separated from the common crowd of mankind by a 
 splendid garden. Her environment, no less than her 
 reputation and her beauty, set her apart, and made her 
 inaccessible. 
 
 The boys came in at the carriage gates, and as they 
 passed along the drive, Bert gave a peculiar whistle, 
 which was answered from the barn, where Waddy 
 Brooke, his sister, and another girl, named Jane Lane, 
 whose red hair Amos had noted, but with whom he had 
 never spoken, were playing together. The three ap- 
 peared at a hay-door on the second floor, and called to 
 them to come on up. 
 
 Amos loved a barn. This was a very different place 
 from the disused old ruin in which the armies of Re- 
 spectability used to withstand the attacks of Cliff 
 Smoot in the days when there were Micks, for there was 
 a hay-loft here, and horses, and carriages in the car- 
 riage-room, and a room for the hired man with a hired 
 man actually living in it. 
 
 Amos was introduced. He was rather bewildered. 
 He did not know how to act. He found himself, so to 
 speak, on a stage during a performance in which he was 
 the only one who did not understand what was going 
 on. However, he was soon completely in love with 
 Belle, and that made it easier for him. 
 
 Waddy soon left them, and the four were obliged to 
 amuse themselves. As a means of breaking the ice
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 129 
 
 which was rather necessary, since Amos was embar- 
 rassed now, by the presence of Jane and Bert it was 
 suggested that they play forfeits. In the first round, 
 Bert said " the owner of this " meaning Amos' knife 
 
 " must kiss Belle Brooke ten times." He fulfilled his 
 obligations, but did not stop at the end; he caught 
 Belle tight in his arms and kissed her on the mouth. 
 From this he raised his head, in a glow of enthusiasm 
 at her sweetness and his own unconquerable daring, to 
 find that the others had clattered laughingly down the 
 stairs and left them alone. It rather pleased him that 
 they should have been able to get away without his 
 noticing it; it meant that he was caught in a net of love 
 and beauty, and so he told Belle. Her heart was won 
 immediately at this if it needed any winning and 
 they promised eternal fidelity. 
 
 Amos had always regarded kissing as a foolish con- 
 cession to convention; people in books no matter; 
 he himself did not know how it should be done, and 
 thought omission the best way out of it. Belle con- 
 vinced him at once of the folly of this. 
 
 He found that making love to her came as naturally 
 to him as Spring sunshine comes to a flower. Here was 
 a secret penetrated. Why, it was a part of the Con- 
 spiracy, and he had solved it for himself! Love, after 
 all, was not something in a book; it was within himself! 
 He had but to listen, and the voice of it filled his 
 heart. 
 
 They sat there in the hay, with the swallows twitter- 
 ing and darting about among the rafters above their
 
 130 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 heads. Belle talked with him as another boy would 
 talk with a thousand added delights, of course she 
 was profane where there was occasion for profanity, 
 and nearly everything she said had a double meaning. 
 It never crossed Amos' mind that she was like this by 
 actual character; he thought that he had broken 
 through the protecting wall and found the key which 
 brought him into the presence of her inmost self. He 
 felt that he had created her for his own delight. 
 Thereby, had he but known it, he arrived at the heart 
 of the matter. 
 
 He won her, and lost her, and won her again, in de- 
 lightful repetition. They pretended to quarrel, and 
 made it up again; they discovered new kinds of kisses; 
 they talked about how they loved each other. They 
 wanted no more than this. 
 
 Their most important revelation was that neither of 
 them, ever again hereafter, would be more than half 
 alive without the other. Amos thought that he had dis- 
 covered all this; it was, in his mind, one of those inde- 
 pendent discoveries of which one sometimes reads; 
 other people had perhaps found it out, at other times 
 and in far-away places, but he too had hit upon it, 
 without knowledge of their researches. This ex- 
 plained how it was that people had always acted as if 
 there were such a thing as love, actually existing; they 
 had found it, and now he had found it; every living 
 soul on earth had either caught this ideal, or was pur- 
 suing it. Human nature included Amos Enday. There 
 was something miraculous about it. Belle, with her
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 131 
 
 laughing eyes and willing mouth, was a confirmation 
 and a materialization; she was a vision come true for 
 him, his book, his experience, his life. And so he told 
 her. 
 
 She did not then understand, nor can it be said that 
 she ever did understand, that she was no more than 
 one who holds open a door for another. 
 
 Some one called Belle from the house, telling her 
 that it was time for supper. They parted as tenderly, 
 and at as great length, as if forever. A dozen times 
 Belle called him back to kiss her again. 
 
 He went home feeling like a King. The world was 
 filled with Romance and Beauty; delight was all about 
 him, free, open to the sky, and, by its very intensity, 
 incapable of being denied. This, no power on earth 
 should ever thwart. Nothing should ever stop him 
 again. He had met his lady and won her, and life, 
 from this point on, was all that he had ever hoped or 
 dreamed it. 
 
 When he reached home, Phanor had already arrived 
 from the Mill, and they were about to sit down to sup- 
 per without him. Almost he wished they had done so; 
 he would have liked to tell them that being late to sup- 
 per was a very unimportant thing. 
 
 " Well, where have you been till this time of night? " 
 Phanor asked. " Didn't you know it was time to come 
 home? " 
 
 " Oh, I've been out somewhere," said Amos, jauntily, 
 " minding my own business."
 
 132 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 "Don't be impudent," said Isabel, who had come 
 to the kitchen door to hear Amos explain. 
 
 " You have, hey? " Phanor said. " Well, you'd bet- 
 ter stayed back there with the children." 
 
 " Oh, I guess not," said Amos. 
 
 " Don't you talk that way to me, boy! If this is 
 what getting out of school has done to you, you'd bet- 
 ter stayed there with the children." 
 
 " Getting out of school's got nothing to do with it," 
 Amos replied. 
 
 " There, don't make trouble," Isabel said. " Don't 
 you know by this time, that you ought to come home 
 after school? " 
 
 " I did come home, and there wasn't anybody here." 
 
 "Now, don't begin to lie about it," said Phanor. 
 " Your mother knows, don't she? " 
 
 " No; she wasn't here herself. How soon are we 
 going to have supper? " 
 
 " Right away," said Isabel, turning up the gas in the 
 dining-room. " We were just waiting for you." 
 
 " Well, I guess I'll get my diploma, then. It's in the 
 bird house. It might get damp." 
 
 Outside, the world was filled with quiet twilight, and 
 the robins were singing. How sad and beautiful! 
 
 During supper, Amos told the story of the deserted 
 house and the hidden diploma, making it as startling as 
 he could, enjoying the chagrin which his parents evi- 
 dently felt at having left him to his own resources on 
 so important a day. 
 
 Later, he took a book of Browning's poems over to
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 133 
 
 the corner with him, and sat for some time listlessly 
 turning the pages in search of something which should 
 come near to expressing what he felt. Oh, the glory 
 and joy of knowing that he was right! Oh, Belle, 
 Belle! My darling, my darling! Your kisses on my 
 lips, your hands on my cheeks, your eyes like stars in 
 the sky! 
 
 " What are you feeling so gay about, young man? " 
 asked Phanor, who had been watching over the top of 
 his paper. 
 
 " I guess I'll take up the study of Browning this 
 summer," Amos replied, seriously. 
 
 Phanor and Isabel exchanged amused glances. 
 
 " Humph! " said Phanor. " Pity you didn't get am- 
 bitious before it was all over! " 
 
 " It's not all over," Amos said. " It's just beginning. 
 I've always wanted to know about poetry, and they 
 never give us any in school." 
 
 "Why, what a way to talk," Isabel exclaimed. 
 " Think of all the poems you've learned to recite! " 
 
 " Yes; Village Blacksmith and Floyd Ireson and 
 Santa Topsy! Lot of school stuff! " 
 
 "Well, what next! " said Phanor. 
 
 " Isn't Browning all right? " 
 
 " He was a great man," said Phanor solemnly. 
 
 " I guess I'll go up to bed," Amos said. " I'm 
 tired." 
 
 He rose and went upstairs, taking the Browning with 
 him. As soon as he was out of hearing, both Phanor 
 and Isabel began to speak at once.
 
 134 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " Well, of all things! " said Isabel. 
 
 " What's come over him? " asked Phanor. 
 
 " I guess he's relieved about school being over 
 with," Isabel suggested. " I'm afraid he hasn't en- 
 joyed it as he should." 
 
 "Too bad about him! " said Phanor. " Crickey, I 
 wonder what's going to become of the boy? " 
 
 " He's not a dull boy; I guess he'll get there, some 
 day." 
 
 " I hope so. It don't seem likely, though. Isn't that 
 just like him! The very day he gets through school, 
 he wants to do some studying. And Poetry, too." 
 
 " Well, it is funny," Isabel agreed. " But I think 
 it's a good sign." 
 
 " I suppose he might learn something, at that," Pha- 
 nor conceded. 
 
 " He may develop into quite a student hi High 
 School and College; you can't tell. Look at Gerald 
 What's-his-name; always at the very tail end, all 
 through school, and he took prizes in college." 
 
 " College? " said Phanor, as if the idea were new to 
 him. 
 
 " Why, yes. Don't you remember? He got a medal 
 for something, wasn't it? " 
 
 " Yes; but what's that got to do with Amos? " 
 
 " Why, I was just thinking that sometimes boys 
 that are backward in school sort of . . ." 
 
 " Who said anything about Amos going to college? " 
 
 " Well, nobody. But I thought it was all decided." 
 
 " That's news to me. I simply said it might be a
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 135 
 
 good thing; it was just a suggestion, that's all. And 
 here you turn around and say it's all decided! " 
 
 " Well, I was just thinking, that's all. It's got to be 
 decided pretty soon, you know." 
 
 " Why has it? " Phanor asked. 
 
 " Why you told me yourself, Phanor. You have to 
 put in an application, or whatever it is, for the High 
 School, to say whether you want him to take the Col- 
 lege Preparatory Course, or the other." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know what I said! But what if I did? " 
 There's no such hurry, that I can see. What's the 
 sense of rushing off all of a sudden, without taking a 
 little time to think it over? " 
 
 '* There's nothing to be gained by putting it off till 
 the last minute, either," Isabel said. " I don't want 
 him to come tagging along at the very tail end, all the 
 time.'' 
 
 ' The boy's whole future's at stake, Isabel." 
 
 " I know." 
 
 " Oh, I suppose the college course is the one to take. 
 I don't know. Have you got that catalog there? " 
 
 Isabel found the High School catalog under the pile 
 of magazines on the desk, and passed it across to Pha- 
 nor, who began to turn the leaves. 
 
 " Crickey, look at all the stuff they give them! " I 
 never had half this stuff; I'd know more than I do. 
 All this stuff . . . It's just a question of what we want 
 to make of him, that's all." 
 
 " Well, you know the requirements down at the Mill 
 better than I do, of course," Isabel said. " Whether
 
 136 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 it's a question of the college course, or the other . . ." 
 
 " Of course, a college man has a greater opportunity. 
 The Mill is looking for college men, all the time. But 
 it's not a question of just making a successful man of 
 him, Isabel. Of course, I want him to be a success; 
 that's only natural. But there's other things to con- 
 sider. A liberal education's a great thing; gives a man 
 a start. If the boy's got something in him, we ought 
 to develop it, that's all." 
 
 " I'd like to have him a college man," Isabel said. 
 " Of course, it's too early to tell what he's going to 
 amount to; we won't know that till he's started in life." 
 
 " I can see the difference, down at the Mill ; the men 
 that have been to college are free in their tastes. The 
 others are apt to get into a rut; just plugging along, 
 and getting nowhere. Good, honest fellows, too, for 
 the most part." 
 
 Perhaps Phanor now dimly felt that since no one 
 had ever told him what life was about, he could not 
 tell Amos; at any rate, he leaned on college as a prop. 
 He wanted to place the whole matter in the hands of 
 those whose business it was to take such responsibili- 
 ties; he could then tie up in one bundle all the advan- 
 tages of a college education, bestow it on his son, and 
 pay the bill. He said that paying the bill was all he 
 was good for, but he didn't mean anything by that. 
 
 Isabel saw very plainly that life lacked something, 
 and thought that perhaps college was the very thing 
 to supply it. But she hoped that she should find
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 137 
 
 strength not to interfere in matters which were, after 
 all, none of a woman's business. 
 
 " I should say, offhand, that the college course was 
 the one to take," Phanor said. He had been looking 
 through the catalog again, and found, he thought, a 
 certain lack of distinction in the other courses. 
 
 "That would be what I should say," Isabel said. 
 "The application is right there in the front of the 
 book." 
 
 " Yes, I saw it." 
 
 " Well, don't you want to fill it out and sign it, right 
 now? Then it'll be done." 
 
 " There you go again! Always rushing off! What's 
 the hurry, all of a sudden? Why not take a little time 
 to think things out, on an important thing like this? " 
 
 However, in the end he filled it out and signed it, 
 and spent the next few weeks in distrusting colleges. 
 
 As for Amos, it was some time, naturally, before he 
 could get to sleep. His graduation from Grammar 
 School was involved, in his imagination, with finding 
 Belle. He had caught up a thousand threads of hopes 
 and delights and enthusiasms, and bound them to- 
 gether in one enduring fabric of purpose which was 
 beyond the reach of all conjecture and speculation. 
 He would have been astonished if he could have heard 
 his parents talking about getting him started in life. 
 In his view of the matter, he was started now. This 
 was not a thing he could take calmly.
 
 138 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 He was gratified at the difficulty of going to sleep, 
 and made a martyrdom of it. Next to being assured 
 that Belle cared, it was most pleasant to be assured 
 that he cared himself. His inability to drop off to 
 sleep was satisfactory proof of this. 
 
 He thought not so much of Belle herself as of her 
 ability to bid him awake and see the dawn. For this 
 power he gave her all due honor. She must be a very 
 fine and wonderful person to be able to do this; she 
 had made all the important things in life march out, 
 shoulder to shoulder, in one irresistible effort, towards 
 one glorious goal. This was something no one else had 
 been able to do for him. Even Burton, with all his 
 culture, had not been able to do it. He must see Bur- 
 ton well, not to tell him the whole story, exactly, but 
 to confirm things, to seek out and find concurrencies 
 and consistencies. 
 
 His habit of thought then led him to the considera- 
 tion of practical measures. Success was really very 
 dear to him, for duty was dear to him, and what his 
 parents wanted him to do was duty. Now, how could 
 he turn this new power of his to the attainment of suc- 
 cess? He had here a master key, which could unlock 
 anything; why not let it unlock the door that led 
 to the difficult business of succeeding in life? Why, a 
 week ago he would have been normally crushed by the 
 thought that the aim of life is the prevention of hap- 
 piness; now, though he thought of it none the less, it 
 did not seem to matter. Now, he was in a position to 
 force the world to yield both happiness and success.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 139 
 
 Let him but have patience and courage, and the whole 
 of life was solved. 
 
 He must get to understand Browning, and all other 
 poets. 
 
 He was nearly asleep. 
 
 There were the Memoirs of Court Life, too, which 
 he had found in the library, and thought very dull; 
 now they would have a new meaning for him, and he 
 would read them. How wonderful to be thus one with 
 the Great! How delighted his father and mother would 
 be, when he told them! How splendid to take this 
 thing which they would regard as unimportant and 
 valueless and even, he supposed, they would regard 
 it as wicked; yes, certainly they would and use it to 
 make a better man of himself, thus turning it into an 
 undeniable virtue. 
 
 The question of marriage did not once come into his 
 mind, even to the extent of his deciding against it. He 
 went to sleep, clutching the Browning, and, to his deep 
 chagrin, dreamed nothing whatever. 
 
 He awoke very early the next morning, and heard 
 the birds singing. He lay for some time listening, 
 breathless with delight; the world and life, infinitely 
 lovely, had at last come close. 
 
 It occurred to him that he might go and sing be- 
 neath Belle's window the gray dawn is breaking but 
 that was before he was really awake. 
 
 When he had gotten up and dressed himself, he sat 
 at the sitting-room window, looking out into Elm 
 Street. The people who passed were people whom he
 
 140 
 
 had never seen before; probably they always passed 
 at this time, while he was asleep upstairs but what an 
 altered aspect they gave the world ! 
 
 He sat wondering how he was to manage to keep his 
 grasp of life, now that he had it. He heard his father's 
 footstep upstairs, and was uneasy at once. What 
 should he say when he was questioned? 
 
 He hid himself under the sofa in the parlor while 
 Phanor came down, rummaged in the kitchen, took the 
 paper from the front steps, and went up again. Then 
 he returned to his place by the sitting-room window. 
 
 Isabel came down presently, and found him there. 
 
 " Why, whatever's the matter! " she cried in amaze- 
 ment. " What's happened? Are you sick? " 
 
 " Nothing," he answered. " I'm all right." 
 
 " But what does this mean? What made you get up 
 so early? " 
 
 " Oh, I just happened to wake up, and I thought I'd 
 come down." 
 
 " But what a funny thing to do! " 
 
 Amos fell to wondering how the man who* sang of the 
 gray dawn beneath the window of Kathleen Mavour- 
 neen managed to escape his mother's questions. What 
 did he say when she asked him what made him get up 
 so early? It was like Browning, going off to live in 
 Italy. His mother must have made a fuss about that. 
 It must be that he had had no mother. But were all 
 heroes and great men orphans? 
 
 After breakfast he told Isabel that he thought he'd 
 go and see Mr. Burton. She made no definite objec-
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 141 
 
 tion, but said that she thought it was a funny thing 
 to do. 
 
 On his way, he reflected on the questions he wanted 
 to ask. He must find out from Burton how an in- 
 spired man should act. If you suddenly found your- 
 self in the grip of an enthusiasm that would not let you 
 sleep, what did you do about it to make it seem sane? 
 If you were Browning, and, some morning, told your 
 mother that you thought you'd go and live in Italy and 
 be a great man, what did you reply when she said, 
 " Ho, ho! Look what's going to be a great man! " By 
 the time you'd gotten through arguing about it, you 
 went to Italy just out of spite, and all the inspiration 
 was gone out of it. 
 
 Of course, you could just run away, saying nothing to 
 any one hide under the parlor sofa with your satchel, 
 and sneak off. But you couldn't prove your point until 
 you were really famous, and that wouldn't be until 
 after your mother was dead. There could be little sat- 
 isfaction in that. 
 
 It was important to know these things. Burton 
 would know. 
 
 A gentle breeze was stirring the leaves of the maples, 
 and the broken sunlight was dancing on the floor of 
 Burton's porch. 
 
 Burton came to the door himself. 
 
 " Hello, old man," he said. 
 
 Amos noticed a solemnity in Burton's manner, and 
 a hush about the house. What was it? Why did 
 everything seem so strange?
 
 142 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Then Burton told him that his wife was seriously ill; 
 that she had been stricken during the night; that the 
 doctor was with her, but could offer, as yet, little en- 
 couragement. 
 
 "Oh! " cried Amos. "I'm so sorry! Why, I can't 
 ... it doesn't . . . Oh, on such a beautiful morn- 
 ing! " 
 
 " Yes," said Burton, softly, smiling. " God's beau- 
 tiful morning. It's as if Heaven were opened, is it 
 not? " 
 
 Amos understood, but could say nothing. He 
 choked out some meaningless words and turned away. 
 
 He knew, in his heart, that Mrs. Burton was going 
 to die. How was Burton to endure it? How could he 
 himself endure it for him? It seemed a terrible thing 
 that Death could come walking into the midst of life, 
 take what he wanted, and walk out again, with no one 
 able to protest or to prevent. 
 
 At home, he wandered about the house, disconso- 
 lately looking for something to do to pass the time 
 until two o'clock, when he was to see Belle. But he 
 took good care to keep out of the way of his mother. 
 
 By lunch time he had worked himself into a state of 
 loneliness and misery that made his heart ache. He ex- 
 plained his depression by telling of Mrs. Burton's ill- 
 ness. But nothing really mattered, now, if only he 
 could see Belle. 
 
 They met on a street corner. Amos was early, and 
 spent a quarter of an hour thinking that he should die
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 143 
 
 of anxiety and impatience. But at last she came. He 
 saw her, like a queen, coming to meet him. How won- 
 derful and beautiful she was! 
 
 He asked her, first, if she still loved him. It ap- 
 peared that she did, and they shyly shook hands, hop- 
 ing to give the impression, to all the people who must, 
 they felt, be watching them from windows, that they 
 were casual acquaintances, who had met by chance. 
 Then, Belle wanted to know, did Amos still love her? 
 Of course he did. He was a little angry with her for 
 asking it. 
 
 Across the lots, the little river that flowed through 
 the town ambled out between some rolling hills, and 
 went wandering away across the country. This gap in 
 the hills was visible to them as they stood on the street 
 corner, and naturally suggested that they set out to 
 follow the river. A part of its course was already 
 known to Amos and the other boys of his group, be- 
 cause it afforded several swimming-holes to which they 
 were frequent visitors during the summer. But be- 
 yond the swimming-holes the country was unknown 
 and undiscovered. Several farms were scattered about, 
 at infrequent intervals, but in the main the land was 
 uninhabited, and seemed to offer the combination of 
 adventure and seclusion that Belle and Amos wanted. 
 
 Accordingly they set off across the lots, over the 
 shaky bridge, and began to kiss each other as soon as 
 the shoulders of the hills had shut them out from view 
 of the town. 
 
 Amos was wise enough to see that he must not tell
 
 144 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Belle of all the dreams he had had since he had last 
 seen her; it would be too frank a confession that she 
 was, after all, no more than a means to an end. But 
 he told her all the rest of it, however, and made her 
 happy, and it was not long before he had completely 
 convinced himself that it was Belle he cared for, and 
 not the new opportunities for life which she had given 
 him. So they wandered very happily, hand in hand, 
 beside the river. 
 
 When they reached the first of the swimming-holes 
 which, by some miracle, they found deserted Belle 
 suggested that they go in swimming. Amos was 
 pleased with this dashing idea, finding it so thoroughly 
 in accord with his new conception of the freedom and 
 beauty of life; it was, moreover, the very pinnacle and 
 climax of desperate wickedness, and seemed fitting for 
 one who had done forever with his narrow past and 
 had taken up the study of poetry. But when it came 
 to actual preparations, they found that they lacked the 
 courage to proceed, and the project came to nothing. 
 
 This exploring and adventuring were new to Belle, 
 who had always before confined her researches within 
 the boundaries of civilization, and she was grateful to 
 Amos for revealing its possibilities. And before very 
 long, as might have been expected by any one who 
 had known her for a longer time than Amos, its effect 
 on her became so pronounced that she threw overboard 
 the small amount of restraint which her character had 
 left her, and began to talk and behave in a truly alarm- 
 ing manner.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 145 
 
 Amos tried for a time to enter into this spirit, and 
 Belle, under such encouragement, sank lower and 
 lower; but, in the end, it distressed him and hurt him. 
 It was simply dirtiness, and he resented its familiarity 
 with love, which seemed so pure and splendid a thing, 
 and with Belle, whom he had put on a pedestal in the 
 very center of the temple where he worshiped. It did 
 not occur to him, even then, that his kisses meant to 
 her something vastly different from what hers were 
 meaning to him. 
 
 This wouldn't do, at all. He came to the conclusion 
 that he must risk losing everything, and protest. 
 
 Belle was not ashamed, but surprised. To her, it 
 seemed the height of absurdity to thus recall the thread- 
 bare standards of morality which she had deliberately 
 abandoned in her own life as soon as she found that 
 they were in conflict with the natural impulses. More- 
 over, she could see in Amos' action only the folly of a 
 man who, finding a broken wall between himself and 
 the mysterious country of license, set to work to build 
 it up again. She was astonished that any one could be 
 so blind to opportunity. 
 
 Amos won back her confidence by telling her that he 
 loved, worshiped and adored her, and then, having 
 made her willing to listen, started to preach. This was 
 a field with which he was familiar. All the tenets of 
 morality which he had so bitterly and scornfully re- 
 jected when they had been brought to his own attention, 
 he now poured out to her. He recalled things that he 
 had heard Burton say; he brought out whole sections
 
 146 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 of Sunday School; he invoked the True Faith and the 
 Divine Revelation, though these were things for which 
 he had hitherto felt nothing but incredulity and impa- 
 tience. In the end, he asserted that he was her lord 
 and master which was true enough, for she was his 
 even more completely than he realized and said that 
 he did not want her to act as she had been acting, and 
 that she must stop it. To none of this could she find 
 any answer, and she promised to be good. 
 
 It was by this time rather late, and they were at a 
 considerable distance from home. As they started to 
 retrace their way, they gradually regained their mood 
 of gaiety, and before long Amos had caught her in his 
 arms again. She rebuked him, accusing him of 
 naughtiness and of too soon forgetting his protestations 
 of morality, and they spent another half-hour in going 
 over the same ground again, while Amos tried to point 
 out the difference between love and naughtiness. 
 
 Finally the matter was clear for all practical pur- 
 poses, and they separated on the street corner where 
 they had met, after almost endless protestations of love 
 and devotion. 
 
 The events of the afternoon made Amos very 
 thoughtful. The sky of happiness was still without a 
 cloud, and Belle herself was no less dear in actual pres- 
 ence, or radiant with bright possibilities; but the prob- 
 lem of making her of practical advantage, of forcing 
 success in living from inspiration in life, had become 
 vastly more difficult. He was going to reform her, to
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 147 
 
 make her over into something which should better fit 
 his conception of what she should be, and what life 
 might be. 
 
 There must be no pulling in opposite directions; he 
 had had enough of that. All things must work to- 
 gether for good. He did not doubt that love was equal 
 to this task, and he found courage within himself to 
 attempt it. 
 
 He saw that the campaign was dangerous, since he 
 would, in part, have to fight himself. He saw that it 
 was difficult, for he would have to reconcile and bring 
 together two points of view which lay at the furthest 
 possible distance from each other. A life of inspira- 
 tion, which moved in utter disregard of consequences, 
 must be brought to go hand in hand with a life of daily 
 anxieties which never made a move except for safety. 
 
 It was thus that the parlor at 97 Elm Street forced 
 its way into the very heart of existence.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 PHANOR began to have a confused idea in the 
 back of his mind, produced, perhaps, by watch- 
 ing Amos, that something might be found to interest 
 the boy, and give him a serious view of life. He had 
 no real idea of a serious view of life himself; he sup- 
 posed he meant the ability to worry about things. 
 
 " Crickey! " he said one day to Amos. " I should 
 think you'd like to do some experimenting with chem- 
 istry, or something." 
 
 Amos had a swift vision of himself in an acid- 
 stained gown, pottering about test-tubes and retorts, 
 while Belle looked breathlessly over his shoulder to 
 watch the outcome of some great experiment which had 
 for its object the chemical reconstruction of the world. 
 
 " I wish there was some place around the house we 
 could devote to it," Phanor went on, being perfectly 
 sure there wasn't. 
 
 " Maybe I could fix up a shop in the laundry," Amos 
 suggested. 
 
 " And burn the house down," Phanor said. " What 
 would prevent your putting your eyes out with some 
 explosion, hey? " 
 
 The matter of the laboratory was never arranged, 
 and Phanor's idea went the way of so many others. 
 
 Phanor had been looking back over his own school 
 
 148
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 149 
 
 days, and he could not remember he had asked Isabel 
 about it, and she couldn't remember, either any such 
 renascence of interest on graduation from Grammar 
 School, as this which now seemed to have come to 
 Amos. It hadn't made any great difference to them to 
 get out of one school and into another; but here was 
 Amos, out of Miss MacReady's clutches, leaping eag- 
 erly forward into a life of complex activity, as if the 
 whole world were altered. He was a strange boy. 
 
 He knew they wouldn't have minded his making 
 friends with girls, or even having a " best girl," so long 
 as he made nothing of it and appeared to be getting 
 nothing important from it; but Belle was different, and 
 he did not mention her. It was plain to him that they 
 were puzzled by his new attitude well, they had fooled 
 him, often enough. 
 
 He began to cultivate the library. This was an ap- 
 proved source of knowledge, and made no threat to 
 blow the roof off the laundry. 
 
 Every evening he brought home four books the 
 maximum number allowed to one borrower from the 
 loan department. He chose the most varied subjects, 
 ranging from the Theory of Magnetism to Bee-culture; 
 everything in print interested him, so long as it was not 
 school work. 
 
 On the first floor of the library, convenient to the 
 main entrance, was a magazine room. Amos had never 
 dared to go in, for there was a sign on the door which 
 stated that it was " For Readers Only," and he was not 
 sure that he could include himself in this designation.
 
 150 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Several times, as he had stood hesitating at the door, 
 he had noticed an untidy old gentleman in a battered 
 derby hat, who fussed about a great deal among the 
 magazines, and once, while he was trying to gather 
 courage to enter, the man came out and spoke to him. 
 
 " You know you are welcome to this room, do you 
 not? " the old gentleman had said. 
 
 " Well," Amos answered, apologetically, " I don't 
 get much time to read magazines." 
 
 The old gentleman smiled, and said, " The knowl- 
 edge of the whole world is here; don't neglect it. I am 
 an inventor, myself; I get my greatest pleasure in life 
 from the magazines." 
 
 He smiled again and nodded in a friendly way, and 
 went shuffling back into the magazine room again, 
 whither Amos followed him. He had said, " I'm an 
 inventor, myself . . ." That " Myself " implied that 
 Amos was something, too. Why had no one ever 
 treated him in this way before? It must be that he 
 was getting to be some one. That was Belle's doing, of 
 course. 
 
 He spent a great deal of time, after this, among the 
 magazines, and often he had long talks with the old 
 inventor, who never seemed to be too busy to drag out 
 something interesting. Amos was delighted- with the 
 idea that he was now able to discover people for him- 
 self. 
 
 Phanor and Isabel sometimes pawed over the books 
 which he brought home, to discover what he was doing, 
 but, out of embarrassment, they always waited until
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 151 
 
 he had gone to bed before they did this, and he never 
 knew that they had the least curiosity. 
 
 Couldn't they see that he was now on the road to 
 success? Why, it was life's greatest achievement, and 
 they were taking it as a matter of course ! 
 
 It was all in his own consciousness, which they had 
 never entered. 
 
 He soon discovered that it was not necessary for him 
 to go to the library whenever he said he did; it was a 
 simple matter to choose some books in the afternoon, 
 hide them in the feed-box in Wilson's barn, and get 
 them, later, after he had spent an evening with Belle. 
 
 In the rear of the Brooke's house there was a gar- 
 den; a smooth grass-plot, surrounded by flower beds 
 and borders of high shrubs, backed by a line of poplar 
 trees, in which the wind seemed always pattering. In 
 one of the corners remote from the house, Belle had 
 contrived a bower; the stems of some of the shrubs had 
 been cut off, and a few boards, covered with scraps of 
 matting, formed a floor. Here she would wait, every 
 evening, to receive her lover, who pushed through a 
 gap in the picket fence at the rear of the garden and 
 came crawling on his hands and knees through a dark 
 tunnel among the leaves. In this secret seclusion they 
 spent many hours, looking up at the stars through the 
 close foliage overhead, and assuring each other that no 
 two people, since the beginning of the world, had ever 
 been in love as they were. 
 
 Sometimes, when Frank, the coach-man, spent an 
 evening " up street," they tiptoed carefully to the barn
 
 152 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 and climbed the creaking stairs to the hay-loft. It was 
 inky black, and the only sound, beyond their own 
 guarded whisperings, was the gentle ticking noise in the 
 hay; they could hear the rattle of distant wagon wheels 
 in the street outside, and used to enjoy the thought that 
 the world was going by, unknowing of their existence, 
 leaving them alone and happy. Once or twice, Frank 
 came home earlier than usual, and then the adventure 
 of getting out, past his door, was one of delicious dan- 
 ger. They held tight to each other's hands, refused to 
 breathe, and moved an inch at a time. 
 
 At nine o'clock, a curfew was rung on the bell of the 
 dingy little wooden chapel that stood across the street 
 from the school-house, and this was the signal for sep- 
 aration. The time came, inexorably, for one last kiss, 
 one final good night, one more desperate clinging to- 
 gether, on breaking which they seemed to leave their 
 hearts behind; it was as if the world had ended, and 
 naked empty space rushed up from every side to over- 
 whelm them. 
 
 Then Amos tiptoed down the length of the garden on 
 the quiet grass, wriggled through the gap in the fence, 
 and went home heart-sick with loneliness. He got his 
 books from the feed-box in the barn, and presented 
 himself in the sitting-room, fresh from the library. 
 
 This went on for some time, and then Waddy Brooke 
 discovered the bower in the garden. He removed the 
 boards and matting; Belle and Amos put them back 
 again. He led his friends to the spot, and broke in 
 upon them, time and again, with jeers and cries of
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 153 
 
 " shame! " They shifted to the hay-loft, and Waddy 
 found them there; he told Frank to be on the look-out 
 for them, and destroyed the secret with laughter and 
 teasing songs. In the end they were driven out, and 
 sought seclusion farther from home. 
 
 On the other side of Arbor Avenue, there was a large 
 open field, given over to the storage of horse-cars. On 
 long, uneven lines of track that sprawled across the 
 field the winter cars stood in compact ranks, their doors 
 closed, the blinds drawn up before their windows. The 
 yard was but a few blocks from Belle's house; it was 
 always deserted. Belle and Amos claimed it, as a 
 sanctuary, and in the midst of it escaped the prying 
 world. They met at the corner of the yard, under the 
 black shadow of a spreading beech tree, and crept to- 
 gether down the long alley between the tracks until 
 756, which was the number of the car they had selected 
 as their own, loomed before them in the starlight. They 
 pushed open the sliding door, and closed it noiselessly 
 behind them. 
 
 It was a perfect hiding-place, and they enjoyed the 
 secrecy of it even more than the seclusion that it 
 afforded them, for, beyond assuring each other that 
 they were in love, and making further plans for daring 
 escapades and dangerous adventures, they had nothing 
 to talk about. Amos knew that Belle was not inter- 
 ested in his plans for himself; she did not care for the 
 person he hoped some day to be; she cared for him as 
 he was, and he tried to be satisfied. She even enjoyed 
 his attempts at reforming her, and used to try to pro-
 
 154 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 voke them, for restraint, to her, was a rather pleasant 
 novelty. 
 
 "Listen, darling little girl; God sees everything 
 you do, do you know it, and hears everything you 
 say." 
 
 " I'll bet it shocks Him, then," Belle would answer. 
 
 The officials of the horse-car Company had noticed, 
 through the eyes of their watchman, dim figures prowl- 
 ing about in the winter storage yard, and they had na- 
 turally thought that a band of tramps was using the 
 cars as a refuge. Several extra watchmen were hired 
 to put a stop to this outrage, and these men used often 
 to see Belle and Amos meeting under the beech tree 
 and disappearing again at once into the center of the 
 yard. But they were clumsy men, making a great deal 
 of noise as they moved about, and Belle and Amos 
 had no difficulty in avoiding them. It was an added 
 delight to hide and crawl under and double back on the 
 trail, and there was a thrill in arriving safe, their pur- 
 suers eluded, at their own 756. 
 
 Several times, while Amos was holding Belle in his 
 arms, lecturing passionately to her on the beauties of 
 Virtue, he was stopped by the steps of the watchman on 
 the gravel outside. All this had the pleasure of dan- 
 gerous intrigue. 
 
 But the watchmen never discovered anything, and 
 they were called off, after a time. The lovers, being 
 rather bored with their meager topic of conversation, 
 began, little by little, to seek further afield for their 
 adventures. They wanted something more hazardous.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 155 
 
 From time to time they had ventured to meet in 
 broad daylight. These meetings increased in fre- 
 quency, and even took them into Center Street, where 
 they were, of course, in constant danger of being seen 
 together. Indeed, several times they were actually 
 identified by people who knew one or the other of them, 
 but, as it happened, no word of this ever reached 
 Phanor and Isabel. 
 
 One afternoon in August, they went to the theater, 
 where they sat hi a stuffy peanut-gallery, holding hands 
 through a dozen stupid acts of vaudeville, and when 
 they emerged again and started home, their way led 
 them directly past the Mill. Perhaps it was later in 
 the afternoon than they realized; perhaps Phanor was 
 leaving his work earlier than usual; at any rate, just as 
 they were passing the office door, he came out, and 
 almost ran into them. 
 
 They stopped in their tracks, frozen with horror. 
 Phanor, who was so thoroughly embarrassed that he 
 hardly knew what he was doing, scowled darkly at 
 them under the brim of his hat, and then, pretending 
 not to have seen them, ran across the street and ducked 
 out of sight behind a corner. 
 
 Belle and Amos stood for a moment whispering to- 
 gether, and then separated suddenly, taking opposite 
 directions. 
 
 Now it had happened. There was no possible doubt 
 that Amos had been seen, walking down Center Street 
 with a girl, and no possible doubt of the consequences. 
 
 He set off, walking rapidly, but aimlessly, through
 
 156 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 unfrequented streets, to try to gain time to think out a 
 suitable plan of action. He was to go on trial; his 
 whole life was to be put to the test. What should 
 he do? 
 
 Belle was too obviously beautiful to allow of any 
 misunderstanding of her function; if he had been seen 
 with such a girl, he must be in love with her. He 
 couldn't pretend to his father that she was a school- 
 teacher, or some one whom he had met by chance. No; 
 the secret was out. 
 
 Maybe his father would clap him on the shoulder 
 and say, " Crickey, boy! She's wonderful! I never in 
 my life saw such a ..." This fancy showed Amos 
 that he was plainly going crazy with worry, and he set 
 about being more practical. 
 
 Well, he must get out of the scrape in some manner 
 or other. 
 
 There seemed nothing for it but a complete confes- 
 sion. He would tell Phanor well, perhaps that would 
 be unnecessarily difficult he would tell his mother, 
 then, the whole story, from first to last: how he had 
 met Belle, and had been caught by her beauty and her 
 frankness to acknowledge love, and how he had loved 
 her passionately and devotedly all these months 
 surely, they would believe that, now that they had seen 
 her! They might be able to judge, he would say, of 
 the violence and inevitability of his love when they 
 learned of all the subterfuges he had been obliged to 
 adopt to gain freedom to see her. He would tell them 
 that there were, indeed, things about her that he did not
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 157 
 
 like, but that these things hadn't hurt him, and that he 
 was doing his best to change them, in which task he 
 had already made considerable progress. Finally, he 
 would say that she had opened to him all the loveliness 
 of life, which he had so far sought in vain, and would 
 beg them to let him save his own soul, since he had dis- 
 covered it by his own independence and action. 
 
 This, he thought, would make a case too strong for 
 them to resist; he even fancied that they might be a 
 little proud of him. He knew, of course, that they 
 would not approve, but he knew, also, that though he 
 was innocent, in a strict sense, they would believe him 
 guilty, and might, conceivably, honor his own courage 
 in daring to sow a few wild oats for himself. 
 
 The argument was going fairly well in his mind, and 
 he was succeeding brilliantly with his parents, when he 
 came face to face with a new actuality, and stopped 
 short. He was in front of Burton's house. There was 
 crape on the door. 
 
 For a moment he stood staring blankly. He would 
 have given anything if he could have been transported 
 to the other side of the earth ; then he would have time 
 to think out some adequate course while he was mak- 
 ing his way back again. 
 
 His natural impulse was to rush in, find Burton, and 
 assure him that he was understood, and was not alone. 
 But he saw that the shades were tightly drawn at the 
 parlor windows, and, knowing what that meant, he 
 did not dare go up and ring the bell. He turned away
 
 158 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 and started home, thinking that he could better face 
 the situation he had prepared himself to meet than this 
 which had come upon him so unexpectedly. 
 
 But as he turned the corner of the street and looked 
 across the intervening yard at the back of Burton's 
 house, he saw Burton himself, sitting on the steps. He 
 stopped, and watched. Burton clenched his hands be- 
 fore him, and gazed into space; he stood up suddenly, 
 took a few steps, and then returned and sat down again, 
 sinking into a heap and covering his face with his 
 hands. There was a world of sorrow in the gesture, 
 and a pitiful confession of weakness. 
 
 Amos vaulted the fence, ran across the yard, and 
 came up the path to where Burton was sitting. 
 
 " God bless you! " Burton cried, when he looked up 
 and saw him. "You came! You didn't forget me! " 
 He put his hands on Amos' shoulders and wept, quite 
 openly, before him. " There isn't anybody in the 
 world," he managed to say, " that I'd rather see at this 
 moment." 
 
 " I ... I wanted to tell you that . . . that you 
 weren't alone," Amos said. 
 
 "Thank you," Burton said. "It's just what I 
 need." 
 
 " I don't know what I can do; I can't say any- 
 thing." 
 
 " It's all right; all right. You don't have to say 
 anything. I'm glad you came; just glad. Sit down 
 beside me here, and we'll talk." 
 
 Amos sat down. There was a pain in Burton's eyes
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 159 
 
 that he couldn't face. It was the worst thing he had 
 ever seen; it made him afraid that nothing would ever 
 come right again. 
 
 " It's hard to see the justice in this . . . this that's 
 happened," Burton said, after a time. " Sometimes it 
 seems as if God wasn't just. You understand? " 
 
 Amos nodded. He knew what he should feel if 
 Belle should die. He wanted to tell of Belle, to pour 
 out generously the happiness he had, and let Burton 
 share it; he wanted, too, to say that he was in trouble 
 himself. But this was impossible, under the circum- 
 stances. Burton, he supposed, had loved his wife; 
 well, she had gone now, and he must manage to love 
 what he could. 
 
 " Oh, God is cruel! " Burton cried suddenly. " What 
 right had He? What right! To give, and then to take 
 away! I've been tricked and cheated, by a God who 
 steals! " 
 
 " Wait, now; wait," Amos said. " I don't think God 
 did this. It's what you've often told me, yourself; 
 when a man's in trouble . . ." He broke off, and then 
 added, " Besides, there's all the rest of the world." 
 
 " It doesn't matter to me what's left," Burton said 
 smiling, weakly. 
 
 " It does, though," Amos said. " It's got to." 
 
 " Oh, I know. I'm ashamed to talk so. But I've 
 been desperate. I don't know what's going to become of 
 me. I've had terrible thoughts. I'm not better than 
 other men." 
 
 For some time they sat there, trying to talk; Amos
 
 160 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 was dragged deeper and deeper, and found less and less 
 to say. He had supposed that people were somehow 
 lifted out of themselves, and exalted, in moments like 
 these. But Burton was lowered; he had lost his grip, 
 and was saying that he was not better than other men. 
 
 " It's helped me to see you," Burton said, getting up 
 when Amos rose to leave him. 
 
 " I'm glad of that. I'm going to High School, you 
 know, in the Fall. I'll come around, often, and we'll 
 talk, like we used to. Good-by. Take care of your- 
 self." 
 
 He climbed over the fence again. When he looked 
 back, Burton waved his hand. 
 
 They never met again but once, in all their lives. 
 
 When Amos reached home, he looked fearfully into 
 the parlor as he came through the hall. Phanor was 
 not there. This was good news; it meant that the 
 trouble had been turned over to Isabel for adjustment. 
 Phanor was sulky and silent, and Isabel looked 
 frightened. 
 
 Yet Phanor spoke first, to start matters. 
 
 " Well, where have you been? " he asked. 
 
 That was just like his father, Amos thought; to give 
 him a chance to lie, if he wanted to. But he had de- 
 cided to tell the truth. 
 
 " I've been to see Mr. Burton," he said. " Mrs. 
 Burton's dead." 
 
 " Oh, what a pity! What a pity! " Isabel cried. 
 " When did it happen? "
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 161 
 
 " I don't know," Amos answered, wondering what 
 difference it made. " I've just come from there." 
 
 "Did you see Mr. Burton? He feels terribly, of 
 course? " 
 
 Amos nodded. " He feels rotten. He's talking about 
 being a bum; he says he hasn't got anything left to be 
 good for." 
 
 Isabel looked shocked, but made an effort to get it 
 out of her mind at once. 
 
 " Oh, I can't believe that," she said. " He's such a 
 good man." 
 
 " He was, you mean," Amos corrected her. He had 
 an idea that he might create the impression that there 
 was a loosening of moral restraint going on all over the 
 world; if this were true, his own sins might be taken 
 more as a sign of the times. 
 
 During supper, Phanor and Isabel asked various 
 questions, trying to grasp the reality of Burton's ex- 
 perience, but there was no more talk of his possible fall 
 from Grace. Such subjects were better left alone. 
 Also, so to speak, they didn't like to bring trouble to a 
 funeral. But half an hour's talk sufficed for a tribute 
 to Burton's grief, and as soon as the meal was finished, 
 Isabel stirred up her courage, and began the inquisition. 
 
 " And where did you go this afternoon? " she asked. 
 
 " To the theater." 
 
 "Who with?" 
 
 Amos hesitated for a second. Should he tell now? 
 No; later.
 
 1 62 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " I went with a girl," he said. This, in itself, would 
 have caused an eruption, if they hadn't known more 
 already. 
 
 " What girl? " 
 
 " Oh, a girl I know." 
 
 " But who was she? " 
 
 " What does it matter who she was? " 
 
 " Why, mother just asked! You're not ashamed of 
 it, I hope." 
 
 " Of course not. What do you think I am? " 
 
 " Well, then, tell me who she was. I shouldn't mind 
 a bit, you know, if it was a nice girl." 
 
 Amos hesitated again. This was rather too much 
 like discussing Belle's character in public. The at- 
 mosphere wasn't very favorable for an enthusiastic 
 confession, that was sure. 
 
 " Was it a nice girl? " 
 
 Phanor interrupted impatiently, rattling his paper. 
 
 " Why don't you answer your mother's question? " 
 he asked. 
 
 "Well, I went with a girl by the name of Belle 
 Brooke, if you want to know." 
 
 He had not imagined that the name, now that it was 
 finally out, would mean anything to them. But it 
 seemed otherwise. 
 
 " Belle Brooke! " Phanor and Isabel repeated it to- 
 gether, in tones of the utmost horror. 
 
 Isabel looked up at him, flushing in shame. 
 
 'Why, Amos Enday! " she exclaimed.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 163 
 
 She could not possibly have been more shocked and 
 humiliated, no matter what she had discovered. 
 
 " Why, what's the matter? " he asked. 
 
 " I should think you'd be ashamed to be seen in the 
 street with a girl like that," Isabel said. 
 
 "Great God, boy! " cried Phanor. "Haven't you 
 got any decency? " 
 
 " What's all the fuss about? " Amos demanded. " I 
 guess I can walk down the street with a girl if I want 
 to, can't I? " 
 
 " Not with that girl." 
 
 " What a blackguard you are, anyway! " Phanor put 
 in. " Why can't you have a little self-respect? " 
 
 " Belle Brooke's not a proper girl for you to asso- 
 ciate with," Isabel said, firmly. She evidently thought 
 that she was telling Amos something, and that, having 
 told it, there would be an end of the matter. But she 
 could not bring herself to explain. 
 
 Phanor was not so reticent. 
 
 " Of all the low, vile, dirty . . ." he began. 
 
 " You're not being very polite, yourself," Amos cut 
 in, angrily. 
 
 " Don't talk back," Isabel admonished him. 
 
 " Well, I don't see what right you've got to talk to 
 me that way," he said. "After all, I did go to the 
 theater with her, and I should think you'd . . ." 
 
 " There, don't drag me in, if you please," Isabel 
 said. 
 
 " You came in yourself," Amos retorted. " I didn't 
 ask you what you thought of my friends."
 
 164 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " I hope you don't call that girl one of your friends! " 
 
 " Why the devil don't you keep away from low asso- 
 ciates! " Phanor said. 
 
 " Now, Phanor, be careful. The boy meant no 
 harm. You didn't know, did you, Amos? " 
 
 Oh, let them go! Amos thought. They don't know 
 what they're talking about! 
 
 He said, "No! " 
 
 " Well, let that end it, then," said Isabel, primly. 
 " I shouldn't mind if it was a nice girl, but ... I'm 
 glad we warned you in time, before there was any harm 
 done. We'll say no more about it." 
 
 This was getting out of it easier than Amos had ex- 
 pected. Why, he had not been obliged to fight for his 
 life at all! 
 
 " And you're to keep away from her in the future, 
 too! " Phanor said. " You hear? " 
 
 "Of course I hear," Amos answered. "What do 
 you think? " 
 
 So it was over. 
 
 Amos was distressed to learn that Belle's reputation 
 had spread so far. Oh, if she had only been more 
 careful, how much simpler everything would have been ! 
 If only he could have told his story, as he had at first 
 intended! Now, he would have to go on in the same 
 old way, and his parent's knowledge of the situation 
 added nothing. He had no thought of giving up; it 
 was natural to accept love, when it was found, and 
 make the rest of life conform to it. 
 
 He must be sure, however, that Belle was com-
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 165 
 
 pletely reformed, before there was any further dis- 
 covery. 
 
 But further discovery followed immediately. 
 
 Amos did not see Belle all the next day. He kept 
 in sight of his mother as much as possible, and noted 
 that it seemed to reassure her. 
 
 But in the evening, when they were all sitting quietly 
 at home, the bell rang, and Amos, prompted by some 
 instinct, went to the door himself. There stood a mite 
 of a child, whom he recognized as one of the family of 
 mites who lived across the street from Belle; she 
 handed up a closely folded note, and vanished into the 
 darkness without a word. 
 
 Amos unfolded the paper, and read: 
 
 My dearest darling dear: 
 
 I can't give you up. Come to 756 quick when you get 
 this and tell me all. I suppose they think . . . 
 
 There was another line, and then the initials, " B. B." 
 
 " Who was that? " Isabel asked, when Amos had 
 returned to the sitting-room. 
 
 "Just somebody that wanted to know where the 
 Fleetwoods lived," he said. " Just a kid." 
 
 He went back to his chair for a moment, and took 
 up the book he had been reading, trying to think out a 
 plan for escape. In a moment he had hit it, and with- 
 out waiting for deliberation to spoil his acting, he 
 jumped to his feet and said: 
 
 " Gee, I nearly forgot 1 I've got some books that
 
 1 66 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 have got to go back to the library to-night! I'll have 
 to go right up." 
 
 " Oh, you'd better wait till morning, I should think." 
 Isabel said. 
 
 " No, then I'll have to pay a fine." 
 
 Before she could speak again he had found his cap, 
 and was gone. The books, of course, went into the 
 feed-box, and Amos, as hard as he could run, went to 
 the car-yard, where Belle was waiting for him, tearful, 
 frightened, adorable, thinking that she had lost him 
 forever. 
 
 His excuse about the books, of course, had been thin 
 enough, and he marvelled that it had succeeded so well. 
 The next morning, however, it developed that he had 
 dropped the note on the floor in the hall, in his haste 
 and excitement, and that Isabel and Phanor had found 
 it and read it. 
 
 There was the whole story. The " dearest darling 
 dear " showed how far matters had gone. The " 756 " 
 indicated a secret, and well-known, meeting place. Isa- 
 bel saw clearly enough who were the " they " who were 
 accused of being so ready to think evil, and with burn- 
 ing cheeks, she destroyed the note. 
 
 After breakfast, when Phanor had gone to the Mill, 
 she took Amos " aside " for a " talk." So eager was 
 she to discover that the whole thing was some hideous 
 sort of mistake, that she actually accepted Amos' in- 
 dignant denial of all knowledge of the matter, though 
 the evidence had been in her own hands not ten hours 
 before. He lied, and she believed him. She did not
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 167 
 
 care to ask him if he had really been to the library, 
 because she was fearful of learning that he had not. 
 She let fall a few vague hints and warnings, and dis- 
 missed him. 
 
 As the hours passed, however, she began to regret 
 her timidity. Had she made it clear to him that he was 
 surrounded by danger? Had she sufficiently punished 
 him for his sin? She felt that she had not done these 
 things, with true conscientiousness, but she hated to 
 come back to a subject so humiliating. 
 
 The worst of all calamities had befallen. A low 
 designing woman had caught her son. She saw ruin 
 all about her, and Amos walking unconscious for she 
 still did not believe that he understood a word of what 
 Belle had written into the very center and deepest 
 pit of it. The agonizing horror of that thought dragged 
 her from the chair where she had been sitting, and sent 
 her wandering restlessly around the room, clenching 
 her hands, biting her lips, stopping, in sudden efforts 
 at calmness, to rearrange the trivial articles on her 
 bureau. 
 
 All her life, she had known that if certain things 
 happened, ruin followed no, not followed, but oc- 
 curred as an immediate concurrent fact. She did not 
 stop to consider how it was that, now that the worst 
 had happened or might have happened, for all she 
 knew to the contrary ruin was not present at all. If 
 she had raised her eyes, she would have seen that 
 " ruin " was nowhere in sight. But it was present in 
 her mind; that was where the whole trouble was.
 
 168 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Should she plead with Amos, and try to show him his 
 folly? She dared not do so; she might put thoughts in 
 his head. Should she forbid him all contact with the 
 world? She knew that this was impossible. If Amos 
 had returned home after what she would have called 
 his " fall " contrite and broken, with his shame on 
 his soul, she could have forgiven him. But he had not 
 run away; he was not contrite at all; his shame seemed 
 not to have touched him; he asked no forgiveness. If 
 only it hadn't happened! If only, as second best, it 
 had been worse, so that she might take the simple and 
 extreme measures that were prescribed! 
 
 She saw that she must discover more. When, that 
 evening, Amos announced that he was going to the 
 library, she put on her hat, as soon as the door had 
 closed behind him, and, trumping up some excuse for 
 Phanor, followed him. Under the windows of the maga- 
 zine room there was a rack for bicycles; she climbed to 
 the top of it, clutching the window-sill, and saw Amos 
 seated shoulder to shoulder with his friend the old in- 
 ventor, absorbed in a magazine. She went home happy 
 and satisfied. 
 
 Serenity gradually and painfully accumulated. It 
 was impossible to believe, for any very extended period, 
 that reality existed. People passed up and down Elm 
 Street, before the parlor windows; people were like 
 that. What had the parlor to do with them? They 
 might be wicked, or courageous; they might fail, or 
 struggle; they might even, possibly, be people who saw
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 169 
 
 that life was what they themselves found it to be but 
 that was none of the parlor's business. Why, the par- 
 lor was established and completed; why all this fuss 
 about adjustment to new conditions? Things hap- 
 pened, yes that was lamentably true but they hap- 
 pened outside, in the changing world, and the parlor 
 need not concern itself with them. Life wasn't all 
 beautifully systematic and orderly there was no use 
 denying it but if people insisted on going their own 
 way, up and down Elm Street well, see what the 
 result was! 
 
 No, no! The whole miserable affair simply was not 
 true. Phanor and Isabel hoped so hard that it had not 
 happened that it seemed not to have happened. 
 
 Within the week, however, it happened again. 
 
 "I'm going to the theater with Bert," Amos said. 
 " That's all right, isn't it? " 
 
 "Why, certainly," Isabel told him. "I've no ob- 
 jection to your going with Bert." 
 
 " Well, you made such a fuss, the last time, that I 
 thought I'd ask." He was guarding against her sus- 
 picions, not knowing that she had none left. 
 
 She saw to it that he had a clean handkerchief, and 
 sent him off. 
 
 But about an hour after he had gone, the bell rang. 
 Phanor went to the door himself. There stood Bert. 
 
 " Can Amos come up to the library with me? " Bert 
 asked.
 
 170 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " Why, I thought he was with you already! " Pha- 
 nr exclaimed, not having wit enough to hold his 
 tongue. " He said you were going to the theater." 
 
 " Oh, well," Bert answered quickly. " There's been 
 some mistake. I just thought we might go to the thea- 
 ter, if Amos had nothing else to do." 
 
 " Well, but see here . . . won't you come in? " 
 
 " No, thank you. I guess I'll run along." 
 
 And Bert, accordingly, ran along. 
 
 Of course, he went to the theater, in order to warn 
 Amos of his danger, and waited outside the doors when 
 the performance was finished, but he missed Belle and 
 Amos in the crowd, and returned defeated. He made 
 another attempt, and hung around the corner of Elm 
 Street, still hoping to find them, but they had been in 
 no hurry to return, and Bert had at last given it up, 
 concluding that they had gone home by some other 
 route, or that they had omitted the theater altogether. 
 
 In consequence, when Amos came in, Phanor was 
 waiting for him in the parlor. 
 
 " Well, what does this mean? " 
 
 " What does what mean? " 
 
 " Where have you been? " 
 
 " To the theater with Bert, like I said I would." 
 
 " Oh, is that so? " Phanor said, sarcastically. " Then 
 maybe you'll tell me how it happened that Bert was 
 around here, after you left, asking where you 
 were." 
 
 Amos thought: why didn't I have sense enough to 
 tell Bert about it?
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 171 
 
 " Well, how about it? " Phanor asked. " You young 
 liar! " 
 
 " I haven't got anything to say," Amos said. " If 
 you don't want to believe me, you haven't got to." 
 
 "I should say not. You know perfectly well the 
 whole story is a lie, from start to finish." 
 
 It occurred to Amos to retort, " Suit yourself. I'm a 
 liar, if it's any comfort to you." But it seemed wiser, 
 under the circumstances, to say, "Yes, sir," and he 
 said it. 
 
 Then, while his father was stuttering and staring 
 after him, he turned quickly and left the room. 
 
 Upstairs, Phanor and Isabel lay long awake and dis- 
 cussed the situation; it was a discussion which became 
 a bitter argument. 
 
 " The boy's just a common damn liar," Phanor said. 
 
 " What a thing to say! " 
 
 " Humph! I don't see what else you could say about 
 it! Tell me some cock and bull story, will he? " 
 
 " Do you suppose he went with that girl? " 
 
 " Of course he did! What's the reason he wanted 
 to lie about it, if he wasn't doing something he was 
 ashamed of? " 
 
 " Oh, isn't it terrible! The way that girl influences 
 him! Blind infatuation just leads him on and on. 
 He's not a bad boy; he don't mean to tell lies. But 
 every time we find out something he has to . . ." 
 
 " What's the sense of saying a thing like that, Isa- 
 bel? It's not the girl's fault, is it? He just hasn't got 
 any truth in him."
 
 172 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " Why, of course it's the girl's fault. He wouldn't 
 turn around and say things like that unless she put 
 him up to it." 
 
 " Crickey, that's gratitude for you ! All the expense 
 I've been to to bring him up decently and give him an 
 education, and he don't show the slightest apprecia- 
 tion of it! Young cub! " 
 
 " Now, Phanor, what's the good of saying that? " 
 
 " Good? Good? Lord's sake, woman, what are you 
 talking about? Here I go and try to show the boy how 
 to live a decent life, and keep him away from evil asso- 
 ciates, and he runs straight off and picks out some low 
 dirty Mick! And then, by God, he has to come home 
 and lie to me about it! Try to tell me I'm a med- 
 dling old prig, will he? " 
 
 " Oh, to think how terrible it all is! " Isabel wailed. 
 
 " Now, there you go ! What's the good of taking 
 that attitude? The boy's just got to be made decent, 
 that's all. Do you think I enjoy having it said that a 
 son of mine is a good-for-nothing liar, running around 
 with dirty Micks? Lord, I'm ashamed to hold up my 
 head in the street! " 
 
 " Phanor! You don't mean to say people know about 
 it?" 
 
 " I suppose they can put two and two together. 
 What the boy can be thinking of, to bring disgrace on 
 us, I can't see. Rotten, shiftless, nasty . . ." 
 
 " Couldn't something be done, Phanor? " 
 
 "Done? The boy needs a good talking to, that's 
 what! "
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 173 
 
 " What good would that do? Don't you suppose he 
 knows he's doing wrong, with all his up-bringing? " 
 
 " Humph! Goes in one ear and out the other. It's 
 just wasting time to try to get him to see any decency." 
 
 "You don't think that, Phanor; you know you 
 don't." 
 
 " Oh, don't I? I suppose you think the boy profits 
 by the example that's given him? Is that it? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know what to do, I'm sure! " 
 
 " I know, easy enough," Phanor said. " I'll put the 
 boy in charge of the police; I'll get a probation officer 
 to watch him. I'll see if he can go on defying me this 
 way! " 
 
 " Phanor! You couldn't do such a thing! " 
 
 " Couldn't I, though? I'll report him to the police 
 before I'm another day older." 
 
 " You'll bring disgrace on the boy." 
 
 "He's brought disgrace enough on us. I'll do it. 
 My mind's made up." 
 
 " If you do that, Phanor," Isabel said, grimly, " I'll 
 leave you." 
 
 Phanor reared up on his elbows in bed in the dark, 
 and stared at the place where he knew Isabel to be. 
 
 " You don't mean that," he said. 
 
 " Yes, I do. Oh, Phanor . . ." 
 
 Phanor paused for some moments in thought. 
 
 " Well, I don't see what you propose," he said at last. 
 
 " I think we ought to take the girl in hand. We 
 could appeal to her better nature. She could be made 
 to give him up."
 
 174 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " Rubbish! " said Phanor. 
 
 He did not mean this exclamation to apply to the 
 whole conversation, but they both seemed to feel that 
 it did so. 
 
 Phanor did not appeal to the police, nor did Isabel 
 appeal to the better nature of the evil influence, for, a 
 few days after this, High School opened, and under 
 this new interest in life, it seemed that the whole thing 
 would blow over. 
 
 Isabel took back what she had said about leaving 
 Phanor. It was merely a threat, anyway, and she never 
 paused to consider whether or not she would have been 
 willing to execute it.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 AMOS came to High School with a crowd of others 
 who were equally ignorant of how to act. The 
 blind lead the blind, gaily and without hesitation, and 
 High School, in consequence, seemed actually sensible. 
 It was governed by rules, of course, but the rules were 
 formulated on a basis of expediency, rather than mor- 
 ality; the boys and girls were expected to be good be- 
 cause only so could they do their work, and not be- 
 cause being bad was a potential cause of ultimate 
 damnation. 
 
 This was very gratifying to Amos. He attributed 
 it to Belle, or rather, he attributed to her his own ability 
 to appreciate it, for he had begun to think that school, 
 and the world in general, would all along have been 
 visible as quite a tolerable place to one who had had 
 his perceptions quickened by a little experience. Belle 
 herself decreased in importance; she had shown him 
 that it was possible for him to travel his own road, and 
 he had set out upon it; he passed her as he would have 
 passed a milestone, and loved her only out of gratitude. 
 
 He went forward with enthusiasm. He thought it 
 might even be true that he had a chance of avoiding 
 failure in life, though this, perhaps, was expecting too 
 much. His parents were no longer so insistent in telling 
 him that he was no good; but this might be because 
 
 175
 
 176 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 they were letting him " work out his own salvation " 
 they had frequently used this phrase and get ahead as 
 best he could. He knew well enough that he had taken 
 a tremendous risk in attempting to decide life's values 
 for himself. He had asserted his right to steer his own 
 ship; this was all very well if he could make the voy- 
 age in safety, but if he finished on the rocks, he would 
 have only himself to thank, and, he knew, he could ex- 
 pect no mercy from the Court which should consider his 
 case. 
 
 So long as he remained in this conciliatory and in- 
 determinate frame of mind, he worked hard, and 
 brought home to his parents, at the end of his first 
 month in school, a " creditable report." It was the first 
 satisfactory report he had ever presented, and Phanor 
 and Isabel made such a fuss over it, and were so end- 
 less in their praise, that he found their approbation 
 harder to bear than their censure at his previous 
 failures. 
 
 " I guess you may amount to something, after all," 
 Phanor said. 
 
 " Oh, isn't it lovely/' said Isabel, " not to have to 
 worry! " 
 
 Amos resented this; he did not like to admit that a 
 school report was so certain a measure of success; there 
 was an element of surprise in his parents' attitude, too, 
 as if he had suddenly shown evidences of hitherto un- 
 known ability. As for not having to worry, the im- 
 plied responsibility of being a reputable student was
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 177 
 
 worse than the risk involved in making his own evalua- 
 tions. 
 
 Accordingly, during the second month he slackened 
 his pace. He would be content with half the scholarship, 
 if it could be attained with half the effort. He could 
 find a better use for his time. His second report 
 showed a falling off in every subject, and in Latin, he 
 had gone below the danger point. He hated to bring 
 this report home, but it seemed more normal, none the 
 less. 
 
 " Good Lord, boy! " cried Phanor, in the old fa- 
 miliar way. " I should think you'd take some pride in 
 your work! " 
 
 " I had a good report last time, didn't I? That 
 shows I can do it, doesn't it? " 
 
 " What's the sense in saying a thing like that? It's 
 no good being able to do it, is it, if you don't? " 
 
 " I don't see as it's so awfully important, anyway," 
 Amos said. " So long as I don't get fired out of school, 
 I don't see what you care." 
 
 " Oh, no, of course not! " Phanor said. " Sneak 
 along, getting out of every obligation you can! Maybe 
 you think you haven't got any duty to us; is that it? 
 Crickey, I should think you'd like to show a little grati- 
 tude, once in a while! Maybe you'll realize, some day, 
 how important your work is, that's all." 
 
 " Who's ever going to ask me what marks I got in 
 school? " 
 
 " Oh, go on about your business, and stop being a 
 fool! "
 
 178 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Isabel put the matter in a different light. Now that 
 Amos had escaped, by some obscure process, inescapa- 
 ble ruin, it did seem too bad that something else must 
 come up. 
 
 " What a shame," she said, " to make such a good 
 beginning, and then fail again! " 
 
 " Oh, Gee, mother! I wish you wouldn't talk about 
 failing all the time! " 
 
 " Well, that's what it amounts to, isn't it? " 
 
 " No, it isn't. I didn't fail to get a good report; I 
 just didn't try." 
 
 " And what excuse have you got for not trying, I 
 should like to know? What would your teachers say if 
 you told them you didn't try? " 
 
 " Don't you suppose they can see I didn't try, as 
 well as you can? " 
 
 " That's aside from the question. Your whole duty 
 is to pay attention to your work, and you know it. 
 You've been told so, times enough." 
 
 Well, here was the old idea of the " double life." 
 It didn't offer a very satisfactory solution, but no other 
 course seemed open. 
 
 On three afternoons a week, the entire freshman 
 class came back to school for gymnasium. 
 
 "Enday," said Mr. Christensen, the Physical Di- 
 rector, one day, " You've got something that looks like 
 a head on your shoulders. I wish you'd find out some 
 way for me to run this class without calling the roll 
 every day. It takes half the time."
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 179 
 
 "That's easy," Amos said. "All you've got to 
 do is to put in a time clock, like they have hi facto- 
 ries." 
 
 "Yes; and have all you fellows punching each 
 other's cards! " 
 
 " Well, we can answer to each other's names in roll 
 call, you know, if it comes to that. You can't keep 
 people from cheating, you know, if they want to cheat." 
 
 " I guess that's right," said Mr. Christensen. " What 
 shall I do then? " 
 
 " I should say," Amos answered, struck by a sud- 
 den idea, " that you could leave the roll call out alto- 
 gether. You wouldn't miss anybody. This isn't Latin, 
 you know." 
 
 " I couldn't do that. They'd say I didn't know how 
 to run my classes." 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you. Call the roll once a month, or 
 something like that, and don't tell anybody when you're 
 going to do it. If you mix up the dates a little, they'll 
 never find out." 
 
 " That's not a bad idea," Mr. Christensen agreed. 
 
 Amos forthwith worked out an elaborate formula for 
 the days on which the roll should be called; Mr. Chris- 
 tensen accepted it, and put it into operation at once. 
 
 The plan worked well, especially for Amos, who was 
 thus given, nearly every week, three clear afternoons 
 with Belle. 
 
 Off to the Westward of the town there was a tract of 
 woodland, sweeping over a hill, and in the center of it,
 
 180 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 remote from all roads and secure from detection, Belle 
 and Amos built themselves a house. 
 
 It was no more than a hut, with a frame of poles, 
 thatched with pine branches and floored with balsam; 
 it was fun to build it and improve it, and they enjoyed 
 the ability to drop mysterious hints of their " secret 
 meetings " almost as if they were people in a book- 
 but they used it infrequently, because they had so 
 little use for it. Amos had constructed a fireplace of 
 field stone, and from time to time they had actually 
 managed to spend an entire afternoon in chilly se- 
 clusion, huddled up together beside the fire, telling 
 each other fairy tales about being shipwrecked sur- 
 vivors, or lovers who had escaped the vigilance of the 
 Court, with the penalty of the guillotine imposed on 
 them if they should dare to meet. This was pleasant 
 for a time, but they wanted something new. 
 
 They decided to break into the haunted house. There 
 was a vast deserted mansion which stood near the rail- 
 way yards, on a street which had once been respecta- 
 ble, but was now occupied by warehouses, except for 
 this one forlorn and forgotten residence. A tall fence 
 shut it off front and rear, and at the sides rose the bare 
 blank walls of the warehouses; dead weeds rattled all 
 winter long in the abandoned garden, and the sweeping 
 carriage drive was carpeted by the fallen leaves of 
 twenty Autumns. Years before, it was said, a terrible 
 tragedy had occurred in the front room on the second 
 story, a tragedy involving suicide and murder; the
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 181 
 
 street in which the house stood was always deserted 
 after night-fall, and this seemed to give the color of 
 truth to the legend. But no one had actually seen any- 
 thing. 
 
 The plan was, to break through at one of the rear 
 windows and visit the haunted house at midnight, or 
 as late as possible. This would offer thrilling risks, no 
 less from the chance of detection by passers-by or by 
 prowling constables, than from resentment on the part 
 of the restless spirits which drifted yaguely near the 
 spot which had been their last home on earth. 
 
 On the night selected, Amos put on his old clothes, 
 strapped a hunting knife about his waist, said he was 
 going to the theater with Bert this time, he had the 
 foresight to mention it to Bert and met Belle under 
 the beech tree at the corner of the horse-car yard. 
 They crossed the town by a devious route, and arrived 
 before the great pile of the Darling House about nine 
 o'clock. A freight-engine was shuffling about in the 
 railway yards dose at hand; the house was very still, 
 and very dark. 
 
 Amos found a loose picket in the fence, and they 
 squeezed through, and went up across the garden. At 
 the back of the house, a kitchen window gazed blankly 
 out at them; Amos climbed up on the water-table of 
 the foundations, and reaching up with the handle of his 
 knife, broke the center pane of the upper sash. The 
 glass fell with a tinkle on the sill inside, and he reached 
 through the opening and turned the lock.
 
 1 82 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Neither of them cared to go on with the adventure 
 now they were badly frightened, and had had adven- 
 ture enough but neither wanted to turn back. 
 
 They climbed in over the sill and stood breathlessly 
 listening in the great dark kitchen. The broken glass 
 crunched under their feet as they moved cautiously 
 forward, and they heard the rustle of littered straw on 
 the floor. They crossed the room, moving with infinite 
 caution, and pushed open the swinging door of a black 
 pantry, where they paused again for a moment, listen- 
 ing to the beating of their hearts. 
 
 The great hall, into which they emerged, was dim and 
 lofty; a broad staircase reared itself up from the floor 
 and was lost in the shadows above; a faint light glim- 
 mered through the fan-light above the door. They 
 took a few steps forward again, though they knew in 
 their hearts that they should never have the courage to 
 mount that vast creaking stair that led to the haunted 
 room. 
 
 Then, all at once, they felt the presence of some one. 
 
 Before them on the floor lay a long bundle of in- 
 definite darkness; pale blotches of white indicated the 
 face and hands of a man. He was lying stretched out 
 at the foot of the paneling which formed the side of 
 the stair. 
 
 Their hair rose, and they felt cold shivers pass over 
 them. 
 
 Amos put his arm around Belle, and reached out, 
 with his other hand, to feel the wall behind him. His 
 fingers touched the knob of a door, which rattled,
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 183 
 
 tremblingly, and the figure on the floor stirred, moaned, 
 and sat up quickly. 
 
 " Who's 'ere? " The voice was shrill and nervous. 
 
 They could not speak nor move. 
 
 The figure got up unsteadily, staggered forward a 
 few steps, and fell forward to its knees, putting up a 
 hand to ward off the reeling floor. A strong stench of 
 whiskey filled the air. 
 
 " Who's 'ere? " It was almost a shriek, now; tense 
 and shaking; an inhuman cry. Yet there was a quality 
 of familiarity about it, a quality terribly concealed, but 
 recognizable. 
 
 The pale light from over the door shone on the 
 swaying figure, the bent shoulders, the idly swinging 
 arms, the face that peered eagerly into the darkness. 
 It was Burton. 
 
 Amos stepped forward and caught his wrists, breath- 
 ing deep in astonishment and relief. 
 
 "It's all right," he whispered. "It's me. It's 
 Amos." 
 
 Burton clutched him, and dragged himself to his 
 feet. His head was rolling from side to side, and he 
 could not focus his eyes. 
 
 "Why! Whatchu doin' here? " 
 
 Amos turned for a second to Belle. " It's Burton,'' 
 he said. " Remember? He's drunk." 
 
 Belle nodded. 
 
 " Quite, quite drunk," Burton said. 
 
 " Well, come out of here, you damn fool, you," 
 Amos said. " We'll take you home."
 
 1 84 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " Don' wanna go home f 'r anything." 
 
 " Yes, you do. How did you get in? " 
 
 " Secret passge passge," Burton answered, know- 
 ingly. " Show you." He started shambling off down 
 the hall, dragging Amos with him; then he caught sight 
 of Belle, and stopped again. " Say, lis'n," he said. 
 " Who's lady? " 
 
 " It's all right," Amos said. " She's going to help 
 take you home. Let's see where you got in." 
 
 "All ri'; all ri'," Burton answered, reassuringly. 
 " Mus' careful, an' keep very still, see? " And he be- 
 gan to sing. 
 
 Amos shut him up, and the three made their way out 
 into the rear yard, through a musty laundry that 
 opened off the kitchen. Together he and Belle got 
 Burton poked through the fence, and started down the 
 street, one on either side of him, supporting him, for 
 his feet were loose and powerless, and he could scarcely 
 manage to walk. Belle laughed immoderately, till 
 Amos stopped her, at everything Burton said. At the 
 corner a policeman eyed them suspiciously, but let 
 them pass. 
 
 The restraint, and the walking, sobered Burton 
 somewhat, and by the time they had reached his house 
 he was coherent, sobbing and wailing and confessing 
 his shame. 
 
 They went in, when Burton had found his keys, and 
 Amos lighted the gas in the hall. A broken chair lay in 
 the middle of the floor, the rugs had been kicked into 
 comers, the pictures on the walls were knocked crooked,
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 185 
 
 and the window shades, broken and shredded, hung 
 awry. In the study, books lay about everywhere, some 
 with muddy footprints on their opened pages, the walls 
 were stained and spattered, and a whiskey bottle, be- 
 side a dirty glass, stood on the desk. 
 
 " Now, listen here," Amos said. " This has got to 
 stop. You're trying to go to the devil I guess you've 
 got a good start already. Well, you won't go. You'll 
 turn around and come back. If you're man enough. 
 You hear me? Are you man enough? " 
 
 Burton's eyes wandered to the bottle on the desk. 
 " I don't know! I don't know! " he wailed. " You'll 
 help me? " 
 
 Amos caught up the bottle and handed it to Belle. 
 
 " Here," he said. " Go out and pour that down the 
 sink in the kitchen." 
 
 A moment afterwards he heard her choking in the 
 kitchen, and when she returned to the study her eyes 
 were filled with tears, and her cheeks were flushed. 
 She had never tasted whiskey before. 
 
 " See here, my girl," Amos said. " You watch what 
 you're doing." 
 
 He turned again to Burton, who sat hi a limp heap, 
 leaning his forehead on his hand. 
 
 "Help! " he cried. "You talk to me about help! 
 Have you asked your Heavenly Father? Have you? 
 Have you prayed to God to give you back the shield of 
 Faith and the armor of Righteousness? You know 
 what things are wrought by prayer. God so loved the 
 world that He gave His only begotten son . . ."
 
 1 86 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 He didn't believe a word of what he was saying, but 
 the atmosphere of the study, even altered as it was, 
 put words into his mouth. Then he saw that Burton 
 was thinking only of keeping his grip, and he set out on 
 a new line. 
 
 " Now, I'll tell you what I'm going to do," he said. 
 " I'll come back to-morrow morning, early . . . have 
 you got any more whiskey in the house? " 
 
 Burton buried his face in his arms and sobbed. 
 ** Oh, I'm a miserable sinner! " he wailed. 
 
 "You're worse than that; you're a fool. Have ycfu 
 got any more of that booze? " 
 
 Burton shook his head. 
 
 "Well, then; listen. I'm coming back here to-mor- 
 row morning. If this house isn't all cleaned up, and 
 fixed the way it ought to be, and all this pig-pen 
 chucked out of here, and you started out to live like a 
 man, I swear I'll tell the whole story to everybody in 
 Wilton." 
 
 " Oh, no! No! I can't bear any more! I can't face 
 the disgrace of it! " 
 
 " The disgrace has happened now. You heard what 
 I said. And I'll do it. Maybe I'll ask my father to 
 get you a job in the Mill, or something. You've got to 
 brace up, and be a man. You know what you'd do for 
 me, if I was where you are now. You've always told 
 me, if a man had anything left in him to appeal to, you 
 can . . . but what's the sense in arguing with you? 
 You don't know what I'm saying. I'll go. You set to
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 187 
 
 work on this." He waved his hand to include the 
 room. 
 
 Burton raised his eyes, whimpering. His face was 
 very pale and drawn. " You're not going to leave me 
 alone? " he pleaded. 
 
 " Sure I ami Do you think I'm going to sit up with 
 you all night, as if you were a sick baby? You've got 
 to be a man. Nobody ever made a man of himself by 
 drinking whiskey. That's the end of that. You mind 
 what I say." 
 
 Burton begged and cried and whined, looking from 
 Amos to Belle in pitiful appeal. 
 
 " No," Amos said. " You've got to do it alone. I 
 don't care if it does take you all night. I'm not going 
 to pity you." He caught Belle by the hand and drew 
 her towards the door. " Come on, Princess," he said. 
 " Let's get out of here." 
 
 As they parted at the corner of Elm Street, half an 
 hour later, Amos looked seriously into her face. 
 
 "There! " he said. "You see what happens! " 
 
 At home, the gas was burning brightly in the parlor 
 as he came up the steps, and his father, scowling 
 darkly at him from the door, was waiting for him. It 
 was nearly midnight. 
 
 " Don't scold me, Dad, for God's sake! " he cried, 
 rushing in. And then, in desperate excitement, shiv- 
 ering at the thought of the awful significance which the 
 story had for him, he told of Burton's collapse. 
 
 He lay long awake, staring at the ceiling. "You
 
 1 88 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 see what happens," he had said to Belle. Yes. This 
 was the result of deciding for yourself. 
 
 Sometime during the night Burton went away, leav- 
 ing the gas burning in his study, and the door swinging 
 idly open, and nobody in Wilton ever saw him again, 
 or knew what became of him. 
 
 The Spring Term dragged along, and the end of the 
 school year came in sight. Amos haji forced himself 
 towards an interest in his work; he studied more than 
 he had ever done before, and his monthly reports im- 
 proved. Phanor and Isabel were pleased it was al- 
 most worth while, they thought, to ruin Burton, for 
 the sake of the result on Amos and the teachers were 
 triumphant. 
 
 " Crickey," Phanor said. " Maybe you'll make a 
 name for yourself! " 
 
 But Amos knew that no one was ever famous for 
 High School reports. 
 
 " I always knew you could do it," his teachers told 
 him. 
 
 True, it had not been difficult; a little patience and 
 application. But none of Amos' teachers knew how 
 afraid of failing he was, nor how the story of Burton 
 had shown him his danger. 
 
 The moral of the story was this: as soon as one took 
 a step away from the Old Code, away from safety and 
 self-satisfaction, from the creed of letting the facts 
 blow over, from the desperate hope for " the Approba- 
 tion of One's Fellows " as soon, in short, as one
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 189 
 
 turned away from the parlor one was doomed. Bur- 
 ton had given up his training and his traditions, and 
 had tried to face the world alone, as one man, rather 
 than a member of a group; he had tried to fight life 
 single-handed, instead of riding off on the back of the 
 victory which his Clan had won, through generations; 
 he had made his own valuations and put his trust in 
 himself and this was what happened. Life had been 
 too much for him, and he had gone down. He was 
 trampled into the mud of oblivion, and the world went 
 marching on without him. That was Failure. 
 
 Amos had done these same things. Was it too late, 
 now, to change? Had he seen his fate in time to avoid 
 it? Was there still a way out for him? Well, he would 
 bury himself in his school-work, and try. 
 
 But the pity of giving up! He could hardly endure 
 the thought of turning his back on the romance and 
 adventure which he had seen in life, the loveliness and 
 the beauty of the world. Safety, really, meant noth- 
 ing, and security was valueless; to win or lose was all 
 one. He had but to ask himself the question, now that 
 he saw the way to safety: what was his safety for? 
 He would be safe from Failure yes but to what pur- 
 pose? No; happiness lay in life, and life in happiness. 
 It was this that it was a pity to give up. 
 
 He had once boasted that he could conquer life, even 
 if it was hard had he not been too filled with youthful 
 enthusiasm? 
 
 He had sworn, by all that he held sacred, that he 
 would never become the sort of man his father was
 
 190 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 well, but suppose he actually was that sort of man? 
 Suppose he should take his chance, and live by his own 
 faith only to find that he was not man enough to 
 carry through? The alternative was Failure, remem- 
 ber; he knew, now, what Failure was. 
 
 Should he take his chance? 
 
 This was the question which stood fixed and uncom- 
 promising in his mind, day and night, for long and 
 weary months, while he was busy making peace offer- 
 ings, in the form of good reports from school, to the 
 Idol of the Approbation of One's Fellows. 
 
 About this time it happened that there was a family 
 gathering at the Websters', and the entire Webster and 
 Enday clan assembled for mutual stock-taking and 
 fault finding. 
 
 Amos saw the fussy complaining Okf his Aunt Emily; 
 he heard the bitter croaking of the esteemed Edna 
 Enday; he heard Grandma Webster beaming on misery 
 and calling it virtue; he watched the mumbling and 
 pottering of old Grandpa Webster, who talked about 
 printing and wondered what the world was coming to. 
 
 It was evident that the whole momentum of the 
 Enday ancestry was driving life along the straight and 
 narrow path that avoided both the hills and the valleys. 
 They were moving forward stubbornly and relent- 
 lessly it was almost like a charge. And Amos him- 
 self was in the line of march. They were putting the 
 torch in his hands and urging him on. 
 
 " Fm certainly in a devil of a fix! " he thought.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 191 
 
 " Now, Phanor," Isabel said, one evening when 
 Amos had gone out. " I want to have a serious talk. 5 ' 
 
 " What's the matter now? " asked Phanor, putting 
 his paper down across his knees. 
 
 " It's about Amos." 
 
 " I thought so. What's he been up to? " 
 
 " It isn't that. I think he's really taken a brace, 
 just as we hoped he would, some day. I think he bids 
 fair to amount to something. His reports are better 
 and better, all the time. Miss Weeks told me, only 
 yesterday, that there wasn't a better or brighter boy in 
 any of her classes." 
 
 " What are you driving at? " 
 
 " Well, you know the terrible trouble he got himself 
 into last summer. And if you want to know my opin- 
 ion, I think it was our fault." 
 
 "Our fault! " Phanor shouted in amazement. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But Good Lord, whajt's got into you? Are you 
 crazy? How can you turn around and say a thing like 
 that?" 
 
 " I'm not crazy at all. If you'd listen a minute, in- 
 stead of flying off on a tantrum, I'll tell you." 
 
 " Well, go ahead. I've been waiting for you to stop 
 beating about the bush." 
 
 " The reason Amos got into trouble with that Brooke 
 girl was because he didn't have anything to do. He 
 was idle all summer. Satan finds work . . ." 
 
 " What a ridiculous thing to say, Isabel ! Didn't we 
 do everything we could to help him, I should like to
 
 192 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 know? I'd like to hear what else you think we could 
 have done! " 
 
 " We could have kept him busy." 
 
 " Doing what, for Heaven's sake? He didn't have 
 any school." 
 
 " I know. That's just it. I'll tell you: I think he 
 ought to have a job in the Mill this summer." 
 
 " A job in the Mill! " Phanor cried. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Doing what? What the devil do you suppose there 
 is for him to do at the Mill? I suppose you think he 
 can take my place. Is that it? " 
 
 " No, you stupid, I don't think anything of the kind. 
 But there are lots of boys working in the Mill in the 
 shops, and around." 
 
 " Running machines? You want the boy to ruin 
 his lungs, I can see that! " 
 
 " No, now listen. Phanor . . ." 
 
 " Oh, put him in the dyeing-room, I suppose, and 
 have him breathing steam all day. No, thanks ! " 
 
 " Well, he could work in the shipping room, or 
 something." 
 
 "And associate with that dirty gang of Micks? 
 Lord, woman, haven't you got any sense? " 
 
 " You worked in the shipping room when you started 
 in, you know you did. It didn't hurt you any, did it? " 
 
 " Well, I was older than he is, and besides, the 
 boys in the shipping room aren't what they used to be 
 in my day."
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 193 
 
 " Pshaw, I guess you've forgotten the stories you 
 used to tell. How about Sam What's-his-name? " 
 
 " Oh, he was an exception, I guess," Phanor said. 
 
 " Well, probably there are exceptions now. But I 
 think it won't do Amos a bit of harm, and it would 
 avoid the experience we had with him last summer. I 
 think he's learned his lesson. And it will be nice for 
 him to earn a little money of his own, too." 
 
 " Humph! He won't get rich on what the Mill will 
 pay him, that's sure." 
 
 " Of course not. But it would be a little something, 
 wouldn't it? I think he'd enjoy it. And I certainly 
 don't want to go through another summer like the 
 last." 
 
 " I suppose it wouldn't be a bad idea to let him find 
 out how people earn money," Phanor said, grimly. 
 
 He was thinking back, in his memory, to the time 
 when he had been learning the business from the bot- 
 tom. He had had a hard time, in those days. But see 
 what it had done for him! Of course, just having a 
 hard time wasn't the only thing that had caused his 
 success he had applied himself. Lord, how time did 
 fly! 
 
 :t Then will you see about it? " 
 
 " I don't know. It wouldn't do any harm to look 
 into it, I suppose." 
 
 " Well, school will be over in three weeks, you 
 know." 
 
 " Now, I'll tell you one thing, once for all," Phanor
 
 194 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 complained. I'm not going to rush into this thing with- 
 out taking time to think about it a little. There are a 
 good many points to be considered." 
 
 After worrying about it for a few days though he 
 did not take the* trouble to consider the various 
 " points " involved Phanor spoke to the shipping man, 
 who said he thought he might be able to make room for 
 Amos. As soon as he heard this, Phanor was sorry, and 
 apprehensive. A boy ought to know so much about 
 life, in order to be safe. And Amos was no more than a 
 baby. Why, when he had worked in the shipping room 
 he knew almost, if not quite, three times what Amos 
 knew! 
 
 Amos received the news with mingled, or rather 
 with alternating, emotions. He was glad of the chance 
 to see what the Mill was like, and he was eager to spend 
 a season in the enemy's country, looking over the 
 ground, to see if he could manage to make a tolerable 
 existence of it. Yet, in certain moods, he thought that 
 to go into the Mill was a concession of principles. 
 Once in, he was lost. Once he had taken a job in the 
 Mill, his dream of being somebody was forever van- 
 ished. 
 
 A few days before the announcement that he was to 
 be flung in, like experimental powder in a test-tube of 
 acid, he had an experience that changed the color of 
 his thoughts, and sent him to the shipping room, when 
 he finally went, as a man goes to be beheaded. 
 
 He was waiting after school for Bert. The bright
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 195 
 
 sunlight was beating down on the sidewalk, reflected 
 up on the cool stone vault of the entrance vestibule; 
 he stood back, gazing at a curved gargoyle that leered 
 down from a corbel above his head, thinking, despair- 
 ingly, that it would perhaps be better to give up, and 
 play safe, when he heard a step in the corridor, and saw 
 a girl come out of one of the class-rooms and make for 
 the door. 
 
 She saw him standing there, and looked up. He was 
 sure he had never seen her before, and yet she was 
 familiar to him. It was if they had met somewhere, 
 long ago, and remembered dimly . . . She went down 
 the steps, and he watched the sunlight shining on her 
 white dress. 
 
 She wasn't much. She certainly was not pretty. He 
 could not imagine loving such a girl. Yet she had 
 golden hair and frank eyes, and she had noticed him. 
 Moreover, there was a nice look about her; she seemed 
 to have stepped out of some serene and virtuous place. 
 All at once, a thousand thoughts rushed in upon him. 
 This girl, even by what she lacked, suggested possibili- 
 ties of all the things which other people, somewhere, 
 did not lack. In books, or at the other end of the 
 world, somewhere, there were people who thought what 
 he thought, who had the same dreams and hopes and 
 delights. Somewhere, his own people were waiting for 
 him to find them. Somewhere . . . and he was being 
 asked to go into the Mill, and forget that these radiant 
 beings ever existed! 
 
 It was impossible to do that. He couldn't. He
 
 196 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 would go into the Mill, because it would create a great 
 fuss if he should try to withdraw, but never, as long 
 as he had a pound of strength for a struggle, or could 
 draw a breath for a shout of defiance, would he give 
 up, and play safe. He would take his chance. 
 
 It was worth it. He could stand the thought of 
 Failure, now the penalty was terrible, but the re- 
 wards were great and he would take his chance. His 
 own people, waiting somewhere, expected it. 
 
 It took so great a faith to believe that his own peo- 
 ple really existed! There in Wilton, with the Mill and 
 the parlor . . . and he had never, in all his life, seen a 
 single person who proved that life was beautiful . . . 
 
 Then Bert came, and they went to play base-ball in 
 Philip Roger's yard. 
 
 The shipping room did not produce exactly the re- 
 sult that Phanor and Isabel had expected. 
 
 They had thought that it would keep Amos com- 
 pletely occupied, every minute of the day. If a boy 
 were not safe from idleness, there in the very heart of 
 the Mill, then there would be no safety anywhere. 
 Whenever the superintendent of the shipping room 
 came in, the men and boys were hard at work nailing 
 covers on the boxes, and it never occurred to him that 
 this was not the normal and constant state of affairs. 
 As soon as his back was turned, they loafed, smoking 
 and telling stories, and keeping only one eye on the 
 door. The superintendent of the shipping room never 
 knew this, and, in consequence, Phanor never knew it.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 197 
 
 They had thought too, that the shipping room would 
 show Amos what life was like. Phanor thought that 
 life was a matter of sticking to your job, minding your 
 p's and q's, and earning the praise of your boss, and he 
 hoped that Amos was learning this. Amos thought that 
 life was an opportunity to achieve something the 
 precise nature of your achievement depending on what 
 you found within yourself worthy of expression and 
 the boss and the job merely a means to an end, to be 
 carefully watched lest they conflict with the main pur- 
 pose. And the shipping room convinced him that this 
 was a defensible interpretation. 
 
 They had thought, lastly, that he would learn to ap- 
 preciate the value of money, now that he was seeing 
 how it was earned. They themselves rated money very 
 high in the scheme of things always taking care that 
 it should not become a master, which meant that they 
 must not love money to such an extent that the pur- 
 suit of it should impair their earning power. They 
 had preserved Amos' first pay-envelope, much as they 
 would have preserved a decoration from some mighty 
 Emperor, if they had had one. True enough, Amos 
 enjoyed having some money, but he spent a great deal 
 of time wondering when, if ever, he should have enough 
 to enable him to retire. Manifestly, it was absurd to 
 think that any one would ever pay him for doing some- 
 thing that he liked to do. 
 
 Still, this was thinking rather far ahead. He had 
 before him all the rest of High School, and the whole 
 of college. The real test had not yet come. And it
 
 198 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 could not come until it was almost, if not quite, too late 
 to do anything about it. 
 
 This test he imagined somewhat as follows: a Tri- 
 bunal of Successful Men would be seated on a dais, in 
 their robes of office pongee coats, he supposed, the 
 elbows frayed from much leaning over ledgers, and 
 pens behind their ears these men would examine him, 
 spreading out his mind, much as one spreads mortar 
 out on the top of a wall, to determine his attainments 
 and attributes; everything he had ever thought or done 
 would be revealed his dearest visions would be re- 
 jected, probably, as unsuitable, and picked daintily 
 out of the mortar. The Chairman of the Tribunal 
 would have a file of his school reports, ready at hand. 
 If he passed the tests which at times seemed possible, 
 and at other times not so possible the Chairman would 
 jerk his thumb over his shoulder and cry "Mill! " 
 Then the superintendent of the shipping room, or 
 Phanor, would lead him away and put him on a high 
 stool, where he would settle down, and begin life. 
 The Tribunal would shout " Next! " and Isabel, who 
 had been weeping softly in the back of the room, would 
 be relieved and delighted, and would kiss him when he 
 got home at night. 
 
 He might refuse to go before the Tribunal. This 
 would kick up a greater rumpus than anything he had 
 ever done. Nevertheless, he might refuse to be tested. 
 
 The thought of his own sort of people kept coming 
 before his mind, tormenting him. They would all pass 
 the windows of the tribunal chamber together, and look
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 199 
 
 in, and see the candidates being spread out and ex- 
 amined and hustled off to their respective careers, and 
 they would smile and say " Poor Devils! " or, possi- 
 bly, something more adequate and glance at one 
 another in an understanding way, and go on to do 
 something interesting. 
 
 Or, he might be a failure. Then his own people 
 would say, " No, you cannot come with us." He 
 would drift about, an uneasy ghost; he would flatten 
 his nose against the windows of the parlor, on rainy 
 nights, and look in at the happy home that might have 
 been his if he had paid attention and realized the im- 
 portance of his work. 
 
 Besides Amos, there were five men and boys in the 
 shipping room: two of these were older, and married; 
 they always needed shaves, and they smoked black 
 pipes and talked about rich men, and told each other 
 of the fishing trips they had taken twenty years before. 
 The other three were gay young blades who cracked 
 jokes and swore; on Saturday nights they dressed up 
 and loafed about the store doors on Center Street, 
 looking at the girls and singing in harmony. 
 
 Amos was punctual in leaving home for the Mill, 
 after breakfast; at lunch time, he pretended to be wor- 
 ried about his work; at night he sat around the house 
 with an air of importance that made his father choke. 
 From time to time he went to the library, to read the 
 magazines or talk with his friend the inventor, and three 
 or four times he arranged to see Belle. 
 
 Belle was no longer able to offer any inspiration:
 
 200 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 some day, he supposed, they would run away together, 
 and live in Paris. In some distant and exotic place, life 
 with Belle would be wonderful. 
 
 He worked along from day to day, seeing that he 
 would be fairly content if only he could forget that he 
 did not belong where he was. But he could not forget.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE winter which followed was a continuation of 
 the unhappiness and dissatisfaction of the sum- 
 mer. Amos had tried the Mill, and the prospect of 
 spending the rest of his precious days there filled him 
 with horror. As for the rest of life that part which 
 he always now thought of as " the other side " he 
 had nothing but hope. He went on, because he saw no 
 good way to stop, being carried by the momentum of 
 past experience. 
 
 His work in school went fairly well, but that is the 
 most that could be said of it. He was trying, again, 
 to effect a compromise. A great opportunity might 
 come though he could not guess whence it would 
 come, or what would be the nature of it and, if he 
 did not keep himself open and ready for it, he might 
 find himself unable to grasp it, or, even, to see it at all. 
 
 If there had been any one to say to him, kindly and 
 quietly, so as not to frighten him : " See here, young 
 man; you've come to an age where you must make up 
 your mind what course to follow. Either you must 
 be content with the plan your father and mother have 
 laid down for you, or you must break definitely away, 
 and have nothing more to do with them, and travel 
 alone." If then the archangel for it could not be any 
 one of less estate than this could have gone on to 
 
 201
 
 202 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 explain the difficulties and rewards of each course, he 
 might have been able to avoid the hateful necessity of 
 compromise. But there was no one to say this to him, 
 archangel or otherwise. Burton had been a failure, 
 and a rather tragic one; Belle saw nothing beyond her 
 own bodily existence; his parents thought that there 
 was only one side to the question. 
 
 Phanor and Isabel saw that he was unhappy and 
 listless, but they could not guess the reason for it, nor 
 think what to do about it, until Isabel had an idea, and 
 made a suggestion. 
 
 " What are your plans for next summer, Phanor? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " Plans? Plans? What do you mean by that? " 
 
 " Why, just what I say." 
 
 " I don't know that I have any plans, special. Why 
 do you make that assumption? " 
 
 " Well, we have a little money laid by, you know." 
 
 Phanor rattled his paper. He saw his recent raise in 
 salary taken away from him, and spent on foolishness. 
 
 " And you want to find some way to chuck it away 
 is that it? " 
 
 " You know I don't want any such thing, Phanor." 
 
 " Well, you talk like it." 
 
 " No. I've been thinking. It seems to me Amos' last 
 summer, in the shipping room, wasn't exactly success- 
 ful." 
 
 " Humph! It wasn't my idea, in the first place." 
 
 " It don't matter whose idea it was. The question 
 is, do you want to repeat it? "
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 203 
 
 " Crickey, Isabel, I never saw anybody like you for 
 stirring up trouble! What are you getting at? " 
 
 " We haven't had a real vacation since we were mar- 
 ried, that's all. And I think it would be nice if we 
 should take Amos and go away somewhere. It would 
 do you good, and it would be just the thing for Amos." 
 
 Phanor sat stunned for a moment. 
 
 " Where do you think the money's coming from? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " You know perfectly well we can afford it." 
 
 "I don't know anything of the kind! What's the 
 sense of saying a thing like that? You seem to think 
 I'm a millionaire. A summer vacation! " 
 
 " It wouldn't cost much, really, when you come to 
 figure it out. We'd have a hotel bill to pay, and it 
 wouldn't come to much more, in the end, than we spend 
 at home." 
 
 " Rubbish ! Trying to tell me it's just as cheap to 
 go to some swell summer resort as it is to stay at home. 
 What are you talking about? " 
 
 This point being reached, they talked about it for 
 three-quarters of an hour, moving in circles, like ani- 
 mals tethered in a field, who wind themselves tightly up 
 to the center. 
 
 A few weeks later, however, the subject came up 
 again. 
 
 " I met Mrs. Thingum-jig this afternoon," Isabel 
 said. " You know, Phanor . . . Mrs. Who's-this ..." 
 
 " Oh, you mean Mrs. Popperdingle? " Phanor said, 
 laughing. " No, who did you see? "
 
 204 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " It beats everything how I can't think of the wo- 
 man's . . . Oh, yes, Mrs. Collins." 
 
 " You did, hey? What's she up to? " 
 
 " She was telling me about the place they went for 
 their summer vacations to." 
 
 " Lord, are you still harping on that? " 
 
 " Well, I think it would be lovely. You know how 
 you'd enjoy it." 
 
 "Humph! There's lots of things I'd enjoy. When 
 it comes to paying the bills, though, I don't enjoy it so 
 much." 
 
 " I hate to have everybody going off but us." 
 
 Phanor scowled as this weak point was touched. 
 
 " Where is this place she was talking about? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " It's called Lakeside Lodge, and it's in the White 
 Mountains." 
 
 " In the White Mountains! " Phanor cried. 
 "Crickey, woman, do you know what it'll cost? " 
 
 " The Collinses paid eight dollars a week, and she 
 thinks they'd make it less for Amos." 
 
 " Can't be much of a place, at that figure." 
 
 " That's what she told me she paid. Why wouldn't 
 it be a good idea to write and find out? " 
 
 " Now, don't be in such a stew over it. Why go 
 ahead and commit yourself? The place might be full 
 of rotten dirty Micks, for all you know." 
 
 " Mrs. Collins said there were nice people there. 
 And you wouldn't be committing yourself just to write 
 and ask for the rates, you goose."
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 205 
 
 "Yes, but you can't tell how the old duffer will 
 take it." 
 
 " What old duffer? " 
 
 " Oh, the hotel man. I've seen that sort of thing 
 happen before." 
 
 In the end, it was decided to spend two weeks at 
 Lakeside Lodge, in the White Mountains. 
 
 Isabel told Amos that if he did well in school, per- 
 haps they'd take him off on a vacation somewhere. 
 
 " Gee, I'd like that! " Amos cried. " I've never 
 really been away from home in my whole life! " 
 
 For three months in succession he brought home 
 good reports, and then discovered that the vacation 
 was all arranged, no matter what happened. In con- 
 sequence, the next three months were not so good. 
 
 Lakeside Lodge, and Cottages, stood far back in the 
 woods, a mile from the railway station, and half a 
 mile from the lake. It was a large brown bandbox of 
 a house, with a mansard roof on which the pointed 
 slates were arranged in patterns, and it was conspicu- 
 ous for its porch with Egyptian columns now badly 
 split by the weather and the crop of lightning-rods 
 which sprang its chimneys and gables. A button manu- 
 facturer had built it, to provide himself " a stunning 
 place in the country, near a lake," and then, in the 
 course of years,v,his wealth increasing, so that he was 
 above his house, or decreasing, so that his house was 
 above him, he had abandoned it to the Misses Cad- 
 wallader, who had seen an opportunity, and had opened
 
 206 
 
 a summer hotel. It showed above the tree tops for 
 miles around, and seemed to have been dropped there 
 by a cyclone, so little did it fit its position. 
 
 Near it stood the " Cottages," a pitiful shanty, done 
 up in Art Stains, and falling to pieces because of dry 
 rot in the joists. 
 
 Thither came Mrs. and Mr. Phanor Enday, and their 
 son, Amos, arriving in a canopy-top buckboard, drawn 
 by a wheezing white horse. 
 
 The inmates of the lodge were as follows: There 
 was a business man and his wife, who had been coming 
 for years, and were the star boarders; two bachelors, 
 fond of fishing one of these men owned a sawmill 
 somewhere, and the other traveled about the country 
 in a buggy, selling Family Atlases and whiskey; a 
 sharp-faced widow named Smalls, who was wearing 
 herself ever thinner in the attempt to keep her small 
 son in order; a pallid young man who walked in the 
 woods, even when it was raining, and " did " water- 
 colors; three meager and empty-headed young women 
 the two stout ones were engaged in the task of in- 
 structing the Youth, and the thin one lived in the hope 
 of something on an allowance from her father; a 
 farmer named Winterbourne, with his wife and daugh- 
 ter; and a young medical student, who had just finished 
 his internship, and was going to be resident physician 
 at a boy's school. Mr. and Mrs. Collins did not come. 
 
 Besides these, there were some others, who were paid 
 to be there: the Misses Cadwallader, who ran the
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 207 
 
 hotel ; and, as an avocation, made burnt-wood souvenirs 
 of Mahocket Lake; Harry, the stable-man; and two 
 frowsy girls, local " Help," who made the beds and 
 waited on table, and shuffled about all day long in 
 shoes with the heels worn down. 
 
 Phanor and Isabel were very much pleased. Phano'r 
 was greatly relieved to arrive; he had had a hard day, 
 shutting up the house at home, which now seemed so 
 far away, and worrying about the trunk and the jour- 
 ney, which had involved two harrowing changes of 
 trains; he leaned out of the buckboard, as they came 
 up the sandy road, and expressed deep gratitude that 
 Lakeside Lodge actually existed. He had begun to be 
 afraid that he had been led into a hoax. 
 
 Isabel saw at once that the air was good, and she 
 found no reason to complain about the beds and the 
 arrangements in the rooms. She was a little frightened 
 by the loneliness that settled down over the place when 
 it began to get dark; when she came downstairs 
 she found a cheerful fire in the Social Room, and two 
 of the young ladies playing Halma before it, and she 
 set about getting acquainted at once. 
 
 After supper, Amos went down the road on an expe- 
 dition of exploration. The woods on either hand were 
 different from the woods near Wilton; they were 
 darker, and had a primeval air about them, as if they 
 had not been traversed since the Indians left; they 
 were, in short, "trackless forests." He felt rather 
 timid, alone in the darkness, and kept in the middle of
 
 208 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 the road, walking softly, so as not to arouse the wild 
 beasts, which, for all he knew to the contrary, were 
 sitting impatiently behind every stump. 
 
 The road led him down to the shore of the lake, and 
 he stood for a long time looking out over the still black 
 water, watching the fading light in the sky and the re- 
 flections of the tree tops and the stars in the wavering 
 ripples at his feet. A flock of crows across the lake 
 were squabbling about the best place to spend the 
 night; their noise accentuated the general quiet; he 
 had never known that the world could be so still. He 
 -fell to thinking of Belle, and wondering what she was 
 doing. 
 
 Probably, if she had been able to share with him all 
 his apprehensions about life, so that she had been able 
 to be a sort of spiritual mistress to him, his loneliness 
 would have been greater than he could bear. But she 
 was not, and he was only comfortably lonely. 
 
 Even if he couldn't have borne it, what could he 
 have done? He couldn't turn about and run off home 
 to her, now that his parents had been to all the trouble 
 of getting a room for him. An old thought came back 
 to him: how did the wonderful people in books, who 
 eloped with those they loved, manage about the rooms 
 and the baggage and the hotel bills? 
 
 Well, he was there now, and he would have to stay, 
 whether he could bear it or not. 
 
 When he reached the house again, he was surprised 
 to find his father and mother in conversation with Mr.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 209 
 
 and Mrs. Winterbourne. Isabel called him over to the 
 fireside and introduced him. 
 
 " This is Mr. and Mrs. Winterbourne," she said, and 
 then, turning to them, with a touch of pride, he thought, 
 she added, " This is my son." 
 
 Amos shook hands and said that he was happy to 
 meet them. Mr. Winterbourne was a pleasant man, 
 with a kindly smile, and his wife was the very picture 
 of friendliness and hospitality. 
 
 Mr. Winterbourne said, " I suppose you're going to 
 like it first rate here, young man? " 
 
 " Yes, sir; I think so," Amos said. 
 
 " Have you seen the lake yet? " Mrs. Winterbourne 
 asked. 
 
 " I've just been down to look at it." 
 
 " It's lovely, isn't it? I always say there isn't a 
 prettier sheet of water in the world than Mahocket 
 Lake." 
 
 As Amos went off upstairs to bed, he was thinking 
 that he liked the Winterbournes. Though he did not 
 see what they were going to be able to do to help him, 
 the thought that they were in the world somehow re- 
 assured him, and made more tolerable the lonely 
 minutes before he went to sleep. 
 
 In the morning, he was ready for breakfast before 
 his father and mother had come down, and, not daring 
 to go into the dining-room without them, he stepped 
 out onto the porch, and stood admiring the fresh aspect
 
 210 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 of the landscape. Over the woods was visible the 
 rounded crest of a symmetrical hill, which he had not 
 noticed before, and he was gazing at it and wondering 
 if it would be possible to climb to the top of it and look 
 down on the other side, when he heard a step behind 
 him and turned to see Mrs. Winterbourne and her 
 daughter. 
 
 The girl was the* girl he had seen in the corridor at 
 High School. 
 
 "This is my daughter Constance," Mrs. Winter- 
 bourne said. " Constance, this is Mr. Enday." 
 
 As Amos took her hand he looked up at her, to see if 
 she would show him some recognition of their former 
 meeting, but she dropped her eyes timidly, as if she 
 had been caught in possession of a secret. 
 
 " I was just thinking I'd like to climb that hill over 
 there," he said. " Wouldn't you like to come too? " 
 
 Constance smiled brightly, and looked up at her 
 mother. 
 
 "Oh! Could I, Mother?" she asked. 
 
 Mrs. Winterbourne laughed, and said that she had 
 no objection. Then she took Constance away with her 
 to breakfast, whither Amos followed, sitting over at his 
 own table across the room. 
 
 Whenever he found opportunity, he looked at Con- 
 stance. She had some strange quality about her, which 
 he could not name. As before, she gave him the im- 
 pression of having come from some friendly and satis- 
 fying place. She gave him a feeling of contentment. 
 
 And he had asked her to go to the top of the hill with
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 211 
 
 him! "You'd better look out," he told himself, "or 
 you'll be getting into something." 
 
 Then Phanor and Isabel came in, and he set about 
 the congenial and familiar task of concealing his 
 thoughts from them. 
 
 " You've never been here before, have you? " Con- 
 stance asked, as soon as they were started on their 
 walk. 
 
 " Never have," he admitted. " I've been too busy to 
 go to places, much." 
 
 Constance looked sympathetic. 
 
 " And don't yo^i just love it? " 
 
 " Yes. The lake is fine." 
 
 " My goodness, have you been down to the lake al- 
 ready? Isn't it just the loveliest thing you ever saw? " 
 
 " It made me feel sad." 
 
 " It did? I don't see how it could." 
 
 " Well," Amos admitted mysteriously, " I guess that 
 was something inside of me, and not the lake's fault." 
 
 Constance looked sympathetic again. 
 
 " I was down there last night, after dark," he added. 
 
 "In the dark! My, I'd be scared! " 
 
 Amos smiled indulgently. " Of what? " he asked. 
 " You don't think there's wild animals there, do you? " 
 
 " Oh, not really. But I get scared at night. I'm an 
 awful 'fraid-cat. Once I got scared just coming over 
 from the cottage. I just sat down on the grass and 
 screamed for father. He had to come out and get me. 
 We just roared."
 
 212 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " I know. You get like that, sometimes, in the dark. 
 You can't keep any control of yourself; you know 
 there's nothing to hurt you, but you're scared, and you 
 can't help it." 
 
 Constance seemed somewhat surprised that Amos 
 should be brave enough to confess his own cowardice. 
 
 " That's just what it was with me," she said. 
 
 " Once I went into a haunted house and found a dead 
 man on the floor," Amos said. 
 
 " Oh, my gracious! Weren't you just scared stiff? " 
 
 " Well, I didn't know he was going to be there, that's 
 true." 
 
 " I'd have just died." 
 
 Amos thought it wise to change the subject. 
 
 " Say, what were you doing down there at Wilton 
 High School that day? " he asked. 
 
 " At Wilton High? " said Constance, wonderingly. 
 " Oh, I went there to take exams once." 
 
 " I thought I saw you." 
 
 " You saw me? Did you go to Wilton High? " 
 
 " Why, yes; I thought you remembered. I was 
 standing in the door, waiting for somebody, and you 
 came out and went down the steps." 
 
 "It must have been when I was taking exams," 
 Constance said serenely. 
 
 Amos was thinking how strange it was that some peo- 
 ple would tell lies, just for the sake of telling them; it 
 was a very different thing from simply making up a 
 good story, for the story's sake. 
 
 " Well," he went on, " did you take the exams? "
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 213 
 
 " Yes, and I flunked them, every single one. I was 
 trying to get in. Father wanted me to take them again, 
 but I wouldn't." 
 
 " But why did you have to take exams at all? I 
 never did." 
 
 " Oh, you went to school hi Wilton, and that's dif- 
 ferent. You see, I don't live in Wilton." 
 
 " Oh. Where do you live? " 
 
 " In Shrewsbury." 
 
 " I know where it is. Do you go to the Institute? " 
 
 " Yes. I'm just starting my third year, and I was 
 dying to go to Wilton." 
 
 " But why? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. You see, father's a farmer, and 
 we just live in the country, and I never go anywhere." 
 
 " Well, you can take my word for it that you can't 
 see the wide world from Wilton," Amos laughed. 
 
 " Well, but ... I don't know." 
 
 The road led them into a hollow and across a strip 
 of swampy land, thick with trees. Walking hi the 
 wheel-ruts, through the high grass and weeds, they 
 emerged at last into an open field which rose from- under 
 theit feet in one unbroken sweep to the crest of the 
 hill. The wind was rippling the grass, rushing up the 
 slope, like notes of music. 
 
 " Come on! " Amos cried. " Let's run! " 
 
 He set out, shouting, looking back over his shoulder 
 from time to time, expecting to see Constance drop 
 back. But she kept close behind him, working hard, 
 but with obvious enjoyment. At the top he stopped,
 
 2i4 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 and she, arriving beside him, sank down on the grass, 
 spreading out her hands to support herself, looking up 
 at him through her windblown hair with bright eyes 
 and flushed cheeks. 
 
 He thought it strange that he should suddenly find 
 her pretty. 
 
 Across the valley and hills lay, rolling like waves of 
 the sea, green pastures and dark woods and squares of 
 brown plowed land; on the farthest horizon the big 
 range reared up, faint and blue, into the sky. A 
 white farm-house shone out at intervals, and a silver 
 river meandered lazily down the valley, seeking its 
 outlet to the distant ocean. What faith a river had, 
 Amos thought, to go on hunting and hunting, when its 
 sea was nowhere in sight! 
 
 "This is great! " he said. "It's like the hills in 
 England! " 
 
 "Oh!" gasped Constance, thrilled. "Have you 
 been in England? " 
 
 " Well, I never have. But I know it as well as if I'd 
 been born there. I had it all fixed up to go, one time, 
 and the plans fell through at the last moment." 
 
 " My goodness! I'd be afraid to go to England." 
 
 " Afraid of what? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. It's so far away, and you have 
 to cross the ocean, and everything. I'd be afraid I 
 wouldn't ever get back." 
 
 " Well, what would be the harm if you didn't? Gee, 
 I'd love to go off somewhere, and live! Wouldn't 
 you? "
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 215 
 
 " I never thought." 
 
 " Maybe you will, some day." 
 
 " Me! Oh, I should say not! " 
 
 " But why shouldn't you, if you want to? " 
 
 " Oh, I never could go to England." 
 
 At this, they fell silent. 
 
 After a time, they heard the sound of the first 
 luncheon bell, and as they rose to return, Amos found 
 himself bitterly resentful that they must go down on 
 the same side of the hill they had come up. It was 
 always like that. 
 
 " I'll tell you," he said. " Let's come up here often. 
 We'll make this a place of our own. Would you like 
 to do that? " 
 
 " I don't see what you want a place of your own 
 for," Constance said. " What could you do with it? " 
 
 That wasn't what he had said, or meant. What did 
 she have to go and pretend for? As if she couldn't 
 see! She needn't begin to give herself airs. 
 
 But before they had reached the Lodge this feeling 
 had drifted from him, and they were talking happily 
 again. 
 
 It was the first of a series of walks of exploration, 
 extending over all the country side. It was always 
 Amos who proposed them, and Constance always 
 readily accepted. She was always willing and eager to 
 go and, after they had gone, she seemed not to care 
 whether they had gone or not. 
 
 He began to like her. He tried, often, to reach her 
 real self, to see what she was, actually. But she met
 
 216 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 him with a protecting wall: her pretense of not under- 
 standing. What was she afraid of? Why must she 
 hold herself so remote? 
 
 Phanor and Isabel remarked the growing intimacy, 
 and seemed delighted. Mr. Winterbourne, too, seemed 
 interested, and often jokingly asked Amos what ro- 
 mances he had been telling the girl. And, almost at the 
 end of the vacation, Isabel said suddenly, after a long 
 period of silence: 
 
 " Constance Winterbourne's a real nice girl, don't 
 you think so? " 
 
 " Why, yes," said Amos. 
 
 Then four days went by without a letter from Belle. 
 
 Letters came at noon. Amos had always been able 
 to find the delivered mail before his mother did, and 
 sneak Belle's letter out of the pile on the mantel in the 
 Social Hall; as the days went by, now, with no letter 
 for him, he began to fear that his mother had managed 
 to get ahead of him, and had stepped in to prevent the 
 progress of events. But her questions about Con- 
 stance removed his suspicions; she would never have 
 asked if he didn't think Constance a nice girl, if she 
 had been worrying about Belle. 
 
 Then, the day before they left, the letter came: 
 
 DARLINGEST DEAR: 
 
 I have been sick, and they won't let me out of bed. I 
 am writing this under the bedclothes, and the nurse thinks 
 I'm asleep. I don't know if I can get out by the time you
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 217 
 
 come, dear, but I'll try to if I can. Waddy found out about 
 756, so meet me at the House in the Woods. Good-by, 
 dear, and don't forget I love you, dear. 
 Love and kisses and everything, 
 
 B. B. 
 
 
 
 This was the letter that Isabel found in Amos' bag 
 when she went into his room to pack his things for 
 departure. She snatched it up and read it, replaced it, 
 and ran trembling to Phanor with the terrible news. 
 
 " Oh, Phanor! It's still going on! I just found a 
 letter from that girl, in Amos' bag. What shall we 
 do?" 
 
 " What girl? " Phanor asked. 
 
 " Why, that Brooke creature." 
 
 "Oh, pshaw!" said Phanor, with deep concern. 
 " Lord, hasn't the boy any decent instincts? " 
 
 " I did so hope everything was all right, at last. It 
 may have been going on all the time; think of all the 
 times he's been out, and we never knew where! Oh, 
 and there's Constance! " 
 
 " Damn the boy! I wonder why he don't behave! 
 Where is he? " 
 
 " He's out somewhere with Constance. I did hope 
 he was interested in her. I thought he'd forgotten all 
 about this other." 
 
 " I'll have it out with him! " Phanor snarled, sav- 
 agely. " I'll see if he can go on defying me this 
 way! " 
 
 " That's not a bit of use, Phanor. We tried that 
 before."
 
 218 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " Well, what are you going to do? You stand there 
 and talk, but you haven't got anything to suggest. 
 That's ridiculous, Isabel." 
 
 " Ought I to burn the letter, do you think? " 
 
 " What did it say? " 
 
 " Oh, I couldn't repeat it! " , 
 
 " Of all the low, dirty, vile ..." 
 
 " Oh, but she must have some good in her! Don't 
 you suppose we could . . . the boy's just infatuated." 
 
 "Young scoundrel! " 
 
 " Phanor, don't you think we could induce her to 
 give him up? " 
 
 " What an idiotic idea, Isabel! What's the sense in 
 saying a thing like that? " 
 
 " Well, there's no other way out of it, that I can see. 
 I can't believe he's a bad boy; it's just because he's 
 got into the clutches of this girl. Don't you suppose 
 she knows she's dragging him down to ruin? " 
 
 " How do I know what she knows? " 
 
 " Well, she's got to be told. She ought to have a 
 good talking-to, that's what I think." 
 
 " Who's going to tell her that, I'd like to know? " 
 
 " I thought you would." 
 
 " Me! " Phanor cried. 
 
 " Yes," said Isabel, determinedly. 
 
 " But, Good Lord, I never set eyes on the girl! " 
 
 " What if you didn't? Oh, how can you hesitate 
 when the boy's whole life is at stake! It must stop! It 
 must! He don't realize what the consequences might 
 be."
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 219 
 
 " By God, I'd like to thrash him! " 
 
 " It would be a lot more use if you went and saw 
 the girl. I wish you would, Phanor. Please, as soon 
 as we get home. Just tell her that she's dragging the 
 boy down. She must see that the whole thing's im- 
 possible." 
 
 " Seems to me that's a woman's place, not mine." 
 
 " No. What could I say? You're a man of the 
 world; she'd have to listen to you." 
 
 " There might be something in that," Phanor as- 
 sented. 
 
 " Of course there is. Do, Phanor! Please! " 
 
 " I don't see what I could say to her, though." 
 
 " Just tell her that she's dragging the boy down, and 
 appeal to her better nature." 
 
 Phanor didn't actually see himself talking with 
 Belle; if he had done so, he would never have con- 
 sented to it, even to have his life, or Amos'. But it 
 seemed a long distance ahead; he thought of himself 
 only as a man of the world, with ability to handle the 
 situation. A few grand phrases came into his mind 
 . . . the evil influences and the threat of ruin faded 
 away before them. 
 
 " Well, I might see what could be done," he said. 
 
 Isabel went on with her packing. Phanor sat and 
 thought. With all he had to put up with . . . and 
 now this! 
 
 When Amos returned from his walk with Constance, 
 he saw that his bag had been packed, and suspected 
 that his bundle of letters had been found. But Isabel
 
 220 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 made no reference to it; she knew that there would be 
 no more evil, as soon as Phanor had had time to appeal 
 to Belle; moreover, she didn't want an interview with 
 Amos. 
 
 The morning of the departure arrived. Isabel was 
 seated in the buckboard; Phanor was standing near, 
 watching Harry load the trunk on the rack at the rear; 
 the Misses Cadwallader were on the porch, to say good- 
 by and utter a hope for future patronage; the majority 
 of the guests made a smiling group of spectators. Amos, 
 right before them all" Damned young hypocrit! " 
 muttered Phanor was talking to Constance. 
 
 "You get off at Shrewsbury," Constance was saying, 
 " and go right straight up the main road. Our house is 
 the seventh on the left hand side, if you don't count 
 the blacksmith's shop. You can tell it by the big trees 
 in front, and the stone well." 
 
 " I hope I can come often," Amos answered. 
 
 He took her hand for a moment, and then went the 
 rounds of them all, smilingly saying good-by, while 
 Phanor, sitting in the buckboard, watched him darkly. 
 Lord, what he had to go through with for that boy! 
 
 Amos scrambled in beside Harry, and they moved off. 
 
 " Good-by, all," Isabel called. 
 
 She dug Phanor in the ribs, and he raised his hat. 
 
 Mrs. Winterbourne, standing with her arm through 
 her husband's, smiled benignly. 
 
 Then they turned the corner. Phanor began to 
 worry about the trains and the trunk and the terrible 
 errand he had set for him at the end of the journey;
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 221 
 
 Isabel looked about her, and said good-by to the hills 
 and the wild flowers beside the road; Amos was won- 
 dering if he would really care to see Constance when 
 he had once more returned to a world where Belle was.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 ON his arrival at home, Phanor set about opening 
 the house. This consisted in. unlocking all the 
 doors and windows and making sure that they were not 
 stuck; turning on the gas and water; poking a stick 
 into the drains, to see that all was clear; getting out 
 the silver, which had been lying hidden in the bottom 
 of a barrel of remnants of wall-paper in the attic; 
 airing out the cellar; and notifying the police that there 
 was no longer any need of special surveillance at 97 
 Elm Street. 
 
 He always spent a great deal of time on these things, 
 but on this occasion he dragged them out to fill the 
 greater part of the afternoon, because, as soon as he 
 had finished, he was to call on Belle Brooke, and ap- 
 peal to her better nature. 
 
 He dreaded it. Now that he was back in Wilton, it 
 seemed terribly real. He saw himself confronting her, 
 tongue-tied and miserable; he had never before ap- 
 pealed to any one's better nature, and he did not know 
 bow to do it. He even tried to put it off till " some 
 day next week," but Isabel would not hear of this, of 
 course, and packed him off. 
 
 She went to the parlor to wave to him, but he had 
 no heart to look back, and plodded along, gloomy and 
 
 222
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 223 
 
 silent, hoping that he was not as conspicuous as he 
 felt, and trying to think of something to say. 
 
 When he came within sight of the Brookes' house, 
 he stopped, and prayed that the earth might swallow 
 him until after supper. He walked up and down sev- 
 eral times, telling himself that he was not sure of the 
 number; that it was rather late for his errand; that 
 Belle might not be at home. In his heart, he knew 
 that he was afraid. 
 
 Amos had helped about the house as long as there 
 was need of him, but he managed to slip away in time 
 to reach the library before four o'clock. 
 
 He crossed the town, and set out into the country. 
 It was very hot and still, and the sun was low, filling 
 the woods with red light and casting his shadow on 
 the road before him. 
 
 Belle was no longer the only girl in the world; there 
 was Constance. But the two did not conflict. Belle 
 had love and romance and beauty; she offered an in- 
 terpretation of life, warped and one-sided as it was. 
 Constance had nothing nothing actual, that is she 
 was a mortal maiden, simply, who had been put in 
 Amos' path as a substitute for evil, and she had the 
 charm of availability. He did not love her, and he 
 did not want to win her; she had nothing to win. She 
 was merely another girl. 
 
 Why had his father looked so blackly at him while 
 they had been saying good-by, there at Lakeside 
 Lodge? Was it because he had heard them planning
 
 224 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 to meet again? Did he mistrust her? Couldn't he see 
 that Constance was a case of criminal negligence that 
 she was guilty of tedious innocence, and as safe as a 
 lump of clay? Why, Constance would grow up into 
 just such another woman as Isabel; was his father 
 unwilling that he should have even that? 
 
 By this time he had turned off the road, and had 
 reached the house in the woods. It was a ruin now; 
 the roof had collapsed, and the needles had withered 
 and fallen from the thatch that formed its walls. He 
 sat down on a log, staring at the hut. Happiness had 
 fled from it; it was no more than a brush-pile, and a 
 desolate one at that; the fireplace, where they had so 
 often watched the flames, was a heap of stones. He 
 sighed, and gave himself over to melancholy. 
 
 He waited for half an hour. Belle didn't come. He 
 went down to the road again, looking eagerly about him, 
 hoping to catch sight of her at the end of each vista as 
 it opened up before him. 
 
 She had been used to hiding from him, sometimes, 
 and making him find her. He stopped, feeling that 
 perhaps she was watching him, and said something that 
 might make her laugh and thus betray herself. But 
 his voice sounded echoless and dismal in the quiet 
 woods, and he was silent again. 
 
 He made sudden rushes at the thickets, parting the 
 leaves with his hands, thinking to see her, each time, 
 crouching in the bushes, laughing roguishly at him, 
 springing up to come running to him, holding out her
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 225 
 
 arms. But he soon gave up this play, because he found 
 nothing. 
 
 He stepped out into the road and looked down the 
 hill towards town, but the eager little figure was not 
 in sight. He waited, fixing his eyes on the farthest 
 visible point, but no one came. 
 
 He returned to the hut and sat down again on the 
 log, looking at the spot where she had been sitting 
 when they had last visited the House in the Woods 
 together. Her corner by the fire was empty now, as 
 his heart was. The birds were singing, as they had 
 been singing on that first evening, when he had gone 
 out into the yard to hide his diploma how long ago 
 it seemed! The sun was going down behind the hills, 
 filling the world with the sadness and beauty of the 
 twilight. 
 
 What could have happened? Had she not gotten 
 his letter? Had she been unable to escape from those 
 who watched her? Was she too weak his heart 
 seemed to stop, and the woods became dim before his 
 eyes was she dead? 
 
 The thought brought him to his feet, and sent him 
 hurrying down the road towards town. He knew that 
 he was being foolish yet, how splendid and sad a 
 thought! She had died; she had gone out of the 
 world, and he, who loved her, had been left behind, in 
 a vague world of twilight which should nevermore be 
 lifted from his spirit. She had crossed to the other 
 shore, and he would wait for his call to go and join
 
 226 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 her there. The poets and Sunday School helped him, 
 and he was finely miserable. 
 
 When he came to the corner of Arbor Avenue, how- 
 ever, though he was already late for supper, he could 
 not resist the temptation to go and stand for a moment 
 near her house. There would be lights in the windows, 
 perhaps; he would see all the familiar things with 
 which he associated her the garden with the poplar 
 trees, the shrubs beside the grass-plot, the red barn 
 perhaps he would even catch a glimpse of her. Then 
 he would know that she was safe, and he would go 
 away alone, but comforted, into the night. 
 
 He stopped beside the fence on the opposite side of 
 the street, and stood looking at the house. 
 
 It was the same spot where Phanor had paused in 
 embarrassment, an hour before. 
 
 Phanor had finally shaken off his cowardice, and 
 made a rush; he was on the steps almost before he real- 
 ized what he had done. It would soon be over, any- 
 way. 
 
 Had he rung the bell? Lord, yes! It was too late to 
 run, now! He saw nothing before him nor about him; 
 he simply stood staring at the glimmer of light that 
 came through the stained glass of the door, hoping 
 desperately that no one would answer his ring. 
 
 Then the door suddenly opened, and his mind went 
 blank. 
 
 "I'd like . . is there . . does Miss Belle
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 227 
 
 Brooke live here? " he stammered out, to the maid 
 who stood silently watching him. 
 
 " Miss Belle died very suddenly last night, sir," 
 said the maid. 
 
 " Oh! " said Phanor. " No matter! It's of no con- 
 sequence! " 
 
 He turned and scuttled down the steps. 
 
 "Hell and damnation! " he muttered. "The girl's 
 made a fool of me!" 
 
 Amos lingered for a time, and then, being unable 
 to endure the inactivity, came nearer, and realized the 
 situation, almost at once. Without knowing how he 
 had gotten there, he found himself at the kitchen door, 
 looking in at Annie, who was quietly at work. 
 
 She looked up and saw him. 
 
 "God save us, here's Mr. Amos! " she said. She 
 stood there, holding a pan in her hand. 
 
 " It's true, so it is, and Glory be to God," she went 
 on, answering the question she saw in his eyes. " The 
 poor thing died last night; close onto midnight it was, 
 and the lot of us sitting up praying for her soul, and 
 not sleeping a wink since then, either, God knows it. 
 Only the day before yesterday I was talking to her, and 
 we thought she was getting better. She wrote you a 
 letter, and I took it out myself and posted it. She 
 made me promise I'd never tell it, and I never did, to 
 a living soul, and them was the last words I ever heard 
 her speak."
 
 228 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Amos came faltering into the kitchen, and put out 
 his hand on her arm. " Oh, Annie! " he said. 
 
 " It's an awful thing," she said. " Would you like to 
 see her, Mr. Amos? " 
 
 He tried to say " No," but could not. 
 
 Annie led the way through the house. In the par- 
 lor, under the dim light of the gas, which was turned 
 low, the casket lay on trestles; the dark wood shone, 
 and the straps and handles gleamed and glittered; there 
 were flowers about. The upper part of the lid had been 
 taken off, and stood on end beside the casket. 
 
 Annie made the sign of the cross, and moved slowly 
 forward; Amos reluctantly followed, keeping his eyes 
 fixed on the edge of the coffin, into which he could not 
 yet see. He moved unsteadily along at Annie's side, 
 clutching her arm, watching the edge of the coffin. 
 
 Then they came near enough to enable him to see 
 into the hollow, and he saw Belle's face. At once he 
 became conscious of himself; he felt himself standing 
 there in the parlor; he felt all the rest of the world; 
 he seemed to know what every one was doing; he un- 
 derstood Annie, there at his side; everything suddenly 
 became real. 
 
 " No," he said. 
 
 He moved backward towards the door, keeping his 
 eyes fixed on the casket. He could see nothing but a 
 few sharp glints of light on the bright metal work- 
 nothing else in the dark room. 
 
 The door clicked behind him, and the world slowly 
 faded away again, leaving him bewildered. He nodded
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 229 
 
 his head quickly to Annie, freed his hand from hers, 
 opened the door, and ran down the steps. 
 
 He turned towards home, but it was long before he 
 reached it. As he walked, he kept repeating, " It's 
 over, it's over, it's over," monotonously and mechani- 
 cally, in time to his footsteps. 
 
 For a time he was terrified^ feeling something always 
 close at his back. Then he was hard and despairing, 
 glaring around him, defying life to do its worst. Then 
 he saw the long progression of the years that were to 
 come, and felt himself moving through them, hopeless 
 and weary of living. " It's over, it's over." He won- 
 dered why he did not weep. He marveled that he did 
 not break into a run, trying to get away. 
 
 He saw a man approaching; when he came close, he 
 reached out his hand, and caught the man's sleeve. 
 
 " Excuse me," he said. " I've just suffered a great 
 loss." 
 
 The man started and stared and passed on, mutter- 
 ing something that Amos could not hear. 
 
 So she had gone away, like the lovely lady in the 
 book, and had left her lover, broken-hearted, a shat- 
 tered ruin of what had once been a man, staring grimly 
 and dry-eyed down the darkened vista of the long and 
 hopeless years. No hope was any longer visible; hope 
 had died. 
 
 He paced the corridors of his deserted home, so 
 empty and cheerless now; he stood on the terrace, 
 looking down across the garden which once she made
 
 230 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 more lovely; here she had stood, on such a day; here 
 she had smiled; at the corner of yonder wall she had 
 once given him a favor to wear for her in the battle to 
 which he went. The cypress trees stood dark against 
 the starry sky. The garden seemed to miss her, and 
 the flowers hung down their heads. His horse seemed 
 to know that some blow had fallen, and his dog came 
 whimpering to lick his hand. "No, Roland, no; she 
 will never ride with us again in the forest, following 
 the merry huntsman's horn; we shall never hear her 
 laugh again, as she used to laugh in the twilight beside 
 the garden pool. Aye, turn to that door, old friend 
 you will never hear her step again." 
 
 As he went through Elm Street, he saw a bright light 
 in the dining-room; they were having supper without 
 him. Well, he could not go in. He could not go to 
 them to ask for help. If his father should ask him 
 where he had been till this time of night; if his mother 
 should look sorrowfully at him, and accuse him of 
 being a bad and inconsiderate boy would his trouble 
 not descend on him the more heavily? If, when he 
 told them what had happened, they should laugh at 
 him, and tell him to find something to occupy his mind, 
 would he not hate them? And then he would be alone 
 indeed. No, he could not go in. 
 
 As he wandered past so many houses, watching the 
 cheerful lights in the windows, he suddenly realized 
 that Belle no longer existed; she was not in the world. 
 In the imaginary griefs, in the former love quarrels, 
 he could put an end to unhappiness, when he had had
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 231 
 
 enough of it, by going to her to make it up; but now he 
 could not make it up; she had gone away forever. 
 
 But at last he wore himself out. He must go some- 
 where. He distrusted home, and knew that it could 
 not offer anything that touched reality, even remotely; 
 but he must go somewhere, and home was the only 
 place he knew. 
 
 He entered the sitting-room, blinking in the strong 
 light. Phanor sat reading his paper, and did not even 
 lift his eyes; Isabel rose silently from her chair and 
 went to the kitchen to get his supper, which she had 
 been keeping hot for him. 
 
 They were in no mood to speak to him. Thank God, 
 they were going to let him alone. 
 
 " I guess he knows about it," Isabel said, as soon as 
 Amos had finished his supper and gone up to bed. 
 
 " He knows about it, fast enough. Where else could 
 he have been till this time of night? " 
 
 " I can't help feeling sorry for the poor boy. Do 
 you suppose he feels it much? " 
 
 "Of course he don't! " 'said Phanor indignantly. 
 " The boy's so heedless and irresponsible." 
 
 " Well, he's not given to telling how he feels. I've 
 been surprised, sometimes." 
 
 " I suppose so." Phanor meant to imply that Isabel 
 would be surprised at anything. " Why, a boy of that 
 age don't know what it is to feel things, as you call it." 
 
 " Well, I don't know. I can't help feeling sorry. I 
 wish there was something I could do to make it easier 
 for him."
 
 232 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " Rubbish! What's the need of that? He's got out 
 of the scrape a lot easier than anybody could have ex- 
 pected." 
 
 " Well, of course. But it's too bad it had to happen 
 like this, just the same." 
 
 " Humph! Maybe we'll have a little peace, now. I 
 was getting pretty sick of it." 
 
 " If only it don't depress him awfully." 
 
 "Depress him! Crickey, it's too bad about him! 
 No, he'll get over it soon enough, never you fear." 
 
 " I hope so. I'd be so ashamed to have people see 
 him moping around, and connect it with this. If peo- 
 ple should guess the whole story, I don't know what 
 I'd do." 
 
 Phanor was thinking that worse things might hap- 
 pen than that; suppose people should hear that he had 
 been up there, standing on the damn doorsteps, like a 
 great silly, asking for somebody that was dead! What 
 then! Lord, as if he didn't have enough to put up 
 with! 
 
 " Well, I suppose we're well out of it," Isabel said. 
 " Maybe he'll get interested in Constance, now." 
 
 " Who's Constance, for Heaven's sake? " 
 
 "Why, you know: Constance Winterbourne, that 
 was at the Lodge. They seemed to get on so well to- 
 gether." 
 
 " What's the sense in that? Crickey, hasn't the boy 
 got anything else to do besides running after some girl 
 all the time? "
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 233 
 
 " Nonsense, Phanor! It's perfectly natural for him 
 to be interested in the girls." 
 
 "At his age! " 
 
 " You were yourself, you know you were." 
 
 " What's the sense in saying a thing like that, Isabel? 
 The discussion's not about me, is it? " 
 
 " Well, but you said . . ." 
 
 " Oh, leave me out of it, will you? I simply sug- 
 gested that he was too young to be running after some 
 good-for-nothing girl all the time, and you go and try 
 and make out that I was always frittering away my 
 time when I was a boy. That's ridiculous, Isabel." 
 
 " Constance isn't a good-for-nothing girl." 
 
 " What's she got to do with it? " 
 
 " Why, I thought he was interested in her, that's all. 
 She's such a nice girl. I had a long talk with Mrs. 
 Winterbourne about it. I'm sure she'd be delighted 
 if they were to well, to make a go of it." 
 
 " I suppose she would," Phanor growled. " She'll 
 get somebody to run after her daughter, trust her! 
 Schemer! " 
 
 " Why, Phanor! I should think you'd be glad. It's 
 the best possible thing to keep him out of mischief, 
 you know it is." 
 
 " Crickey, I wonder why the boy hasn't got any self- 
 respect! Always running around with low associates! " 
 
 " Constance is an awfully nice girl." 
 
 "Oh, keep quiet, will you? " 
 
 Isabel accordingly kept quiet, for some time.
 
 234 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 She watched Amos carefully, hoping that he would 
 show evidence of interest in Constance, and fearing, at 
 the same time, that his sorrow at Belle's death would 
 be obvious, and so cause a scandal in the neighbor- 
 hood. It never entered her mind that Amos would no 
 more think of revealing sorrow at Belle's death than of 
 revealing interest in Constance. She would have been 
 happy to be taken into his confidence now that it 
 couldn't do any harm and couldn't understand why 
 she was not. 
 
 Phanor, of course, did not watch at all. There had 
 been an evil influence in life; this influence was now 
 dead Lord, he guessed he knew it, seeing how he had 
 been humiliated in finding it out! and there was no 
 excuse for life's not becoming normal again. When 
 things were all right, they didn't need watching. 
 
 Amos spent a good deal of time alone, reading poetry. 
 " Oh, death in life, the days that are no more! " 
 " The touch of a vanished hand, the sound of a voice 
 that is still! " These phrases did not exactly apply to 
 the case in hand, but they came near enough; there 
 was a fine and passionate sadness about them. He 
 knew that memory is the only friend a heart bowed 
 down can call its own, but, strangely enough, he soon 
 got over the memory stage, and began to look with 
 increasing hope towards the future. He struggled 
 against this, but it got the better of him; he altered his 
 attitude, and thought that decency and orthodoxy de- 
 manded that he pretend hopelessness and grief, even
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 235 
 
 if he did not feel them. He told Bert that he thought 
 the greatest line in English Literature was, " Dear as 
 remembered kisses after death." " At least," he added, 
 " it is to me." 
 
 When school began again, it was easier to be sad. 
 He had, in the past, made much of his secret and dash- 
 ing intrigue; well, it was over now. He dropped vague 
 hints to this effect, taking care that every one should 
 know that his love was dead, and had not merely given 
 him the mitten. He imagined his friends saying, 
 11 There goes poor old Enday. God, how that man has 
 suffered! " Later, when it was harder to keep up the 
 pretense, he dropped it, with elaborate effort. Then 
 people said, " The strength and courage of tfiat man is 
 beyond belief! " 
 
 He went out to Shrewsbury, several times, to see 
 Constance, taking care that his mother should not know 
 of it, telling himself that she would make a fuss about 
 it if she knew. He knew that this was not true, but 
 there was no romance in a case where one's mother 
 knew all about it. Besides, she would say that she 
 was delighted, and that would steal away the greater 
 part of the charm. Besides, again, what had his mother 
 ever done that he should let her share his life? 
 
 Constance lived on a farm. On the occasion of his 
 first visit, she had showed him over the place, and they 
 looked at the animals and wandered through the or- 
 chard and down the road to the little red school-house 
 which Constance had attended as a child. He tried,
 
 236 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 more earnestly than ever, to discover some meaning in 
 her, to meet her real self, because he now felt free to 
 do so, and felt some need of her; but he found, as be- 
 fore, that she was reluctant to reveal herself, and drew 
 back, timidly, before every attack. This constituted 
 something of a challenge. 
 
 His second visit was made in the winter, and they 
 sat primly in the parlor, before the stove, and talked. 
 
 The Winterbourne's parlor was a sedate and quiet 
 room, filled with memorials of the past, as if the family 
 were a part of some museum exhibit to illustrate former 
 greatness. The atmosphere of antiquity seemed to in- 
 dicate that life was now over and done with. 
 
 Two windows looked out towards the road in front; 
 a third, its small panes brightly polished, afforded a 
 vista down through the orchard. This orchard window 
 must have been one of the most delightful places in the 
 world; one felt that happy people had sat there, in 
 times long gone, with apples on the window sill and a 
 gay fire dancing on the hearth. But no one sat there 
 now; the fireplace had been bricked up, to keep out 
 mice, and it was more delightful, and more prudent, to 
 keep near the stove. 
 
 Above the mantel hung great-great-grandfather's 
 saber, with which he had chopped people in half in some 
 war that was now actually in the history books a tar- 
 nished reminder of the days when men took life in their 
 hands and did something with it. On the shelf stood 
 great-aunt Abbie's hour-glass; it marked the time for 
 a hundred years, and would have continued to do so.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 237 
 
 had there been any descendant with energy enough to 
 turn it over. The tall and tottering secretary had be- 
 longed to grandfather Douglas, and was filled with his 
 books, which were now never read; he had written his 
 Memoirs at that desk and a very interesting book it 
 would have made, too, except that it remained in manu- 
 script, which time had made almost illegible. 
 
 On the wall hung Uncle Ebenezer's portrait; a stern 
 old boy, who glared out over his poke collar as if to 
 ask what the devil all these strangers were doing here; 
 he looked as if things had gone wrong, and would con- 
 tinue to go wrong, and no one could say he hadn't pre- 
 dicted it. 
 
 As a link between these souvenirs and more modern 
 times, there was a cabinet of mounted butterflies; the 
 fact of this collection's existence expressed modernity, 
 but the insects themselves were falling to pieces, and 
 no one was quite ancestral enough to care for them, nor 
 quite modern enough to throw them away. 
 
 In the center of the room stood a quartered oak table 
 with glued-on ornaments. It held a pair of snuffers on 
 a tin tray, a photograph album, upholstered in yellow 
 plush, with a heart-shaped mirror on the cover, a 
 bronze inkstand, deeply corroded, made in the general 
 shape of a battleship, and a box, lined with red satin, 
 and covered on the outside with small shells, arranged 
 in patterns. The lamp was of china, with a brass base; 
 on its shade a group of dark brown and pin-headed 
 swallows chased one another round and round with 
 crazy zeal.
 
 238 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Between the front windows hung a cuckoo clock, 
 which had never run since the hornets built a nest in it. 
 In the corner was a black-wainut what-not, filled with 
 diminutive animals, cast in lead, a mother-of-pearl 
 pincushion boat, and a greasy-looking statuette of a 
 Dutch cheese-vendor, made of soap. 
 
 The stove was a vast and glittering machine, poking 
 itself out into the room; it stood on a square of em- 
 bossed zinc, and behind it was a wood-box and a gal- 
 vanized coal hod and shovel. There was never a fire 
 in it except when Constance had callers. 
 
 The door which led from the hall to the parlor was 
 protected by a portiere of elongated porcelain beads, 
 which clanked like icicles whenever it was drawn aside 
 to allow any one to enter. 
 
 Amos felt that something must be done to break up 
 this organization, or the world would go to hell within 
 a week. 
 
 " I don't suppose I ought to tell you this, Constance," 
 he said, as they sat before the stove. " But I want you 
 to know." 
 
 " Don't tell me if you don't want to," Constance 
 said. " What is it? " 
 
 " Well, once I knew a girl. She wasn't what you'd 
 call a proper girl; I don't suppose a lady would speak 
 to her, but she's stuck by me in places where a lady 
 would have left me to my fate. She was very beauti- 
 ful, and I loved her." 
 
 He paused, and looked over to watch the effect on 
 Constance, who saw what was coming, and sat silent.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 239 
 
 " You must understand," he went on. " I had been 
 living along, day by day, in the ordinary way Oh, I 
 know what it is to feel a limitation of the spirit! I 
 know what it is to be shut in in a world too narrow! 
 My father and mother well, I kept finding things that 
 I wanted to know about, and they wouldn't tell me." 
 
 " I don't see what you mean," said Constance. 
 
 " No," said Amos, " you wouldn't." 
 
 " Why wouldn't I? " asked Constance, turning to 
 him quickly. 
 
 Amos altered his meaning promptly. 
 
 " I mean, your parents weren't like that." 
 
 He knew that this was not true. All parents were 
 like that; parents owned their children, and as soon as 
 you owned a person, you were through with under- 
 standing. 
 
 " Well, I met this girl," he went on. " Beatrix, her 
 name was. And the world was a different place, after- 
 wards. She made the sun shine, she put the stars in 
 the sky; she was the birds singing, and the wind blow- 
 ing over the meadows, and . . . and I read lots of 
 poetry." 
 
 " I should say you had! " Constance exclaimed. 
 
 " Oh, I thought I could tell you, but I can't. It 
 was love, don't you see? And I guess you can't tell 
 about love." 
 
 Constance was silent. 
 
 " And then," Amos continued, dropping his voice 
 almost to a whisper, " Then she died." 
 
 " That was too bad," said Constance severely.
 
 240 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 It was Amos' turn to be silent. 
 
 " I don't see what you told me that for," Constance 
 said. 
 
 " I thought it was interesting." 
 
 " Did you think it would interest me? " 
 
 A sudden thought flashed through Amos mind. 
 " This is bad! " he told himself. " The girl's offended; 
 that must mean . . ." He dared not finish the 
 thought. 
 
 " I'll have to be going along," he said. " I've got to 
 be home early to-night. I'll have to take the early 
 train." 
 
 " You've got loads of time/' Constance assured him. 
 " It's almost half an hour." 
 
 " Well, I don't want to take any chances to-night. 
 There's a special reason." 
 
 When Constance came with him to the door, he 
 turned suddenly to her, apprehensive and distrustful, 
 but curious. 
 
 " I'm sorry if I offended you," he said. " You didn't 
 like my telling you that, did you? " 
 
 "Mercy! Why should I mind?" said Constance 
 lightly. 
 
 Amos left. 
 
 Oh, yes; of course! Why should she mind? She 
 did mind, though. Did she think he had told her 
 something improper? She wasn't any better than all 
 the rest of them; as soon as something out of the ordi- 
 nary happened, she had to go and pretend it was 
 awful! Couldn't she be interested in anything? Did
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 241 
 
 she have to relate everything to herself? That's what 
 she had done. Lord, was she one of these " Thou shalt 
 not have any other girls before me " people? What 
 nonsense! Did she fancy he loved her? Silly little 
 snippet! 
 
 He scowled and thought profanity all the way home 
 in the train. Crazy little kid, getting offended at a 
 thing like that! Well, she'd see. He was through 
 with her. 
 
 In a few days, however, Constance wrote him a 
 polite and friendly letter, inviting him to the Saint Val- 
 entine's Day Dance. This was the most significant 
 and important of the social events at the Shrewsbury 
 Institute; the fact that she had asked him to come to 
 it meant that she had forgiven him, and that she wanted 
 him back again. That was all right. Let her beg a 
 little; it wouldn't hurt her. 
 
 He put the letter on the floor of his room, conspicu- 
 ous in the center of the rug. Isabel found it, as he had 
 expected, picked it up, and put it on his table, where 
 he found it when he returned. 
 
 " Mother," he said, going into the sewing-room 
 where she was at work. " I've got to go out to the 
 Washington's Birthday Dance with Constance." 
 
 "Oh, how lovely! " Isabel exclaimed. "Have you 
 got a clean shirt to wear? " 
 
 " So you didn't read that letter, after all," he said. 
 
 " What letter? " 
 
 " Oh, the letter from Constance. It's for Saint Val- 
 entine's Day, not Washington's birthday."
 
 242 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " I'm not a bit suspicious about your correspondence 
 with Constance; not the slightest particle," Isabel 
 said. " Of course I didn't read it." 
 
 " I was just wondering if you were honest only when 
 you weren't suspicious," Amos said. 
 
 As he turned to leave the room, he saw his mother 
 hang her head, and he was sorry for what he had done. 
 
 The day of the dance duly came, and Amos went out 
 to Shrewsbury to attend. 
 
 Nothing happened. That is to say, it was the usual 
 brilliant occasion, and every one enjoyed it. Constance 
 wore a new and pretty dress, and Amos told her so; 
 she beamed on him, and everything became serene 
 again. Not that she thrilled him; she didn't belong at 
 a dance, anyway; she belonged at home. 
 
 " Let her stay there, then," thought Amos. 
 
 On the way home, he decided, quite simply, to run 
 away. 
 
 It was a difficult thing to run away, evidently. More 
 people would do it, if it were easy. But he thought he 
 could manage it. He should have to keep his courage 
 up, for a week or two, until the danger of capture was 
 passed, and until he had gotten started in his new life. 
 Then, they would write and ask him to come back, 
 probably. Well, they could write all they pleased. He 
 would reply: " I am happy and prosperous here; why 
 should I return? I have all that I need. You must 
 manage to get along without me." Then he would give
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 243 
 
 the letter to his Japanese servant to post, and would 
 think no more of it. 
 
 He set his escape for the following Friday. He made 
 no preparations, for fear of arousing suspicion. He 
 didn't need much, anyway: just some money, and a few 
 books. He would go to Italy, where he might sit and 
 watch the sun sink into the water, or see the moonlight 
 shimmering on the roofs of the houses. He would stay 
 long enough to become a great and rich man, and then, 
 perhaps, come back. 
 
 But suppose he did not become famous or even 
 rich? There was a chance of it. Indeed, as he thought 
 it over, it seemed probable. He had always been good 
 for nothing in school, and in all the relations to practical 
 life; his father and mother had told him, often enough, 
 that he had no better than an even chance, anyway, 
 and perhaps not quite so much as that; he did not 
 really believe them, but they had proof on their side, 
 and he had none on his. After all, perhaps most peo- 
 ple Phanor and Isabel excepted had dreams and 
 hopes as valid as his own, but most of them either 
 failed, or were too prudent to try. Would it not be fool- 
 ish to take the desperate chance, when there was no 
 real need of it? Why, he might be a failure of the 
 worst possible sort that is, a failure who had run 
 av/ay from home for that special purpose. 
 
 But how would his father and mother feel? They 
 would crow, of course, and say, " Now see! " No, that 
 wouldn't do.
 
 244 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Isabel would look back on the years of his babyhood, 
 and think of all the ambitions she had had for her son. 
 Phanor would go down to the Mill, humiliated and 
 ashamed, avoiding his friends for fear of being ques- 
 tioned. Isabel wouldn't dare face Mrs. Fleetwood or 
 Mrs. Wilson; Phanor would meet Mr. Winterbourne, 
 when they went to the lodge they would, perhaps, be 
 going to the lodge then and Mr. Winterbourne would 
 ask Phanor whatever became of that son of his. The 
 other boys would all be successful, with homes of their 
 own; they would sit around and shake their heads over 
 him, and say that it was a pity for him to turn out a 
 failure, when he had had such a good start. 
 
 Friday came and went, and Amos stayed. 
 
 There was at school a woman named Herrick, who 
 taught freehand drawing to such of the pupils as were 
 thought eligible that is, pupils who were so solidly 
 normal and inartistic that they could be trusted among 
 the dangers and temptations of the " studio." Miss 
 Herrick's " studio " was a rambling room with a sky- 
 light, partitioned off from the rest of the garret of the 
 school. It was, of course, forbidden to all the girls and 
 boys who did not take freehand drawing. 
 
 Amos, on one occasion when he was wandering 
 through the corridors looking for something to relieve 
 his boredom, passed along the top floor, and hearing a 
 slight rustling noise in the studio, stopped at the open 
 door to investigate. 
 
 He saw Miss Herrick bending down before a cup- 
 board in the corner; she rummaged in the depths of
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 245 
 
 the shelves, took out a bottle, from which she took a 
 long drink, and which she then replaced. She wiped 
 her mouth on the back of her hand, took a cautious 
 look about her, though without seeing Amos, and went 
 out of the studio by another door. 
 
 Amos entered at once, as soon as Miss Herrick had 
 had time to get to a safe distance, and pried into the 
 cupboard. 
 
 One of the other teachers, knowing very well that 
 Amos had no business on the top floor, and scenting 
 some mischief, had followed him, and paused in the 
 studio door in time to see him on his knees before the 
 cupboard in the corner, holding a bottle of whiskey in 
 his hand. The teacher had collared him, and lead him 
 off downstairs to the Principal's office. 
 
 He concocted a fanciful yarn about how it happened 
 that he had been caught thus red-handed, but he made 
 no mention of having seen Miss Herrick if the old 
 fool wanted a nip of whiskey, and couldn't get it in 
 any other way, he wasn't going to tell on her. 
 
 " I am appalled at this story," said Mr. Hill, the 
 Principal. 
 
 He wrote a note to Phanor, explaining the matter, 
 and suggesting that Amos was not a fit boy to retain 
 as a pupil in a school which had always taken pride in 
 its moral tone, and remarking that Phanor would, no 
 doubt, agree with him as to the proper course to take. 
 
 "Amos, Amos! " wailed Isabel. "How could you 
 do such a terrible thing! " 
 
 " I didn't do anything, I tell you. It wasn't my
 
 246 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 whiskey. What would I want with a bottle of whiskey, 
 anyway? I should think you'd have more sense than 
 to ask me a thing like that! " 
 
 " But what were you doing there in the first place? 
 You knew you had no business in the studio, didn't 
 you? It's the most shameful thing I ever heard of. 
 And whiskey, too! " 
 
 " I guess maybe it was Miss Herrick's whiskey," 
 Amos suggested. 
 
 "There you go, you dirty blackguard! " Phanor 
 shouted. " What in hell do you mean by saying a 
 thing like that about one of your teachers! Tell me 
 that, will you! I'm damned if I ever . . ." 
 
 " Phanor! Phanor! " cried Isabel. 
 
 " What are we going to do with you? " Phanor said. 
 "You'll have to be sent somewhere to school, won't 
 you? Unless maybe you want to be a hod carrier! 
 My God! I'd look pretty, wouldn't I? " 
 
 Amos had an impulse to pounce on Phanor and 
 thrash him. But he thought of the endless trouble this 
 would cause, and resisted the temptation. 
 
 " All right," he said. " You can take me out of 
 school for this, if you want to. Go ahead and fire me. 
 I won't stay around here to bother you. And you'll get 
 fooled, just the same, because I haven't done anything." 
 
 " Oh, is that so? " Phanor retorted. " I suppose 
 Mr. Hill's letter is made up out of whole cloth, is that 
 it? He's a liar, too, I suppose, according to you? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't believe he's really a liar," Amos said, 
 easily. " He'll know more than he does, some day."
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 247 
 
 " Oh, for God's sake, go to bed, or somewhere, and 
 shut your fool mouth! I'm sick of you! " 
 
 After Amos had gone, Isabel took Phanor to task for 
 his language and his temper, and Phanor said: 
 
 "Oh, I give up! I don't know what to do! It's 
 just one thing after another. He keeps getting into 
 scrapes, and choosing low associates, and when I try 
 to reason with him he talks like an idiot. Think of the 
 disgrace of having to take him out of school. Oh, 
 damnation! I can't bear it! " 
 
 However, within the week Miss Herrick discovered 
 the trouble she had caused, and, to free Amos from 
 blame, she confessed the whole story, and tendered her 
 resignation. 
 
 No one ever apologized to Amos, but Mr. Hill wrote 
 a very humble letter to Phanor, and begged his pardon 
 for the lamentable and unintentional insult. 
 
 This episode did not have its full effect till six months 
 had passed.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 TOWARDS the end of the school year, there was 
 uneasiness in the air; the Senior class was pre- 
 paring to graduate, and there was a great deal of talk 
 of colleges and careers and getting started in life. 
 Amos was out of it. He had always regarded his own 
 position as fixed and settled, but now he found that he 
 was more unsettled than any one else. 
 
 He wasn't ready to start; he hadn't made up his 
 mind. He told himself that he had merely a clear 
 choice to make: should he go into the Mill directly 
 school was over, or should he go to college first? But 
 he knew that his real choice was between going into 
 the Mill willingly, and going in unwillingly. And col- 
 lege would give him time to think. 
 
 " Dad, I'd like your advice," he said to Phanor. 
 
 " What's the matter now? " 
 
 " Nothing. But about the future. I've only got one 
 more year in school, and I've got to begin to think 
 about college." 
 
 " Well, what do you think about it? " 
 
 " That's what I want to talk about. I can't go, of 
 course, unless you'll send me. Now, do you think I 
 ought to go, and do you want to send me? " 
 
 " Of course, I want to give you every advantage," 
 
 248
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 249 
 
 Phanor said. " I've always said that. I'm thankful I 
 can pay the bill. It's just a question of whether col- 
 lege is worth the extra time or not, just a question of 
 whether college is the wisest thing or not, that's all." 
 
 "Yes; that's the question." 
 
 " I don't think there's any doubt but what the col- 
 lege man has an advantage. I can see that, down at the 
 Mill, every day. The men that have been to college 
 are free in their tastes. Of course, it takes another 
 three or four years; a man's that much longer hi get- 
 ting started. It's a question whether or not it's worth 
 the extra time." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Things down at the Mill have been unsettled have 
 been for a number of years. I've seen men, recently, 
 advanced right over the heads of men that have been 
 there longer than they have." 
 
 " Well, were they college men? " 
 
 " Some of them were, and some of them weren't. 
 Men get ahead, and make successes of themselves, on 
 their ability. Nobody's going to put a man ahead just 
 because he's been to college, you know." 
 
 " No, of course not. But do you think a college man 
 has a better chance? " 
 
 " Well, it's hard to say, offhand." 
 
 Evidently it was impossible to say. 
 
 Phanor would have liked to say that college was an 
 absolute essential for success, but, if he said that, it 
 would imply that he himself owed his success to his 
 college training, and it " wouldn't be wise " to give
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 the boy that idea. He had succeeded, in spite of the 
 handicap of careless training and rather stupid par- 
 ents, because well, hang it all, because he was Phanor 
 Enday! The boy had great confidence in him, and ad- 
 mired him; there was no sense in smashing the boy's 
 ideals, was there? 
 
 Amos was wondering how he could manage to con- 
 ceal his true reason for wanting to go to college 
 namely, that it would offer him, perhaps, some chance 
 of escape from the Mill. Terrible as it seemed to say 
 it, he didn't want to go into the Mill at all. 
 
 " Well," he said. " There's this side to the question, 
 too. I should think that a college man would be in a 
 better position to choose what he wanted to do." 
 
 " What do you mean by that? " 
 
 " Why, there are other things besides the Mill, I 
 should think." 
 
 " Certainly there are," said Phanor, disappointed. 
 What was the matter with the boy, anyway? Weren't 
 things hard enough, without trying to branch out into 
 something untried? 
 
 " Well, I was just thinking that perhaps I might find 
 something I liked better." 
 
 " I'm not urging you to go into the Mill, my boy. 
 There's plenty of other things. But you want to re- 
 member that you've got a start in the Mill, because of 
 my position, that you wouldn't get elsewhere, maybe. 
 That's all. There's no sense in throwing away an op- 
 portunity." 
 
 " Well, no. Only, some things aren't worth while."
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 251 
 
 " Good Lord, boy! I guess a place in the world is 
 worth while! If you want to be a success, and have 
 some of the comforts of life, and, later on, a few of the 
 luxuries, perhaps, you've got to get out and hustle for it. 
 Money don't grow on bushes, you know." 
 
 Amos was thinking of the story of how his father got 
 his start. Mr. Fleetwood had come along with an op- 
 portunity, and Phanor had been keen enough to see it. 
 No, one couldn't afford to take any chances. Phanor 
 had never had an opportunity, after that first one. 
 
 And yet the thought was terribly insistent what 
 did it avail a man if he gained the whole world and lost 
 his own soul? Was there something in that, or was it 
 just nonsense out of Sunday School? 
 
 " Of course, if you've got some chance I don't know 
 about . . ." Phanor was saying, facetiously. This was 
 the concluding remark of a long speech, to which Amos 
 hadn't listened. 
 
 " No, I haven't." 
 
 " Well, you've got to do something, haven't you? 
 You can't be dependent on me all your life, can you? 
 Unless, of course, you're content to be a failure." 
 
 "You bet not! " 
 
 "Well, then." 
 
 " I'd like a chance to look around a little and make 
 up my mind, that's all." 
 
 " You've had chances enough, I should think, in all 
 these years." 
 
 " I know. I've thought about it a lot. Only, I can't 
 decide about college. What would be your advice? "
 
 252 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " Well, of course, a college education is an advan- 
 tage to a man; I guess you see that for yourself. 
 Whether it's worth the extra time or not, is another 
 question." 
 
 And so on, for the better part of an hour. 
 
 When vacation time arrived, the house was closed, 
 the gas and water shut off, the silver hidden in the wall- 
 paper barrel, the police notified, the whole machine 
 wound up, wrapped and sealed for the precarious period 
 of absence, and the Endays set out for Lakeside Lodge, 
 hot and worried, wishing it were over. 
 
 At Mahocket Junction they scrambled off, and their 
 trunk was bounced down beside them. The train 
 pulled out, leaving silence behind it; as the noise of the 
 locomotive grew faint in the distance the croaking of 
 the frogs in the pond across the road became audible, 
 and the stamping of the horse, tormented by the buzz- 
 ing flies. 
 
 Constance had ridden over from the Lodge to meet 
 them. 
 
 " Jinks! I'm glad to see you! " she cried. 
 
 She shook Amos heartily by the hand, made a polite 
 salutation to Phanor, and then went up to Isabel and 
 kissed her! This was serious. 
 
 " I thought Amos and I could just walk over," Con- 
 stance said. 
 
 " Oh, that would be lovely," said Isabel.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 253 
 
 " Crickey, that long walk! Look out you don't get 
 lost." 
 
 " How absurd, Phanor." 
 
 Amos and Constance set out together; in a few 
 minutes the buckboard passed them Isabel gave them 
 an encouraging smile through the thick cloud of dust 
 that rose behind and they were left alone on the quiet 
 sunny road. The birds sang in the woods, and the 
 shadows of the clouds were passing over the faces of the 
 hills. 
 
 " It certainly is great to be here again," Amos said. 
 " I wish I could live in this sort of place always." 
 
 " Oh, it's just too heavenly! " Constance admitted. 
 " But, just the same, I'll bet you'd get sick of it." 
 
 " Oh, you live in the country all the time, of course. 
 I suppose people always want to live somewhere they 
 can't. I do. Anywhere at all, so long as it's some- 
 where else." 
 
 Constance smiled, and then looked puzzled. 
 
 " How funny! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Funny! That's a queer idea of what's funny/ Do 
 you see what it means? With me, it means that I'm 
 all unsettled and mixed up and undecided. I feel as if 
 I were in a cage, all the time. I want something, and 
 I don't know what it is, and I don't know where to 
 look for it." 
 
 " Some place to live, do you mean? " 
 
 " Oh, I guess so! " Amos sighed, wearily. What was 
 the use of telling Constance these things? She couldn't
 
 254 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 help. She couldn't see what it was all about. He 
 might talk to her all day, and she never get the idea 
 that there might be something radically wrong with 
 life why, she couldn't even see that there was such a 
 thing as life, something separate from her own exis- 
 tence. She'd say, " How funny! " just like anybody 
 else. That was the trouble with Constance; she was 
 just like everybody else. 
 
 " Well, I like it here. This is a good enough place 
 for now," he said. " If I could only be sure of it or of 
 anything! But I don't suppose I'll ever see it again, 
 after this summer." 
 
 " Why not? " 
 
 "I've only got one more year in school. And then 
 I'm going into the Mill, or else to college." 
 
 "Oh, college! " Constance sounded resentful and 
 disappointed. 
 
 " Well," Amos said, desperately, " it'll keep me out 
 of the Mill that much longer, anyway." 
 
 " But don't you want to go into the Mill? " 
 
 " I hate it. I hate the very idea of it! " 
 
 " Why, I think it's just the dandiest chance ! With 
 your father there, and everything!" 
 
 " Yes. I've worked in the Mill before. Just one day 
 after another, stuck in with a lot of poisonous old pigs 
 that don't know any more than just to keep on grub- 
 bing along. And making thread Gee, you don't even 
 make thread! If you did, it would be something! But 
 you sit at the desk all day and shove little bits of paper
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 255 
 
 around and talk about what you're doing, and you 
 don't do a thing! " 
 
 Constance laughed, and then became serious. 
 
 " I think you're horrid and cynical to talk like that," 
 she said. 
 
 " I'm sick of it, I'll tell you that much. If only the 
 
 Mill wouldn't get me, I wouldn't Oh, I wouldn't 
 
 care what happened." 
 
 " Suppose everybody felt like that? " 
 
 " Well, they don't. Lord, the way people livel 
 Cooped up and stuck to a desk, fussing around! And 
 marrying somebody that just wants you to keep your 
 job and make a lot of money! " 
 
 " That's mean of you, to say that. That's the way 
 most people do." 
 
 " That's the trouble with it." 
 
 " Well, wouldn't you want to ever get married? " 
 
 " Well, I'd rather be not married and wish I was, 
 than married and sorry for it." 
 
 " I guess you'd get over that, fast enough, if the 
 right girl came along." 
 
 " Oh, the right girl, yes! Then I wouldn't be sorry 
 for it, don't you see? Always talking about * getting 
 somewhere,' and that means getting deeper and deeper 
 into the Mill." 
 
 " But ... People are like that! " 
 
 " It's too bad, isn't it? " 
 
 "You great big goose! What do you want to go
 
 256 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 and pretend you're different from everybody else 
 for? " 
 
 " Well, supposing you are different from everybody 
 else? What then? " 
 
 " But you're not! " Constance cried. She was 
 stoutly defending him against his own accusations. 
 
 " You don't know me," Amos said. 
 
 For some time they walked in silence. 
 
 "Look, there's cur hill! " Constance said. "Re- 
 member? I've been up there, often, to the place we 
 picked out." 
 
 " Have you been down on the other side yet? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " No." 
 
 Amos thought, " Of course not; you wouldn't do 
 anything." 
 
 " I was waiting till you came," Constance went on. 
 
 " All right; let's go this afternoon. Want to? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know if I can. I sort of half promised 
 I'd go for a walk with Doctor Penny." 
 
 " Who's he? " asked Amos, quickly. 
 
 " Why, you know! He was here last year. He's the 
 Doctor at Sheridan Academy now." 
 
 " Oh, is he? " 
 
 " He's just the dearest thing! We go for walks a 
 lot! " 
 
 Amos looked across at h?r. There were no pointed 
 lightnings above her head not even a muttering of 
 thunder! 
 
 " And you knew I was coming! " he said.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 257 
 
 " Well ... Oh, what day is to-day? Is this Sat- 
 urday? Isn't that the funniest thing? I was thinking 
 it was Friday! Jinks! It was yesterday I was going 
 with Doctor Penny. He must have waited for hours. 
 What'll he think! " 
 
 " Something foolish, probably," Amos said. 
 
 Constance looked at him. 
 
 As they approached the Lodge, they saw Phanor 
 and Isabel on the porch, where the Misses Cadwallader 
 were welcoming them, with Mr. and Mrs. Winter- 
 bourne close at hand. Mrs. Winterbourne waved to 
 them as they came in sight at the turn of the road. 
 
 "Well, my boy; glad to see you! " Mr. Winter- 
 bourne said to Amos. 
 
 Then Mrs. Winterbourne came forward, beaming 
 as always and kissed him! He began to think up 
 some excuse for postponing his walk with Constance, 
 but before he could find any words, Constance came 
 into the conversation. 
 
 " Oh, mother," she said. " Amos and I want to go 
 up the hill after lunch, and go down on the other side, 
 in the valley. Can we, Mother? " 
 
 " That will be lovely! " Mrs. Winterbourne said. 
 
 Amos went to his room the familiar one which he 
 had occupied the year before thinking that there was 
 no way to stop the girl, if she had once made up her 
 mind that she wanted something. 
 
 But she had kissed Isabel, and her mother had 
 kissed him! There was something sinister behind 
 that.
 
 258 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 There were, obviously, nearly as many different 
 views of life as there were people in the world well, 
 of course, with the exception that most of the people 
 in Wilton stuck together. Who, Amos wondered, was 
 to say what was what? Some one must be right. 
 
 And then came Frank, the stable-man, with his in- 
 terpretation of the round world. 
 
 Amos had wandered out to the barn, one evening 
 after supper as the shadows were growing long across 
 the lake, and came upon Frank, standing in an easy 
 and picturesque attitude beside a small fire. He was 
 without his coat, and his vest was unbuttoned, and he 
 wore a knotted handkerchief about his neck; there was 
 something very appealing in the picture, and Amos 
 came up and stood gazing into the fire. 
 
 " A fire's great company, when a man's lonesome," 
 Frank said. 
 
 " I was thinking that you looked like a cow-boy," 
 Amos said. 
 
 " Yes. They generally builds a small fire like that; 
 just a bunch of twigs, where an ordinary man would 
 be using damn great logs. And the smoke goes straight 
 up into the sky." 
 
 " That sounds like Arizona," Amos ventured. 
 
 "Arizona, and everywhere out there." 
 
 " Were you ever a cow-boy? " 
 
 " Me? Hell, no! It takes too much energy. But 
 I've seen plenty of 'em, out West." 
 
 " What were you doing? " 
 
 " Oh, riding the bumpers, mostly. I been all over.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 259 
 
 Out to 'Frisco. Oh, yes. You'll see an old woman, 
 dodging around the back streets with a stick and a 
 spike in the end of it, and a long cloak. And every 
 once in a while she'll make a jab with the stick and 
 pick a cigar stump, or something, and slip it into the 
 bag she's hiding under her cloak, looking around, all 
 the time, because it's against the law to make cigarettes 
 out of all them butts and things. Yes, Board of 
 Health. And sometimes you'll be sneaking up some 
 back alley, and you'll see a light in a window, and 
 you'll look in, and there'll be one of these old b'God 
 hags, grinding and grinding on a machine and feeding 
 the butts in with the other hand, and smoking one 
 herself, as like as not, and maybe she ain't particular 
 about where the spit goes. They sell 'em for a penny 
 a pack." 
 
 " They must be awful cigarettes." 
 
 " Oh, they ain't so bad as you'd think. If you 
 don't know where they come from. I've smoked 'em, 
 myself. And I've got many a ride off 'em, giving 'em 
 to a brakeman. Those are the sons of wolves, those 
 brakemen! Damned if they won't do anything; stomp 
 on a man's fingers, throw him right off the top of a 
 car; anything." 
 
 "Why, there was a road out there one time, of- 
 fered a thousand dollars if a hobo could steal a ride 
 on their line; their brakemen was such devils. A 
 thousand dollars, they said, if a man could sneak a 
 hundred miles off 'em." 
 
 " And did anybody do it? "
 
 260 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " Sure, yes! I knew the feller. There was another 
 that tried it, and they pretty near killed him; threw 
 coal on him, and he had to jump off the top of the 
 car, going thirty miles an hour, b'God! But this feller 
 did it." 
 
 " How? " 
 
 " Riding in the water tank, in the tender, the whole 
 way. The devil! With the water up to his chin! " 
 
 " And did they pay him? " 
 
 " Sure they did! How could they help themselves? 
 They came to the end of the run, and he lifts up the 
 lid and shoves his head up out of the tank, and says, 
 where's my thousand dollars, and they had to give it 
 to him. Called him right into the president's office, 
 and he give it to him. Him and me bummed it to- 
 gether for a while after that, and you bet your foot 
 we traveled in style while it lasted. No ordinary 
 coaches for us; we used the Pullmans." 
 
 " And what did you do then? " 
 
 " Well, when the money was gone, we made tin- 
 types at a fair for a while. And then we got sick of 
 the damn tintypes, and was riding the trucks one time, 
 when the weather got cold, going South, and he fell, 
 somehow, and the brake-beam hit him, and killed him. 
 Right down between the rails. I didn't ride the trucks 
 no more, after that." 
 
 " How did you do it, then? " 
 
 " Oh, you know them bumper-beams that go across 
 the ends of the cars? Well, I'd put my sit-down on 
 one of 'em, and my feet on the other, and ride along
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 261 
 
 as comfortable as you please. If you ever slip, it's 
 good-by. I've had many a ride that way. You'll 
 be riding along, sitting there, looking out between the 
 cars at the sides, and you see a fire, way off b'God on 
 the prairie, and then all of a sudden you'll get a crack 
 on the knob, and you'll look up, and there'll be a 
 son of a wolf of a brakeman, throwing coal down on 
 you. You'll grab every rag you have on you be- 
 cause, by Judas, it'll blow off if you didn't and you 
 just jump straight out in the dark, and maybe you 
 land in the river, or go head over ginbottle down the 
 bank. And you get up and poke along over to the 
 fire, and there'll be some hoboes maybe twenty, 
 maybe thirty hoboes; a hell of a crowd all sitting 
 round the fire, and you'll tell 'em you're hungry, and 
 they'll say 'Sure! ' and chuck you a whole chicken, 
 like as not, and you're so damn hungry you could bite 
 the Northeast corner off a sewer, and you'll tear right 
 into the damned thing, whether it's cooked or not. 
 They'll give a man anything, those devils." 
 
 " And what do they do? " 
 
 " Why, they sit around the damn fire, these sons 
 of wolves, and they roll dice, and the feller that rolls 
 the lowest, he has to go into town the next day and 
 beg for the crowd, and they can order anything they 
 like. If it's a feller they hate, they'll order the 
 damnedest things I heard a feller order Charlotte 
 Russe one time. And the feller can't come back till 
 he's got everything." 
 
 " Did you ever have to go out like that? "
 
 262 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " Once I did. And I got everything, only there was 
 one devil that had ordered pie, and I couldn't raise none, 
 high or low, and I cut a woman's grass for her, and 
 she give me a dime, and I bought a pie. They'll give 
 you anything, those people." 
 
 " Why, one time I was riding a freight with a feller, 
 and we stopped for water, and me and him went up 
 to a house that was near the track, and the woman 
 give us a regular sit-down meal in the kitchen. And 
 the other lad, he was letting on to be deaf and dumb, 
 and I did the talking. Well, while we were eating, the 
 engineer give a whistle, and this damn fool, that was 
 supposed to be deaf and dumb, he hollers out ' By 
 God, there goes our train! ' We scooped up the grub 
 and lit out." 
 
 " What did she do? " 
 
 " She watched us go. What the hell else could she 
 do? 
 
 " One time I was riding a freight in from Canada, 
 and I got a job keeping the fires going in a bunch of 
 cars that was loaded with potatoes, and as soon as we 
 got started, I begin to sell the potatoes. Everywhere 
 we stopped, the farmers would come down, and I'd sell 
 'em for a nickel a bushel, and when I got to the end 
 of the trip they give me ten dollars and I'd sold forty 
 dollars' worth of potatoes." 
 
 " Well, I don't see what you stay around here for," 
 Amos said. 
 
 " Oh, I ain't going to be here long. What's the use? 
 When the cold weather comes, I'll light out for the
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 263 
 
 sunny south, I guess. I'll go to Louisville, Kentucky, 
 and get into a fight with some lads in front of the jail. 
 They've got the best jail in Louisville I was ever in." 
 
 Amos came away from that interview, and from 
 several subsequent ones, feeling that he had discovered 
 a last resort. If worse should come to worst, now that 
 he knew how hoboes lived . . . if he had known this 
 when he had tried to run away, how differently life 
 might have turned out! Frank was a failure, true 
 enough, but it didn't seem to have hurt him; failure 
 never hurt a man who didn't care whether he failed 
 or not. 
 
 "Don't you ever get riding the bumpers, son," 
 Frank seriously told him, when he opened the subject 
 again. 
 
 " Why not? " Amos asked. " It sounds like a great 
 life, I should think." 
 
 " I'll tell you why not," Frank answered. " You 
 get started, and you can't stop. Look at me; I ain't 
 never been more than two months in one place, ever 
 since I was a kid. I been here near a month, now, 
 and it's about time I was getting somewhere else." 
 
 He stood there over his fire, his hand on his hip, 
 gazing into the embers. 
 
 For several days Amos had noticed that his father 
 and mother were spending a great deal of time with 
 Doctor Penny, but the circumstance aroused no spe- 
 cific suspicions, for he had never done more than 
 exchange the ordinary daily civilities with the doctor,
 
 264 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 and could not believe that the conversation was related 
 in any manner to himself. But the interviews con- 
 tinued, and often, as he looked back to the porch as 
 he was starting out for a walk with Constance, he saw 
 Phanor and Isabel in earnest talk with the Doctor, 
 leaning forward towards one another, with their chairs 
 drawn close together. Then he became curious. 
 
 He found an opportunity to linger near them, trying 
 to overhear, but though they kept on talking, it was 
 with the air of people who have just changed their 
 subject, and he learned nothing. 
 
 " What are you and Dad talking with Doctor Penny 
 about? " he asked Isabel. 
 
 " Nothing whatever," Isabel answered. " If it's of 
 any interest to you, you'll find out all about it in good 
 time." 
 
 Obviously, something terrible was about to happen. 
 
 A few days after this, finding Phanor and Isabel 
 alone on the porch, he strolled up and took a seat on 
 the edge of the floor at his mother's feet, thinking that 
 he might as well know the worst at once. 
 
 " What would you say to going away to school? " 
 Phanor asked. 
 
 "What school?" 
 
 " Oh, some good school." 
 
 " Why, I don't understand. What's the idea? " 
 
 " I asked a simple question, I should think," Phanor 
 said. " Your mother and I have been talking it over, 
 and we thought it might be a good idea for you to go 
 away to school for this last year, perhaps."
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 265 
 
 Amos saw a faint chance for escape; at any rate, it 
 couldn't land him in a worse place than he was now in. 
 Phanor was obviously waiting for him to say he was 
 delighted. 
 
 " I'd like that, very much," he said. 
 
 " What would you say to Sheridan Academy? n 
 
 That was different! 
 
 " I'd like it better than anything else in the world! " 
 he cried. Why, Sheridan Academy was a real chance 
 for escape its reputation, the boys who attended it, 
 the fact that it was not in Wilton . . . why, perhaps 
 he was to be saved, after all ! 
 
 " I was sure, from what Doctor Penny said, that 
 you would like the idea," Isabel said. 
 
 Amos really knew nothing of Sheridan Academy ex- 
 cept that Dick Fleetwood expected to go there, some 
 day, and was very cocky about it. Isabel knew this, 
 too, and had been on Doctor Penny's side of the argu- 
 ment from the first. 
 
 " Your mother and I think you're not getting much 
 out of Wilton High School," Phanor said. " Such a 
 lot of sap-heads." 
 
 " That's what I've always thought, myself," Amos 
 said. " What's Sheridan like? " 
 
 He wanted to appear more enthusiastic, as he felt; 
 but it wouldn't do to show any emotion before his 
 parents. 
 
 " It's a very fine school," Isabel said. " Nice boys 
 go there, and it would be better for you, probably, than 
 staying around at home."
 
 266 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Amos was amazed at this. Was his mother actually 
 admitting that there might be something for Amos 
 Enday beyond the sphere of influence of the parlor at 
 97 Elm Street? So it would seem. She had spoken as 
 if she were fully conscious of making a great sacrifice 
 and of waiving her rights to keep him under her wing. 
 
 " You may learn something," said Phanor, not to 
 be outdone. "That is, if you tend to business, and 
 don't waste your time. You might meet people that 
 would be an advantage to you." 
 
 Phanor wanted it distinctly understood that he was 
 spending a great deal of money. He wasn't called upon 
 to send the boy to Sheridan, was he? Well, then. 
 
 "Why, I think this is great! " Amos cried. "Do 
 you really mean it? " 
 
 " I said so, didn't I? " said Phanor. 
 
 "Well, yes; but I can hardly believe it. Do you 
 mean I can go right on and do the same work I'm doing 
 at Wilton? " 
 
 " Doctor Penny gives me to understand that your 
 work would be accepted for the Senior class at Sheri- 
 dan." 
 
 " Gee, that's bully! When does it begin? " 
 
 " Now, you're not to regard it as settled, you know. 
 It was just a suggestion." 
 
 " But I'll have to know pretty soon," Amos urged. 
 "Ill have to get ready, and everything." 
 
 " There's plenty of time yet," Phanor said. " And 
 I want you to understand this; if you go, it means 
 work. I don't want any shirking of lessons, or fooling.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 267 
 
 The money's not to be thrown away; you're to under- 
 stand that, right from the start." 
 
 Amos saw from this, that the matter had already 
 been decided, and he promised, naturally, to work hard 
 and justify the money spent on him. 
 
 He wandered off in the woods to think on his good 
 fortune. 
 
 They were letting him get away! Did that mean 
 that he was to decide things for himself? Or did it 
 mean that there was really no chance of it? They 
 wouldn't have taken this chance so gaily, he reasoned, 
 if there was a possibility that he might avail himself 
 of it. 
 
 He approached Doctor Penny with questions, and 
 was handed a pamphlet of the school. In reading it, 
 and in looking at the pictures, which showed Sheridan 
 to be in quite the most beautiful place in the world, 
 and a true Paradise for the boys whom it accepted, he 
 forgot all about its possible opportunities, and thought 
 of it only as a new and fascinating experience. 
 
 When he looked at the magnificent corridors of the 
 school, it did not seem possible that he should ever 
 walk along them. When he saw a group of Sheridan 
 boys, gathered about an athletic trophy that they had 
 won, it seemed incredible that he would one day actu- 
 ally speak with just such boys. Was he the same per- 
 son who used to go to school cross-lots? Was he to be 
 blessed with the dignity and urbanity of a " faculty " 
 the same boy who had had to endure the stupidity of 
 Miss MacReady? Why, it was only a few years since
 
 268 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 he had wondered desperately how he was to reach the 
 world at all! 
 
 He told Constance the news, and she was jubilant. 
 Sheridan was the very best thing she could imagine; 
 anything better would have been out of her world 
 altogether. 
 
 "Jinks! " she cried. "I'll just die of stuck-up- 
 ness, knowing a boy that goes to Sheridan! " 
 
 " Why shouldn't I go to Sheridan? " Amos retorted, 
 somewhat sharply. In his heart, though, he felt that 
 there was something miraculous about it. But that 
 was no reason for Constance to be proud! 
 
 On the last day, as they were preparing to leave, 
 Constance said: 
 
 " I hope you won't be too proud to write, once in a 
 while." 
 
 "Why, no," he answered, scowling at her as if to 
 pretend that he didn't know what she meant. " Why 
 should I be proud? Don't be silly! " 
 
 In consequence of this little encounter, she bade him 
 good-by more coldly than he had expected, and sent 
 him away disappointed and bewildered. It was quite 
 the cleverest thing she could have done, for he thought 
 about her in the train all the way back to Wilton. 
 
 Constance wasn't so bad. True, she was irritating at 
 times, and there were things about her that required 
 forbearance. He had a feeling that she was envious 
 of him because he was going to Sheridan, and jealous 
 of the school for taking him away into another world. 
 What did she think? Silly little ninny! Yet she had,
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 269 
 
 by her very resentment if that is what it was raised 
 him in his own esteem, and caused him to view his 
 prospects with still greater enthusiasm. And he fell 
 to wondering if she had done this intentionally.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE Reverend Lynall Kimber, while he was at 
 college, had been a councilor in a boy's sum- 
 mer camp. After his graduation, he had continued 
 this connection, because he liked the work and saw in 
 it continued opportunity for service; in time he had 
 started a camp of his own. People said that it was 
 because he took an interest in service of humanity; 
 the fact of the matter was, the camp paid much better 
 than the ministry; for one or another of these reasons, 
 at any rate, he had given up his pastoral duties alto- 
 gether, and devoted his genius to boys' camps. 
 
 During the winters, he wrote books, and his " Mould- 
 ing Young Manhood," and " As the Twig is Bent " 
 had raised him to first rank among the more progres- 
 sive educators of his time. It is doubtful if his books 
 were much read beyond the limits of his own friend- 
 ship, but his friends were the very ones to best appre- 
 ciate him, and he attained a considerable reputation. 
 Yet he was not content. 
 
 His camp work was a monotonous repetition, year 
 after year, changing only in that the amount of his 
 income increased as he became more efficient in man- 
 agement; as for his books, he had put forth everything 
 he had to say, and felt that he would never again be 
 able to attain the high level of the works on which his 
 
 270
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 271 
 
 reputation rested. Accordingly, he had looked about 
 for something else, and, by taking in a few boys to 
 tutor, and gradually increasing their number, he had 
 built up something that might be considered a school. 
 
 He was still a young man, and ambitious; he was as 
 sincere and earnest as a cannon-ball; his friends rallied 
 around him to help in his venture, and by the time he 
 was fifty he had established the Sheridan Academy. 
 He chose Lakewood as its site, and the corporation 
 which he formed was able to erect a group of splendid 
 modern buildings on a hill overlooking the village, with 
 beautiful views across the valleys in all directions. He 
 never walked about the hill-top, or paced the shining 
 corridors of his school, without feeling a thrill of de- 
 light and pride in his achievement; he could not see 
 that any man, anywhere, at any time, would have been 
 able, granting the circumstances, to do more than he 
 had done. 
 
 The majority of his stockholders, who were also his 
 friends, lived in Lakewood, and this fact enabled him 
 to put special emphasis on the social advantages that 
 his school could offer. Besides this, he made a feature 
 of " producing young gentlemen " out of " manly ma- 
 terial," and of his " honor system," which was carried 
 out by means ol an elaborate schedule of fines. 
 
 When some of the young gentlemen were sent to his 
 office to be disciplined, he used to marvel at his ability 
 to swagger and lord it over them, although he was ac- 
 customed to being in charge of boys; and whenever he 
 spun about in his chair, and looked out down the valley
 
 272 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 on a clear day he could see the sun shining on the 
 roofs of Wilton, twenty miles away he used to be 
 astonished at the miracle that had thus placed him at 
 the top of the world. 
 
 Great geniuses, he reflected, are almost always un- 
 conscious of their greatness. But this was chiefly on 
 account of their characteristic modesty, and modesty 
 was another of the qualities in which he was preemi- 
 nent. 
 
 There were several interesting and influential peo- 
 ple in Lakewood, and they formed a social group, with 
 Dr. Kimber at its head, and kept on excellent terms 
 with him because of his school. As for the village 
 itself, it lived by the presence of the school boys, and 
 considered Sheridan Academy the most important of 
 the world's institutions. 
 
 On the 2ist of September, 1894, Amos, carrying a 
 new and shining suitcase, climbed down from the train 
 at the Lakewood station, in company with some other 
 boys, to whom he had not dared to speak, and looked 
 about him with the air of a man just landed on a desert 
 island. 
 
 As he started up through the village, and saw the 
 red brick buildings of the school, his heart went down 
 into his shoes. He was to be a regular Sheridan Boy. 
 And he did not know how to do it. He had no training 
 nor traditions behind him to show him, and there was 
 nothing specific before him except a vague hope that 
 he would, somehow, be able to fit into the organization,
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 273 
 
 and be inconspicuous and orthodox. But it was no 
 small thing to be an orthodox school boy, when he 
 didn't know how. 
 
 However, he put on a brave front, and walked on 
 ahead of the others who had come in the train with 
 him, arriving alone at the school gates, and starting 
 alone up the gravel walk that led to the main entrance. 
 As he approached, he saw a group of boys lounging on 
 the steps, and he could see them looking at him, and 
 turning to speak to one another, as if they were dis- 
 cussing him, and he wished he had never come. 
 
 " Where can I find Doctor Kimber, please? " he 
 asked, addressing the group in general. 
 
 The boys all looked up at one of their number, as if 
 they recognized him as their natural spokesman. 
 
 " Are you a new boy? " this one asked. 
 
 " Yes," Amos said. " That is, I'm going to start in 
 in the Senior Class." 
 
 " Oh, I see," said the boy, drily. " I thought maybe 
 you were one of the new professors. So you want to 
 see old B. F., do you? " 
 
 " I thought it was Doctor Kimber," Amos said. 
 
 "Yes; his real name's old B. F. He's in there." 
 He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. " Door straight 
 ahead. Maybe he'll tell you something you ought to 
 know." 
 
 Amos went in. To right and left of him stretched a 
 long corridor, with patches of sunlight lying on its pol- 
 ished floor. It was very different from the dark and 
 musty hallways of the Wilton High School.
 
 274 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 He went across to the door which faced him, and 
 knocked, feebly, wondering if this were the proper thing 
 to do. A muffled voice answered from within; he 
 opened the door, and entered. 
 
 A dried and twisted man, thin, and abrupt in his 
 movements, with a sharp and shallow chin that almost 
 met his nose, hooked like an eagle's beak, and fierce 
 keen eyes Doctor Lynall Kimber, Head-master of 
 Sheridan Academy. 
 
 " Doctor Kimber? " Amos murmured. This was a 
 foolish start, he thought; who else could it have been? 
 
 " The same." 
 
 " I'm a new boy. My name is Enday; Amos Enday. 
 From Wilton." 
 
 The Doctor leaped from his chair, darted forward, 
 and clutched Amos by the hand. 
 
 " I'm pleased, indeed, to see you, sir. I have been 
 advised of your arrival. Registration in the Common 
 Study at half-past twelve. Find Robertson, the Head 
 Boy of West House; he'll show you your room." 
 
 Doctor Kimber flung himself back into his chair and 
 relapsed into a spasm of abstraction. 
 
 Amos turned to the door, and said, "Thank you, 
 sir." 
 
 Doctor Kimber made a gesture with his hand, and 
 permitted himself a rapid smile. 
 
 " Welcome to Sheridan," he said, and stared pierc- 
 ingly at his paperweight. 
 
 After this rather startling reception by Doctor Kim- 
 ber, Amos felt able to meet the group on the steps
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 275 
 
 again with more assurance than he had shown before, 
 and he went out again and asked for a boy named 
 Robertson. 
 
 " I'm Robertson," said the boy who had spoken be- 
 fore. " What might you want? " 
 
 " Doctor Kimber told me to ask for you," Amos said. 
 " He said you'd tell me what to do. My name's 
 Enday." 
 
 Robertson introduced him to the other boys, one of 
 whom, Duncan by name, looked him over appraisingly. 
 
 " He'll make a miler, won't he, Robby? " Duncan 
 asked. 
 
 " Maybe," Robertson said. " Can you run? " 
 
 " I never did," said Amos. 
 
 " Oh. Where did you go to school? " 
 
 " Wilton High." 
 
 "Oh. Well, we'll see what we can make of you. 
 Now, for a starter; never call old B. F. anything but old 
 B. F. Understand? " 
 
 " Is that Doctor Kimber? " Amos asked. 
 
 " No," said Robertson, " it's old B. F. That stands 
 for Beetle Face. You've seen him, haven't you? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, then, you didn't need to ask, I should think. 
 Come along, and I'll show you your den." 
 
 Amos followed to West House, which was connected 
 with the main school by a covered passageway; Rob- 
 ertson referred to a card which he took from his 
 pocket, and showed him up to a small room on the sec- 
 ond floor, which was to be his own. It contained a
 
 276 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 bed, a desk, two chairs, and a bureau. The view from 
 the window, as from every other window in the school, 
 was extensive and beautiful. 
 
 " This is your den," Robertson said. " You're to be 
 in it every night after eight o'clock, and no lights after 
 half-past ten. Your trunk goes in the closet, not out 
 here in the room. Don't put any pictures up on the 
 walls. Never tell anybody your first name ; I happen to 
 know it's Amos, but nobody else is supposed to know. 
 Seniors don't have any bounds, and you can go any- 
 where you like, except to the Lakewood House before 
 four o'clock in the afternoon. Always wear a derby on 
 Sundays, but never during the week, unless you're 
 going somewhere special. Don't ever lock your door; 
 never cheat; never squeal. If you want to know any- 
 thing, ask me. Registration's at half-past twelve, in 
 the Study, at the other end of the Main School. That's 
 all you need to know." 
 
 Robertson went out and closed the door. 
 
 Amos listened to the footsteps growing more distant 
 down the hall and descending the stairs. 
 
 He sat down on the edge of his bed and surveyed the 
 room. It was the first time in his life that he had ever 
 really been alone. 
 
 After registration, which seemed to Amos a very 
 dignified and urbane proceeding, the heads of the two 
 houses called a general meeting of the students. The 
 entering class was instructed in the meaning of life, and
 
 THE PAFLOR BEGAT AMOS 277 
 
 told how to cultivate and preserve that essential of es- 
 sentials, School Spirit; the older boys then made 
 speeches, interrupted by a great deal of cheering and 
 applause, outlining the school's achievements for the 
 coming year; at the end, the meeting was thrown open, 
 and the seniors moved about among the members of 
 the lower classes, urging participation in extra-curric- 
 ulum activities. 
 
 :i You're going out for the mile, aren't you? " asked 
 one of the boys who had been on the steps with Rob- 
 ertson when Amos arrived. " You ought to." 
 
 " Well, I will if I dare," Amos said. 
 
 " Sure, you dare. That's the proper spirit." 
 
 " Well, I never ran before, you know. I don't be- 
 lieve I'll be much good at it." 
 
 "Shucks, that's no way to make a runner! Hey, 
 Wilson; come on over here a minute. Here's a man 
 that wants to go out for the mile." 
 
 Wilson, Captain of the Track Team, strolled over, 
 and Amos was introduced to him. 
 
 " What's your time for the mile? " he asked. 
 
 " I don't know. I never ran," Amos said. 
 
 " Well, if you want to be a miler, you've got to beat 
 Harvey, you know. Think he can beat Harvey, 
 Dunk? " 
 
 The two boys exchanged amused glances. 
 
 " I'll try," Amos said, stoutly enough, though he ex- 
 pected to be struck dead for his presumption. 
 
 Wilson laughed outright.
 
 278 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " I must tell old Harvey that," he said. " You come 
 on down to the Track House to-morrow afternoon at 
 four, and we'll see what you're good for." 
 
 All this seemed terrible, yet it delighted him. The 
 Captain of the Track Team, the school in general, the 
 whole world, looked towards him now with the expecta- 
 tion that he would make something of himself. This 
 was just what he had always wanted, but he had not 
 realized that the task would carry with it so great a 
 load of responsibility. Why, he had to announce, in 
 advance, what he was going to try to do! If he should 
 fail, the whole school would know of it! This matter 
 of being a personality seemed, after all, to have a public 
 aspect. 
 
 He did not see that no more was being asked of him 
 than that he should conform to the organization of 
 which he was a part; but if he had seen it, it is prob- 
 able that he would have recognized the fact that con- 
 formity with Sheridan was a vastly more satisfying 
 thing, and more in his line, than conformity with the 
 onandates of his father and mother, and the spirit of 
 the parlor at home. 
 
 At the end of his second day in school, he wrote to 
 his father as follows: 
 
 They wanted me to go out for Track, and see what I 
 could do in the mile, and so I've been down to the Track 
 House this afternoon. They only let me do a half, and I 
 got pretty well winded, but I'm going to try again, and 
 start training. Wilson wouldn't tell me the time I made, 
 but I guess it was pretty good, because they wanted me to
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 279 
 
 come out to-morrow. There's a boy named Harvey that's 
 the school's best miler, and runs in the big Meet, and unless 
 I can get fast enough to beat him I won't get in. It means 
 lots of hard work. 
 
 He stopped at that, and chewed his penholder for a 
 time, reflecting on the probable effect of what he had 
 written. At first he thought it would perhaps be un- 
 wise to send such a letter at all, but then he saw that 
 unless he made a firm stand now, at the very begin- 
 ning, there would be trouble about athletics all the rest 
 of his life. So he decided to stick to what he had writ- 
 ten, but added another paragraph, as a sop to Re- 
 spectability: 
 
 I shall try very hard to get good marks in my school 
 work, because I know you are paying a lot for me to be 
 here, and I want you to know that I appreciate it. 
 
 A few days later, Phanor replied: 
 
 MY DEAR AMOS: 
 
 I have yours of the 22nd. I must warn you in advance 
 that all thought of athletics must stop if it seems to come 
 into conflict with your school work. I am the last one to 
 disapprove of athletics, but there are more important things 
 in life, and you must not neglect your studies. I would 
 suggest that it might be wiser to postpone the running until 
 some later date, when you have had time to accustom 
 yourself to the ways of the school, and have established 
 yourself as a student. I cannot afford to have you fritter 
 away your time on non-essentials. Your mother joins me 
 in this.
 
 280 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 You neglected to mention what arrangements you had 
 made in regard to your laundry. 
 
 Your affectionate 
 
 FATHER. 
 
 It was very evident that Phanor wanted the boy to 
 turn over a new leaf, but he seemed to fear and, as he 
 thought about it, Amos feared it, too that there was 
 danger of his turning the wrong leaf, or of turning too 
 many, and skipping something. 
 
 Amos thought it probable that there were no other 
 parents in all the world so stubbornly dedicated to 
 safety in life as his own were, nor any who moved in 
 a path quite so unregardful of all that lay on either 
 hand. This made his case special, and different. Also, 
 it was probable that the other school boys were not 
 worrying about things all the time, as he was doing, 
 but he had been doing it since he was a baby, and he 
 couldn't stop. 
 
 He set out for the Track House, every afternoon, in 
 high enthusiasm. This was something that interested 
 him; his parents were not urging it, and it had no 
 special conformity with the rules of conduct. He had 
 done things like this before, he told himself. But they 
 seemed to have been done a long time ago, in a mood 
 of recklessness and rebellion that was unknown to him 
 now. 
 
 He ran well. There were three other possibilities 
 for the mile; the first he defeated with comparative
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 281 
 
 ease; the second he crowded rather hard; Harvey, the 
 leader, was as yet far out of reach, though not so far 
 that there was no hope of ever overtaking him. 
 
 Perhaps, if he gave up everything in the effort to 
 snatch the school record for the mile, he might suc- 
 ceed, and thus gain an achievement of his own. But 
 how absurd! Could he go back to the world and say, 
 when he was asked what he was good for, that he was 
 the best miler in Sheridan Academy? 
 
 He returned in a mood of profound depression. He 
 felt like apologizing for the time he had spent. This 
 surprised him, and made him uneasy. Why, he had 
 always been one to sneak out of his work on every pos- 
 sible occasion and count it pure gain! Responsibility 
 weighed heavily on him. He was no longer what he 
 had been. It must be that age was beginning to have its 
 effect on him. 
 
 But he worried about it and debated over it with 
 himself, trying to see some way out of it, when there 
 was really nothing to get out of. He was in a new 
 manner of life, but he sighed to think that he was the 
 same old person. 
 
 When he went home for the Christmas vacation, 
 Phanor and Isabel were delighted with the very credita- 
 ble list of marks he was able to present. Amos looked 
 so well, and was so enthusiastic, and told such merry 
 tales of his adventures and his good times, that they 
 began to think they had done wisely in sending him
 
 282 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 away to school. They spent many evenings in con- 
 versation, praising each other after their own fashion 
 for having been so discerning. 
 
 He said little about the Track Team. He seemed 
 now in a fair way to beat out the second on the list of 
 the school's milers, and even, in more sanguine mo- 
 ments, to give Harvey a struggle for his place, but he 
 saw that this was something that would not interest 
 his parents. If he told them, they would think that 
 his good marks had been merely a fluke, and they 
 would pick on him and discourage him by telling him 
 that he was on a course which led straight to disas- 
 ter. Yet, by not mentioning it, he was giving them the 
 impression that he had turned over the new leaf, and 
 was becoming the sort of man they wanted him to be. 
 And he was not willing that they should think this. 
 
 So he let them think what they pleased, and said 
 nothing of his new scale of values. He had responsi- 
 bility enough to himself, now, without reviving the old 
 responsibility to his parents. 
 
 The parlor, with its spasms of sour color, its seedy 
 and incongruous furniture, its frenzied atmosphere of 
 deaf and dumb and blind perversity, reached him as a 
 vague feeling of hopelessness. It sat prim and secure 
 in its fussy draperies, defying thought and inspiration 
 and joy, praying God that nothing would ever happen. 
 
 But it meant something different to Amos Enday, 
 whose first ideas of life were connected with it. He 
 had played in that parlor; he had discovered his earliest 
 reactions from its rubber-plant, its sprawling piano; he
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMCS 283 
 
 had wept for the lonely and lovely girl in the engraving 
 between its windows; he had started out with it as an 
 inspiration and as a guide. 
 
 The rest of the town was just as discouraging. Wil- 
 son's barn, the cross-lots path to school, the Mill and 
 the shipping room, the horse-car yard, the street on 
 which Burton had lived, Belle's house Oh, if Belle 
 had only lived, how different life might have been! If 
 only ... if only the past were here now, or the future 
 had come, or he were somewhere else! 
 
 He counted the days till school should come again. 
 In desperation, he went out to Shrewsbury, and called 
 on Constance. 
 
 She was glad to hear about the Track Team. 
 
 " Oh, I'd just die of joy if you should make it! " 
 she cried. "Don't you get a letter for it, or some- 
 thing? " 
 
 " A ribbon for your hat," Amos told her. 
 
 " Jinks! I think it's just the corkingest honor! " 
 
 " Well, it is something," he admitted. " You see, I 
 never did any running before, hardly. But, Gee, it's 
 nothing like what a runner in college is! " 
 
 "Oh," said Constance, soberly. "Are you really 
 going to college? " 
 
 " I guess so. I haven't decided yet. Well, really, 
 it's my father that hasn't decided yet." 
 
 " I don't see what you have to go to college for." 
 
 " It'll give me more time to think things over." 
 
 " Seems to me you want a lot of tune to think things
 
 284 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 over. I should think you'd rather start in and do some- 
 thing, as soon as you can." 
 
 " What does a girl know about that sort of thing, 
 Constance? " 
 
 " Well, I thought you were going into the Mill." 
 
 " Gee, why should I? " 
 
 " I think it would be just awfully foolish to miss that 
 dandy chance. I know just crowds of boys in college, 
 and they just waste a lot of time, and come back and 
 start in just where they'd be if they hadn't been at all." 
 
 " Well, their mistake is in coming back and starting 
 in. I don't want to do that. I can't tell you how much 
 I don't want to! " 
 
 " What do you want to do, then? " 
 
 " Well . . . something else." 
 
 " But what? " 
 
 " I don't know," Amos said. " Be a poet, maybe," 
 he added. He spoke humorously, smiling, but it was 
 a pathetic utterance, none the less. 
 
 "You're such a dear! " Constance exclaimed. 
 
 " I don't mean be a poet, of course. I meant some- 
 thing serious. I mean, I'd want to take it up seriously." 
 
 "Would you go and live in Italy, like Browning 
 did? " asked Constance, wickedly. 
 
 " Maybe I would. Oh, Gee ... I don't know what 
 it is! But there's something, somewhere, for me to do! 
 There's something I want and love and need that's 
 what I'm looking for." 
 
 "I guess you'll find it, if you keep on looking," 
 Constance said.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 285 
 
 " Oh, don't you see? If I'm just like other people, 
 then I wouldn't keep wanting to find something dif- 
 ferent, all the time. And if I'm not like other people, 
 then there's no sense in my trying to do the same 
 things that other people do. I'm sick of pretending 
 and compromising and trying to do both things at 
 once. I haven't got any time to just mess around with 
 stupidity! " 
 
 " I don't think you're different from everybody else," 
 Constance said. " I think you're fine." 
 
 " Then what am I thinking these things for? That's 
 what I want to know! People are satisfied, when 
 they're in the right places, where they belong! I'm 
 not satisfied! " 
 
 "Oh, Jinks!" Constance retorted. "Everybody 
 thinks they're different! I wanted to be an opera 
 singer, when I was a little girl! " 
 
 " Lord ! " Amos thought, on his way home. " Per- 
 haps there's something in that! " 
 
 During the winter term, things began to improve. 
 Amos worked hard at his studies, and his running was 
 beginning to cause comment in the school, so that he 
 came into public notice, in a small way. This was new 
 to him, and he enjoyed it. 
 
 At times, of course, he sat before the fire in the Study, 
 dreaming over his book and wondering what was going 
 to happen; often he stood at his window, looking down 
 at the twinkling lights in the village, pondering on the 
 possible end of all this uncertainty and bewilderment.
 
 286 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 But he couldn't solve the problem, not knowing, really, 
 what it was. And he was too busy to be despondent. 
 
 The big Track Meet came in the Spring, just before 
 the Easter Holidays. He was chosen as one of the mile 
 runners to defend the reputation of Sheridan against 
 its rival school. He wrote to Constance of this, and 
 casually mentioned it in his letters to his father. 
 
 As the Meet drew nearer, he was looked up to and 
 idolized by the younger boys, and he used often to hear 
 them whispering together after he had passed. His 
 teachers took an interest in him, and excused him from 
 a portion of his work, and accorded him several minor 
 privileges which were by custom granted to members 
 of the teams. This was pleasant, and gave him confi- 
 dence. 
 
 Almost every one or at least every one who 
 amounted to anything in the school had invited some 
 girl, and her mother, to come up for the Meet. Amos 
 considered this for a long time. He knew that his 
 mother would think it " lovely " if he should ask Con- 
 stance, and would be delighted to grant him a special 
 appropriation for the purpose. But if he did that 
 . . . well, perhaps it was as well to leave Constance 
 out of it. 
 
 Constance herself had taken the greatest inteiest in 
 the Meet, and would be pleased, no doubt, to come. 
 But if he asked her . . . well, perhaps it would not 
 be discreet. He explained to her in a letter that mem- 
 bers of the teams were not allowed to bring girls to
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 287 
 
 Meets; this was not true, but he hoped she would be- 
 lieve it. 
 
 Then, as a climax, Aunt Edna wrote to ask if it 
 could be arranged to have her come. She had always 
 wanted to see some athletic event, and had never had 
 a chance till now. She had hung around the fence of 
 the base-ball park at home, at times, in the hope of 
 seeing something, but she had never dared to go in, 
 with all those men yelling and it was so expensive, 
 too and she had never seen anything. If Amos could 
 manage to get her up to Sheridan, she would wear her 
 best clothes, so that he needn't be ashamed of her, and 
 she promised to go home immediately afterwards, so 
 as not to take his time from his friends. 
 
 Amos wasted ten sheets of paper in diplomatic at- 
 tempts, and in the end flatly refused to consider the 
 request. 
 
 Phanor and Isabel saw how he felt about it; they 
 themselves wouldn't have wanted Aunt Edna hanging 
 around, Sunday clothes or not; but they didn't like the 
 cockey way in which Amos took it upon himself to 
 humiliate his relatives, who were just as good as he was. 
 
 The day of the Meet dawned clear and brilliant, a 
 perfection of Spring weather that no one could resist. 
 Amos was about to start, he thought, the definite indi- 
 vidual career he had so long hoped for. This, and the 
 serenity of the air, had its effect on him, and he came to 
 the line in a glow of enthusiasm. 
 
 As he looked up at the gay stands of bright dresses
 
 288 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 and fluttering pennants, while he dug his spikes into 
 the track, he wished there was some special Person 
 there for him, some one for whom he could do his 
 best. 
 
 Harvey beat him in the mile, by a considerable mar- 
 gin, but Amos was second, and thus won the first two 
 places for Sheridan; Harvey's victory was looked upon 
 as certain, and Amos was the real hero of the day. He 
 heard a wild burst of applause when he finished, and 
 was thrilled by the sound of his own name at the end 
 of the school cheer. 
 
 This was the last day of the winter term; directly 
 after the Meet, Amos went home to Wilton for his 
 vacation. 
 
 "Well, boy, I've got some good news for you," 
 Phanor said. 
 
 He was sitting there, where he always sat, hunched 
 down in his chair, with his paper in his lap. 
 
 " That's fine," Amos said. He was wondering if the 
 news were good in Phanor's estimation only. 
 
 " There's an opening in the Mill," said Phanor, and 
 paused for the effect. 
 
 Amos' heart sank, but he crossed the room to a chair, 
 and tried to conceal his feelings. 
 
 " What sort of an opening? " he asked. 
 
 "Well, perhaps I ought not to call it an opening, 
 exactly," Phanor went on. " It's no more than a sug- 
 gestion, really. But I happened to hear that there 
 might be a vacancy soon, and I made a bid for you.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 289 
 
 Nothing may come of it, of course. But I thought I'd 
 speak of it." 
 
 Amos looked over at his mother, hoping, perhaps, 
 for some help, but she was watching him, smiling hap- 
 pily, waiting to see his delight and gratitude. He felt 
 trapped; they had taken a mean advantage of him; 
 he had come home, naturally enough, for his vacation, 
 and they pounced on him with this, and expected him 
 to be pleased. 
 
 " Is it all settled? " he asked, faintly. 
 
 " Well, I can't definitely say that," Phanor said. 
 " I merely suggested that you were coming along soon, 
 now, and that you'd have to find something, so I told 
 them to try and sort of hold things open for you until 
 you could get out of school and take advantage of it." 
 
 " What kind of job is it? " 
 
 " Why, Hungerford wants a new man. Just re- 
 cently, they've decided to let him take over the man- 
 agement of the West Mill, in addition to what he's 
 doing already, and he'll need somebody to help him and 
 sort of look after things a little. Of course, it's just a 
 start; no more." 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " You don't seem very enthusiastic about it. What's 
 the matter? It's way higher up in the scale than I 
 started in." 
 
 " Why, I can't get used to the idea, that's all. I've 
 been thinking . . ." 
 
 " I think it's perfectly lovely! " Isabel exclaimed.
 
 290 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 u Wasn't that the same place that Mr. Hungerford 
 started in, Phanor? " 
 
 Phanor nodded. 
 
 "Just think! " said Isabel. 
 
 Phanor evidently thought that something was wrong, 
 and began to speak, rapidly, to cover his apprehension. 
 
 " Why, Hungerford was in to see me the other day, 
 and he said they were going to give him the West Mill 
 to look after, too, and I said that was fine, and he said 
 he thought he'd have to get another man to help him, 
 and I thought of you, of course. And I said, ' Who 
 have you got in mind? ' and he said that the man that 
 was in the West Mill now was a good enough foreman, 
 but that he'd been promoted from the machines and 
 didn't have much education. I know the man; name's 
 Tony, and he don't speak hardly any English. I asked 
 Hungerford if he had anybody in mind, and he said 
 he didn't know of anybody, and then I told him I had 
 you coming along out of school pretty soon, and he 
 said it might not be a bad idea. So the matter rested 
 there. If he don't find anybody before June why he'll 
 be willing to take you in and see what he can make of 
 you." 
 
 " Isn't that fine! " Isabel said. 
 
 She was still sitting there watching him, her eyes 
 shining, her face lighted up in expectation of his de- 
 light. Oh, it was pitiful to hurt her! Amos could have 
 wept. 
 
 " Well," he said, slowly, and hesitating between the 
 words, " I'd just like a little time to think it over."
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 291 
 
 " What do you mean by that? " Phanor asked. 
 
 " Why, I mean . . . it's all so ... I didn't expect 
 it, that's all." 
 
 " Well, there's time enough, between now and June. 
 But if you want the place you can't afford to let the 
 grass grow under your feet, that's sure." 
 
 Amos gathered all his courage, and said, " I don't 
 think I want it." 
 
 There was silence, for a moment. Phanor opened 
 his mouth, and could not shut it again; a weak, " Why, 
 Amos! " burst from Isabel. 
 
 " What do you mean? " gasped Phanor. 
 
 " I don't want to go in with Mr. Hungerford, that's 
 all." 
 
 " You don't want . . . you don't . . . Crickey! " 
 
 Phanor sank back in his chair; it was as if the end 
 of the world had been announced. 
 
 " See here, young man . . ." 
 
 " Well, I don't. What are you making such a fuss 
 about? Aren't there other . . ." 
 
 " Stop your noise! " Phanor cried. " What the devil 
 do you mean by telling me a thing like that? Hey? 
 What do you mean by it? " 
 
 "I don't want to go into the Mill!" Amos 
 answered. " I'm sorry, but I don't. I don't like it, 
 and I never did, and I won't have anything to do with 
 it. For all of me your old Mill can sink! " 
 
 " Why, what a way to talk! " said Isabel. 
 
 "Well, that's gratitude, I must say!" exclaimed 
 Phanor.
 
 292 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " I'm much obliged to Mr. Hungerford for thinking 
 of me, and I hope you'll tell him so." 
 
 "Hungerford! " Phanor shouted. "What in Hell 
 has Hungerford got to do with it? Answer me that! " 
 
 " Why, you said . . ." 
 
 " Oh, I said! Great God Almighty! Don't you see 
 where your advantage lies? " 
 
 " Does it lie in taking a job I don't want and don't 
 like and never did like and never will like? Why have 
 I got to go into the Mill, if I don't want to? " 
 
 " Haven't you got any ambition, for God's sake? " 
 
 "Oh, don't talk to me about ambition! You can't 
 see anything in the whole world but your old Mill! 
 What do I care for the Mill, I'd like to know ! I don't 
 want it; that's all there is to it. Let's not talk about 
 it any more." 
 
 " No! " shouted Phanor. " This thing has got to be 
 thrashed out here and now! " 
 
 " Oh, all right then! All right! Ever since I was a 
 baby you've told me the things I cared for were trash 
 and nonsense; whenever I've found something I really 
 liked you've done your best to spoil it for me; I never 
 made a step for myself without getting called a scoun- 
 drel and a blackguard and a good-for-nothing. You've 
 always been preaching to me about being a failure 
 Watch out for this, and watch out for that! Well, I 
 think I'd be a failure if I ever went near the Mill. 
 That's that." 
 
 Isabel felt some justice in this; she looked over at
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 293 
 
 Phanor as if to say, " Now, what have you got to say 
 for yourself? " 
 
 But Phanor jumped up, glaring, and advanced on 
 Amos. 
 
 " By God! " he shouted. " You'll talk that way to 
 me, will you? After all I've done, you turn around 
 and talk that way to me! " 
 
 " Yes, sir," Amos said. " And I don't mean to be 
 disrespectful. You can beat me, if you want to, and I 
 won't hit back. But I don't want to work in the Mill, 
 and I won't do it, if you break every bone in my body." 
 
 " Oh, Amos, to think that you'd speak that way to 
 your dear, kind father! " Isabel said. 
 
 " I'm going out to Shrewsbury to see Constance," 
 said Amos, suddenly starting for the door. 
 
 " And what will Constance say to this, I'd like to 
 know? " 
 
 That was true; what would she say? Oh, they had 
 him cornered! There was no one to whom he could 
 
 go- 
 Where were his people? The people who were wait- 
 ing for him, somewhere, wondering why he did not 
 come? He needed them so desperately. 
 
 The subject of the place in the Mill was not brought 
 up again while Amos was at home. Phanor moped 
 about the house, saying little, staring at the wall, rat- 
 tling his paper in his lap as he sat trying to read in the 
 evening. Everything seemed to have gone wrong.
 
 294 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 When Amos left to go back to school, Isabel said to 
 him, " I want you to think over what's been said, my 
 son, and see if you think it's kind and considerate to 
 act as you've acted." 
 
 This was the final speech, the outcome of long dis- 
 cussions that Phanor and Isabel had carried on when- 
 ever Amos' back was turned; just as they thought that 
 he was refusing to go into the Mill because it was they 
 who asked it, so they thought he might be won back 
 from his decision by an appeal to kindness. 
 
 He had expected to feel relieved and happy when he 
 once more walked the streets of Lakewood, rejoicing 
 in his freedom, making his own life, at last; instead, he 
 was gloomy and miserable he had hurt his parents' 
 feelings, and made them unhappy, after all they had 
 done for him; he had been offered the life that God 
 intended for him, and he had said that he did not want 
 it; his chance had come, and he had refused to con- 
 sider it. 
 
 " It's all over with me now," he said to himself, as 
 he went plodding wearily up the hill to school.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 AT the school gates he met a lady, who smiled and 
 bowed to him as he passed; he raised his hat 
 to her in an absent manner, but he did not know who 
 she was. 
 
 " Hello, Enday! " said Robertson, who was seated 
 with some other boys on the steps. " Did she speak to 
 you? " 
 
 " Hello," said Amos, gloomily. " Who was she? " 
 
 " That's Miss Harmon, you Chinaman. She's just 
 been in to see old B. F. and she's going to give a party 
 for the Track Team, because we won the Meet. Didn't 
 she say anything about it? " 
 
 " No," said Amos. " She doesn't know me." 
 
 " Well, she saw your ribbon. It's going to be a great 
 party; she's an old friend of old B. F's." 
 
 " Oh, I guess I won't go." 
 
 " Why not, you crazy? She wants you to." 
 
 " I don't feel well," Amos said. " When is her old 
 party? " 
 
 " To-morrow afternoon." 
 
 Amos went to his room, flung down his suitcase, and 
 stood at the window, looking out. Far down the road 
 he could see Miss Harmon, walking towards the village. 
 
 " Oh, Lord! " he groaned. " It's coming at just the 
 
 295
 
 296 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 worst time! Dress all up and stew around with a lot 
 of society people! I wish they'd let me alone." 
 
 He looked about him at the familiar things of his 
 den. Here he had thought himself safe and free, out 
 of the reach of trouble. But for how long? Till June. 
 Then he would have to go out into the world, which had 
 offered him his chance. He had refused it. That was 
 trouble enough. And now, this party! He was asked 
 to see a crowd of people whom he had never seen be- 
 fore and would never see again; they would hear that 
 he had thrown away his chance, and they would laugh 
 at him. What an incredible fool he had been! 
 
 He went out by the rear door, in order to avoid his 
 comrades, and stumbled along down to the boat-house. 
 He took a boat, to be alone with his misery, and rowed 
 out across the lake. 
 
 They had offered him his chance. "Here's your 
 start in life," they had said. "Here's your success. 
 You want a place in the world, don't you? And a 
 happy and comfortable home, and some measure of 
 ease, and safety and freedom from worry for the rest 
 of your life? Well, here it is." And he poor blind 
 idiot had answered, " Thanks very much, but I don't 
 care for it." It was pitiful, and comic! If you wanted 
 to see something ridiculous, take a look at Amos 
 Enday! Hadn't he known, perfectly well, that oppor- 
 tunity comes but once? 
 
 He gave a savage pull at his oars, shipped them, and 
 let his boat drift noiselessly in among the rushes in a 
 little inlet in the wooded shore. He came gliding in,
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 297 
 
 spreading ripples. The bow stopped in the soft sand. 
 
 He raised his eyes, and there on the bank, looking 
 up at him in surprise from a book which she was hold- 
 ing in her lap, was a girl. 
 
 He had never seen her before, yet she was a friend. 
 In a flash of instant recognition he knew her. She 
 was one of his people. She was all he had ever hoped 
 for. There she was. 
 
 Her hair was black, under a broad-brimmed hat, 
 and her eyes were blue a soft and tender blue, he 
 thought. Her eyes were so frank, and her face so 
 friendly! She wore a dark dress with a V neck, and 
 a broad white tie. She held her book in her small 
 brown hands and looked out at him, over the tops of 
 the trembling rushes. There was an alert look about 
 her, showing clearly through her beauty, a keen, quest- 
 ing, understanding look, that seemed to put a spell on 
 Amos, though he had never seen anything like it, in all 
 his life, and moved him to declare himself. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said, looking straight at 
 her. " I didn't know you were here." 
 
 " How should you know? " she said. 
 
 " Why, it seems to me I should have," he answered, 
 smiling at her. 
 
 " Well, perhaps you should, after all." 
 
 Had she said that? Was it possible? And could 
 any human girl have a voice so sweet? 
 
 " You're sure I'm not interrupting you? " 
 
 "No," she answered. "Truly." And she closed 
 her book.
 
 298 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " My name is Enday. I'm up at school." 
 
 She nodded. " I saw you, at the Meet," she said. 
 " You had a number six on your back, didn't you? " 
 
 " Yes." He looked up at her expectantly. 
 
 " My name is Harmon; Joan Harmon." 
 
 " That's just like you, that name; you couldn't be 
 named anything else, if you tried. Oh, then the lady 
 I met was your mother? " 
 
 " No; my aunt. My mother's not here. Where did 
 you meet her? " 
 
 " I just passed her at the gates of school; she was 
 coming out." 
 
 " Oh. She went up to see Dr. Kimber I mean, old 
 B. F. She's a friend of his, and she's going to give a 
 party for the Track Team to-morrow, to celebrate." 
 
 " Yes, somebody told me that; Robby, I guess it 
 was. Where's the celebration going to be? " 
 
 " At her house." She hesitated slightly, and then 
 added, " At home." 
 
 " Oh! " Amos exclaimed. " And I was just saying I 
 didn't want to go! I thought I wouldn't know any- 
 body there! " 
 
 " Why, all your friends will be there." 
 
 " Yes; I know that now. But I didn't, five minutes 
 ago." 
 
 " I must go home," she said suddenly, getting up. 
 
 " Isn't it strange? " he said. " I came out on the 
 lake because I was unhappy, and I didn't want to see 
 anybody. And now why, I might have known I
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 299 
 
 couldn't be unhappy for very long, if only I'd look 
 around a little." 
 
 He looked up at her as she stood with the woods at 
 her back, the soft light from the water reflected up on 
 her face. He wanted to say something to keep her, but 
 he could find no words. 
 
 " Then I shall see you at Miss Harmon's? " 
 
 " I shall be very pleased," she said politely. " Good- 
 by." 
 
 She moved away among the trees, and Amos let her 
 go several steps before he could speak. 
 
 " Good-by," he said. 
 
 She turned back for a second. 
 
 He had a glimpse of her white tie through the twi- 
 light of the woods, and then she was gone. 
 
 He rowed back as hard as he could pull; the water 
 roared about his boat. Oh, but she was wonderful! 
 Life was wonderful! The whole world was different; 
 see how the sun shone! 
 
 He climbed out on the float, and looked back towards 
 the other shore. It was barely recognizable; he would 
 not have known that he had ever seen it before. 
 
 He had forgotten to tie up his boat, and it went 
 slowly drifting away; he threw himself recklessly into 
 another, and went in pursuit of it. 
 
 He ran up the hill to school, and found Robertson 
 still sitting stolidly on the steps, just as if nothing had 
 happened. 
 
 " Feeling better, aren't you? " Robertson said.
 
 300 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Amos went to the party with Harvey. As they came 
 up the path they heard the patter of conversation 
 within, and saw Miss Harmon presiding at her tea- 
 table, with the girls whom she had invited to help her 
 entertain the Track Team. 
 
 As the two came in, Miss Harmon saw them; the 
 boys, following her glance and smile of welcome, burst 
 out into the school cheer, putting Harvey's name at the 
 end, and then repeating it for Amos. 
 
 They stood quiet, embarrassed at this reception; 
 Amos' eyes were seeking Joan, seeing nothing else, car- 
 ing for nothing else. 
 
 She came forward to meet him, took his hand for 
 a second, and brought him up to be presented to her 
 aunt. Miss Harmon was gracious and pleasant; every 
 one was gracious and pleasant. All the best people in 
 the world, it seemed, were gathered in that one room. 
 And it was no longer ago than yesterday that he had 
 been accusing himself of stupidity, saying that he was 
 lost, that he had given up his golden opportunity! 
 
 " I'm afraid I was rude yesterday," he told Joan. 
 He didn't think so at all, but he felt that he must say 
 something personal, something to make her remember 
 that they had met before, and would prevent her from 
 drifting away among the others. 
 
 " Why? " she said. " That wasn't a private place of 
 my own, you know." 
 
 " I was afraid it was," he answered. " I just came 
 blundering in, without asking. But I was unhappy, 
 and I didn't really see where I was going."
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 301 
 
 " You didn't seem unhappy." 
 
 " Well, I saw you before you saw me, and so ... 
 You see, I'd just come from home, and I hadn't had 
 time, yet, to be glad I was back at school." 
 
 " And you were thinking that you'd have to be going 
 back home sometime? Was that it? " 
 
 Almost it seemed as if Joan knew Phanor and Isabel. 
 
 " Yes," he said. " My father and mother are in such 
 a frightful rush to get me out into the world, and get 
 me started. I want to go, too, but not exactly the way 
 they've decided on." 
 
 " What way is that? " 
 
 " Their way, you mean? To get a common every- 
 day job, and be successful at it, and settle down. ' The 
 Approbation of One's Fellows,' is what my father calls 
 it." 
 
 "How horrid! I know. You wish they were all 
 sunk to the bottom of the ocean, and yet you don't 
 really wish that at all." 
 
 " Yes; you don't want to hurt their feelings. If you 
 didn't care about them, it would be all right. They 
 keep saying, ' Now, then, boy; show some ambition! ' 
 and all the time they're standing in the background, 
 ready to cry if you give so much as a chirp." 
 
 Miss Harmon called to Joan. 
 
 " Oh, excuse me just a moment," she said, and left 
 him. 
 
 She had implied that she would come back; this 
 made endurable the next ten minutes, while he was 
 talking with another girl. Young Duncan strolled up
 
 302 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 and joined them; Amos was in a panic of fear that he 
 was caught in a trap, and would never get away again. 
 Then he heard Miss Harmon calling his name, and 
 turned to see her beckoning to him, with Joan beside 
 her. 
 
 " It's too bad you're new to Sheridan," she said. 
 " I'm sure we should have seen you here before, if 
 you'd been in school all the four years." 
 
 " I'm sure you would have," Amos said. " If I'd had 
 any luck." 
 
 " I've known Doctor Kimber for a great many years 
 almost too many to confess," Miss Harmon said. 
 " And I feel as if all the boys in the school were my 
 personal property." 
 
 " That's the way I feel about it, myself," Amos said. 
 "I wish you'd let me come down to ... to call." 
 
 " I'd be delighted to have you come." 
 
 "Yes; do," said Joan. 
 
 " If I knew when you'd be at home," he said, turning 
 to her. 
 
 " Why, come in for tea. I'm always here then." 
 
 " Well, then you'll be here to-morrow, won't you? " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " I'll be here myself," Amos said. 
 
 In the bewildering weeks that followed, Amos saw 
 life first from one side, then from another; he loved 
 Joan, for herself; then he loved all that she repre- 
 sented. 
 
 He watched her as she poured the tea, or talked, or
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 303 
 
 walked beside him down a country road, or turned the 
 leaves of a book from which she was reading aloud 
 it was fascinating to watch her do anything and every- 
 thing. In those slender brown hands of hers she held 
 the reins of days and years, making life go straight 
 forward along the road she had marked out for it; yet 
 it was the road along which life seemed miraculously 
 to want to go. 
 
 She had crossed the Atlantic when she was three 
 years old, for she had been born in England. Did that 
 explain something? He knew that this could not be 
 true; there must be stupid people in England, as every- 
 where else. No, it was Joan herself who was so won- 
 derful. 
 
 Perhaps the secret lay with her parents. Her mother, 
 it seemed, was lovely . . . 
 
 " She would be," Amos said. 
 
 Her father must be a great author or statesman or 
 musician; only so could he have given his daughter so 
 clear and vivid a vision of life. 
 
 " Oh, no," she told him, laughing. " He sells teavy 
 machinery, for an American firm in London." 
 
 This was another marvel. Could a man just be in 
 ordinary business, and still be real? Could a man live 
 all his life, so to speak, hand in hand with heavy ma- 
 chinery, and not be blinded and deafened to the mean- 
 ing of the world? Was it, after all, true that it was who 
 a man is that matters, and not what he does? 
 
 And there Joan sat, reading from some book she 
 loved; he watched her lips, marveling that any voice
 
 304 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 could be so sweet, waiting for her to lift her eyes to ask 
 him if he did not love it too. England, her lovely 
 mother, her father who was so wonderful, her gracious 
 aunt, this house at Lakewood, the books ... it was 
 all clear, yet still a miracle. Had this made Joan, or 
 was it Joan who had made this? Had she come from 
 the Eternal Spirit, or was she herself the Spirit? Oh, 
 but to put it simply, he loved her. 
 
 Then, at times, it was the world around her that he 
 loved. He had known this world to exist, and that 
 there were these people in it; all his life he had been 
 hoping to find them. His own hopes and dreams and 
 crying needs were confirmed by this world, and 
 strengthened. Joan taught him that it was not neces- 
 sary to give up anything. 
 
 " Oh, if I'd only known that life was like this! " he 
 said to her. " If I'd only known! " 
 
 " But you did know." 
 
 "Yes, really, I did. I knew it all the time. But, 
 you see, I'd never met a single solitary person, in all 
 my life, that made it come true. I knew it was there, 
 but I didn't trust my own sight, all alone; and I didn't 
 dare go out to look." 
 
 " It takes such a lot of courage to go out all alone," 
 Joan said. "You have to turn your back on things 
 that are sure, and go ahead without seeing a single step 
 of the way. You get to thinking that you only hope 
 these things are so, because you can't see them from 
 where you stand." 
 
 " Yes. I did that I used to think, ' If this is true,
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 305 
 
 then somebody, somewhere, will see it, and tell me I'm 
 right.' Only, I never found anybody like that. Not 
 till now." 
 
 " No one could tell you. You've got to see it for 
 yourself." 
 
 " Somebody did tell me, though. Somebody with 
 blue eyes. Oh, I suppose you're right; I must have 
 known it, all along, or I wouldn't have believed it when 
 you told me." 
 
 Joan nodded. 
 
 " Well, it's too late now," Amos sighed. 
 
 " Oh, that's not true. It's not true at all." 
 
 " It is, though. I've spent too much time muddling 
 around. If I should start now, I'd fail." 
 
 " Oh, you poor thing! " Joan exclaimed. " They've 
 convinced you, haven't they? Why, the only possible 
 way to ' fail ' is not to start! " 
 
 " I guess you're forgetting who I am, and where I've 
 come from." 
 
 " No, I'm not," she said. " I'm remembering. 
 You're you; that's all that matters." 
 
 " Of course I know that. But they don't. At every 
 step, I'd have to stop and ask myself, ' Good Lord, 
 boy; what's going to become of you? ' And as soon 
 as that's asked, it's got to be answered, and to say, ' I 
 don't know yet,' isn't any answer." 
 
 He had been taught to fear uncertainty, and expe- 
 riment, and failure. His parents had told him that he 
 must make up his mind before the chance came; that 
 there was danger in expecting too much from life; that
 
 306 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 you never knew, until it was too late. Now abideth 
 these three: Uncertainty, Experiment, and Failure. 
 And the greatest of these is failure. 
 
 " It wasn't for myself I was afraid," he told Joan. 
 " I couldn't have been unhappier, no matter what hap- 
 pened. I've been where I could reach up and touch 
 bottom. But it was for my father and mother. They 
 were the ones that failure would hurt, not me." 
 
 " There's always somebody to hurt," Joan said. " No 
 matter which way you go." 
 
 He stood at the window of his room, looking out down 
 the valley. There were the hills, and the roofs of the 
 houses showing through the tops of the trees; over 
 there, out of sight, but never, never out of mind, was 
 Wilton, and 97 Elm Street was there; Phanor would 
 be sitting there, with his paper on his knees, deep in 
 his chair, with Isabel across the table from him, reading 
 or sewing. They were thinking of him. 
 
 He imagined himself bursting in on them. 
 
 " I'm through with all this," he would say. 
 
 " With all what? " they would ask. They would be 
 wondering what had happened to steal away his wits. 
 
 " With all this nonsense of failing or succeeding, of 
 being safe or being alive, with home and the Mill, 
 and " Ah, this was the hard part of it! " and you." 
 
 They would say that that was a pretty way to talk, 
 and ask him what they had done to be treated so. And 
 what would he find to say to that?
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 307 
 
 "I'm sorry." That was all that could be said. "I'm 
 not going to live as you've planned for me." 
 
 " What are you going to do, then? " 
 
 " I don't know; something glorious." 
 
 That was it; they would keep after him until they 
 made him make some definite statement of his own 
 side of the matter; then they would judge it as if it 
 came within their own field of vision, and tell him that 
 it wouldn't work. They would laugh at him, as they 
 did when he wanted to go to Europe with Burton. 
 
 He thought of Burton. Where was he now? Bur- 
 ton had tried to do it; he had tried to make life come 
 true, and he had not been strong enough. Just as he 
 was on his highest crest of hope, adversity had touched 
 him, and he had gone down. That was Burton's case. 
 Well, in his own case, what assurance had he that he 
 would not fail, too? He could live only once. 
 
 He thought of Belle. The idea of her was distaste- 
 ful to him. Try as he would, he could see her only as 
 he saw her that last time. But, at least, Belle had gone 
 her own road. Whatever it was she wanted, she had 
 been brave enough to start for it. Well, she was dead 
 now, and she knew about it all. 
 
 Brave enough? How was she brave? She had seen 
 but one side of it; there was no such thing, for her, as 
 danger. She had been prejudiced and biassed, and 
 she had never been called upon to make a choice. How 
 grateful she ought to be for that! 
 
 He thought of Constance. What did she amount to?
 
 3 o3 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 What had she to give? She saw only one side, too. 
 She was safe, Constance would never know whether the 
 skies fell or not. 
 
 But Joan saw both sides. Joan was brave. No one 
 was warning her, clutching at her to pull her back, but, 
 even so, she knew that life required faith and courage. 
 Joan was infinitely precious; she was the most pre- 
 cious thing that life had produced. 
 
 He sat wearily down at his desk and got out a sheet 
 of letter paper. 
 
 MY DEAR FATHER: 
 
 The weather has been wonderful, these last few days, 
 and I've tried to get outdoors as much as I could. I haven't 
 done anything in athletics since the Spring Meet, because 
 I can't do anything but the mile, and there isn't time to 
 train for anything else. 
 
 This morning we got our marks in the Latin Test I wrote 
 you about, and I came out second, and Mr. Wheeler read 
 my paper aloud to the class to show them how it should be 
 done. I think I got a good mark in History, too, but we 
 won't find out about that for a day or two. Everybody is 
 getting ready for graduation. 
 
 Miss Harmon, a lady in Lakewood, a friend of Doctor 
 Kimber's, gave a party a week or so ago, for the Track 
 Team, and I went down, and met some nice people, and now 
 I spend all the time I can at her house. 
 
 My love to mother. 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 AMOS. 
 
 He read the letter over before putting it in the en- 
 velope. He had set a cautious train, as a preliminary
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 309 
 
 that remark about the nice people. It would show 
 his father how matters stood. Of course, it would 
 make his father uneasy, but he might as well have it 
 over with. 
 
 Sure enough, Phanor wrote, in a day or so, to say 
 that he hoped Amos' social activities would not take 
 too much of his time away from his studies. 
 
 " I'm going back to England in June," Joan told 
 him. 
 
 At first he was thrilled. That she could so calmly 
 announce such a thing! Well, so could he, and so 
 could any one; but Joan could make it come true. 
 
 Then he began to realize the loss to himself. 
 
 " I'll be sorry to have you go," he said. 
 
 " I'm sorry, too, in a way. But I haven't been back 
 for more than a year, and Dad wants me home for his 
 vacation." 
 
 " Have you liked it in Lakewood? " 
 
 " You know I have," she said, looking steadily at 
 him. 
 
 " I've felt responsible for Lakewood, you know," he 
 smiled at her. " I've wanted, all the time, to make it 
 a place you'd like." 
 
 " It's been in good hands," Joan said. " I've loved 
 it." 
 
 He was silent for a moment, following her in his 
 thoughts. 
 
 " I've never been to England," he said. 
 
 " I know. It's strange. Why haven't you? "
 
 310 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 " Why haven't I? Why, think who I am! " 
 
 " I was thinking just that. You . . . you have all 
 the world for your own, if you want it." 
 
 " If I'm not afraid to take it, you mean." 
 
 " Afraid ! " she exclaimed. " What could you pos- 
 sibly be afraid of? Amos . . . don't you see what 
 you have? " 
 
 He looked down at her; her eyes were shining, look- 
 ing into his own. Had she wanted him to see it? Was 
 it this that she was trying to tell him? 
 
 But no; she was going to England, where he would 
 never be able to see her again; the mere knowledge 
 that she was going put her forever beyond his reach. 
 
 She put her hand on his arm. 
 
 " Oh, Joan, listen! " he cried. " You know all about 
 me; you've seen through me in a way I didn't think 
 was possible. Don't think I* don't understand, too. In 
 another month, I'll be starting; I don't know how, or 
 where but I'll make a place in the world. I can't do 
 any more than that." 
 
 " No," Joan said. " There's no more than that to 
 say, for any one. Only be sure you make a place 
 you'll like." 
 
 " If I do ... will you like it? " 
 
 " I want you to like it, for yourself. Only be sure! 
 You know. You see what it is that you hold in your 
 hands. Nothing in the whole world counts but that." 
 
 " I know. But I'll have to wait." 
 
 " If you wait," Joan said, " it's always too late."
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 311 
 
 An air of indifference and carelessness began to be 
 felt in the school; lessons were not so strongly insisted 
 on, and delinquencies were passed without comment; 
 teachers gave holidays, and curtailed the length of reci- 
 tations; it was evident, in a score of ways, that the 
 end was at hand. There was very little studying done 
 in the dens of the Seniors in West House; the study 
 hour was taken up with visits between the boys, who 
 looked back over their school-days, and talked of the 
 days that were to come. 
 
 And as for Amos Enday, what was he to do? 
 
 What had Joan meant? It all came back to that. 
 Did she mean . . . but he was trapped, no matter 
 what she meant. He must do something, must get 
 ahead, must make a place for himself. He must be 
 prudent. To much was at stake to admit of any error 
 in choice. 
 
 The hour had struck; the Day of Judgment was at 
 hand. 
 
 " My dear young friends," Doctor Kimber had said, 
 in his last address to the school on graduation day, 
 " My dear young friends, you are about to o out into 
 the world. It will not make much of you, until you have 
 won for yourselves the right to attention. Some things 
 will be easier than you have dared to hope; you will 
 meet hard and trying times harder and more trying 
 than you had thought it possible for any man to go 
 through with, and live. But be of good courage. I 
 have watched boys go out, as you are going out, for 
 thirty years, and I can give you, out of that experience,
 
 312 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 no better counsel than that: be of good courage. Fix 
 your eyes on a goal that is worthy of you, and fight for 
 it, straight, hard, ceaselessly; never look back, take no 
 heed of the distracting advice of those who run beside 
 you. Do this, and you will remember your days at 
 Sheridan with gratitude, and Sheridan, watching you 
 from this hill-top, will see your progress with pride 
 her Boys! " 
 
 This was all very fine, and deeply moving. But 
 the Doctor hadn't said a word about prudence. He 
 hadn't told you how you were to select your worthy 
 goal. He didn't say if your father was one of those 
 who ran beside you, whose distracting advice you were 
 not to heed. In short, he said that you were right, in 
 principle, but he didn't tell you how to act. 
 
 There was a reception in the Hall after the gradu- 
 ating ceremonies. Joan was there, with Miss Harmon. 
 
 Amos saw her in the crowd, and made his way to her. 
 
 " Amos," she said. " We're sailing to-morrow. 
 Would you . . . I'd like it if you could come down to 
 see us off." 
 
 "Oh! " Amos said. "Why, I'd love it! It will 
 make me unhappy, I suppose, but I don't care for 
 that." 
 
 " I think it will make me unhappy, too," Joan said. 
 " But I'd like to see you again before we go." 
 
 Prudence, forsooth! Prudence could go and hide 
 her foolish head!
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 313 
 
 Amos arrived in New York. He was miserably un- 
 happy, stirred with emotion, and frightened. Pres- 
 ently, within a few short hours, his heart would be 
 broken and this great city did not seem to care. All 
 about him, in the strange streets, people were hurry- 
 ing along on their own business, indifferent and unex- 
 cited, seeing only the small circle of their own separate 
 worlds. 
 
 He must find a florist. Yes, that was what he had to 
 do. He must find a florist. 
 
 " I want some flowers," he said, walking into the 
 shop, " to give to a lady that's going away." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the florist, briskly. "What'll it 
 be?" 
 
 And he looked like a kind man, too. 
 
 The streets were endless, enormous. Over the roofs 
 of the nearer houses he could see great buildings, tow- 
 ering up into the sky, miles away; there was no end to 
 it. And it was all no more than a pin-point in the 
 world! From the deck of a departing ship, how soon 
 would it fade to an invisible speck! 
 
 The wharf was a huge gloomy place. 
 
 " Can I get a pass to go on board the ship? " Amos 
 asked of a man in the office at the entrance. "I'm 
 seeing some one off." 
 
 The man did not put his hand on his shoulder and 
 say, "My God! Poor fellow!" He wrote out a 
 pass. 
 
 From the deck he could see the steel blue water of 
 the river; towboats went churning past the end of the
 
 3H THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 slip, breathing hard; lighters were rolling gently be- 
 side the wharves; a greasy little power-boat noisily 
 sidled off with the current, the man in it, smoking a 
 pipe, as if nothing were wrong, waved his hand to the 
 crowd on the liner. The winches rattled and spouted 
 steam, and the derrick-booms swung and grated. 
 
 There was the harbor, leading out to sea; a mist 
 hung over the water, mercifully hiding the horizon. 
 And Joan was going away! Those men, who joked as 
 they worked, were getting this ship ready to go to sea ! 
 He wanted to cry out to them, to tell them that they 
 didn't know what they were doing; that they were 
 taking Joan away. 
 
 He found her, at last. She was standing by the rail, 
 watching the gangway. 
 
 " Joan," he said. 
 
 "Oh! I've been watching. I was beginning to be 
 afraid you weren't coming." 
 
 He put his flowers in her arms, without a word. She 
 hid her face in the blossoms. 
 
 " I can't stand this," he said. 
 
 She looked away for a second, and turned back 
 smiling. She seemed to want to help him. 
 
 " It's exciting, isn't it? " she said. " I remember 
 seeing people off, when I wasn't going myself. You 
 feel so lost." 
 
 "I've never seen anybody off before. No, that 
 doesn't matter. It's just that I've never seen you . . . 
 go away . . . before." 
 
 Miss Harmon joined them.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 315 
 
 " Oh, Amos! I'm glad you could come. What 
 lovely flowers! " 
 
 " I didn't know this was going to be so awful," he 
 told her. 
 
 She smiled, and put her hand on his arm. 
 
 She was one of his people. She was friendly, and 
 strong and dependable. Couldn't she tell him that he 
 had never had a father and mother; that there had 
 never been any such place as Wilton? 
 
 She changed the subject, very deliberately. 
 
 " Would you mind I'm going to ask you to be good 
 enough to post these letters when you go back. Would 
 you? " 
 
 " I'd be glad to," he managed to say. 
 
 As Miss Harmon turned away, he saw a man on the 
 bridge above his head; he came to the rail, and leaned 
 on it for a moment, looking down. The Captain . . . 
 the pilot ... he was going to take this ship out, in 
 spite of everything. 
 
 " We have a nice cabin," Joan said. " Would you 
 come down, just for a moment? " 
 
 He followed her down the stairs and along the pas- 
 sage; a small close passage, dimly lit, with a wood rail 
 along the side; people were visible in the doors of the 
 staterooms as he passed, hanging up coats, fussing over 
 packages, quieting children. He saw these things but 
 dimly; his eyes were filled with Joan, moving on ahead 
 of him. Couldn't he reach out and catch her? Couldn't 
 he take her in his arms, and hold her hold her close 
 and never let her go?
 
 3 i6 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 Her cabin was hushed and secluded; the noises from 
 the deck came down remotely, as if from a great dis- 
 tance. The port light, from which the curtains were 
 drawn back, stared stupidly out against the blank wall 
 of the wharf; how soon would it look out over the sea! 
 There was the bed in which she would sleep. A suit- 
 case lay on the sofa. A cloak was hanging on the back 
 of the door. 
 
 " Joan," he said. " Joan, you're coming back, aren't 
 you? " 
 
 " Why, yes," she replied. " I'm coming back. But 
 you don't . . ." She did not finish, and he never knew 
 what it was that she might have said. 
 
 She tried to smile at him, and failed, and tried again, 
 and gave up, miserably. 
 
 Up above, the whistle blew. It was as if they were 
 packed in a box with cotton wool ; a far-away roar that 
 shook the air. 
 
 He spread out his hands. " There," he said. 
 
 " You're the bravest person I know," he said. 
 "You're not going to let yourself be frightened by 
 this? " 
 
 She shook her head. "It's you," she said, "who 
 mustn't be frightened ever, of anything." 
 
 " I've got to go." 
 
 He took a step backward toward the door, stopped, 
 and came forward again. 
 
 " Dear, I can't do anything, don't you see? I'm just 
 . . . I'm nobody. I haven't any place, yet." 
 
 " I know."
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 317 
 
 " I'll do what I can," he said, trying to convince her 
 and thus convince himself. " I'll try to make a place 
 for you. But now when it isn't done I can't ask 
 ... I couldn't give . . ." His voice died away. 
 Didn't she believe him? 
 
 " Good-by," she said. 
 
 " Good-by." 
 
 She made an effort, and faced him, once more. 
 
 " Never forget," she said. " Never forget that you 
 can have anything in the world, if only you want it 
 . . . enough." 
 
 He did not dare to take her hand. He tried to say 
 something more, and could not. 
 
 He put his hands on the sides of the door, and felt 
 his way out into the passage. 
 
 If he had seen her standing there, looking after him, 
 her eyes bright with enthusiasm for the way she was 
 sending him out into the world to find his life for him- 
 self if he had seen her, he would have misunder- 
 stood, and would have gone back. 
 
 But he did not know he never knew what she was 
 trying to give him. 
 
 He was pushing his way up the stairs, struggling out 
 to the deck, lunging desperately down the gangway to 
 the wharf. 
 
 He saw the ship push out into the stream. Miss 
 Harmon waved to him. Joan did not come. He saw 
 the steam go up in a white plume, and heard the three 
 farewell blasts of the whistle. 
 
 He turned back into the streets, wandering, some-
 
 318 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 how, to the station. He stopped often, as if he were 
 looking for something. But he did not know what he 
 was looking for. 
 
 " This train for Wilton? " he asked the man at the 
 gate. 
 
 " Wilton; yes, sir," the man said 
 
 He sank into a seat. 
 
 Oh, God damn me for a fool! Oh, hell! What have 
 I done? What a fool, an utter, God-forgotten fool! 
 
 They made me do it! They sit there, always under 
 foot, asking me to die for them! Why should I listen? 
 God, why did I listen! What right have they to ask me 
 to die for them? What right have they to sit there, 
 year after year, and insist that I take nothing for my- 
 self? I hate it! I'm sick of it! Christ knows I'm sick 
 to death of it! 
 
 How could I know enough not to trust them? How 
 was I to tell that they never spoke the truth? I asked 
 them what life was like, and they said, "Look out! " 
 That was all they knew: "Look out! " There was 
 danger on all sides, they said. Better stick close to 
 home, they said. I've fought them not a day of my 
 life that I haven't fought them. And what's happened? 
 Now, when I needed it and Oh, I needed to be free 
 this day, if ever a man needed to be free! I called on 
 myself for courage, and there's no answer. They've 
 changed me. They've got me. They've built their sly 
 damned criminal parlor in my own heart, and I can't 
 get away from it. I'm done.
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 319 
 
 Oh, damn them, damn them! Damn everything! 
 Damn everything! 
 
 I'm through; I'm finished. I've gone to hell. And 
 it doesn't matter. 
 
 Hours and days passed, and nothing was done about 
 it. There seemed so little that could be done now. 
 If only he had made a firmer resistance, or had declared 
 his independence before there was so much at stake! 
 If, when he had first gone away to school ... or be- 
 fore that ... or when he was a baby. . . . 
 
 Well, there was nothing for it now but to skip all 
 this part of life, to put it away behind him, and try 
 Clever to think of it again. 
 
 He stumbled along up the dark road that led to the 
 Winterbournes' farm. 
 
 Constance met him at the door, when he knocked. 
 
 " Why, Amos! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Constance," he said. " Constance, will you marry 
 me?" 
 
 "Oh, Jinks! " she exclaimed, clasping her hands to 
 her breast. "Oh, my goodness gracious! Yes! " 
 
 Two hours later, Amos climbed onto the train and 
 went along home to Wilton. 
 
 He stared down the length of the car under the 
 smoky yellow lamps. 
 
 "Good Lord! " he said. "I've done for myself 
 now! "
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 AMOS ENDAY was married on the fifteenth of 
 July, 1896. 
 
 " Gee, what a day! " he said. " I wouldn't have be- 
 lieved it could get so hot." 
 
 Phanor thought he knew what a bad wedding day 
 was, but he couldn't make up his mind whether it was 
 worse to freeze to death, as he had done when he him- 
 self was married, or to be broiled alive, as in the pres- 
 ent instance. He stood at the window of the Winter- 
 bournes' sitting-room, looking out across the fields 
 towards the river, watching the quivering heat-waves 
 ascend ceaselessly from the baking ground. He kept 
 telling everybody who passed that he was hoping for a 
 breath of air, but that he didn't seem likely to get it. 
 
 " If I'd have known it was going to be a day like 
 this," Amos said, " I'd been in favor of waiting." 
 
 " Well, that's a question," Phanor said. " We didn't 
 see much but ice, when we were married. Remember, 
 Isabel? " 
 
 Isabel was excited at having so many people about, 
 and Phanor thought she was getting too tired, but she 
 held out, and smiled bravely, taking pains that her hap- 
 piness should be plainly evident, even through her suf- 
 fering. She was, in fact, greatly pleased with the 
 
 match; she " had always said " that Constance was a 
 
 320
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 321 
 
 good girl, who would make an excellent home for 
 Amos. Now that the long anxiety was over, she felt 
 and made the others feel that her son might have mar- 
 ried any one of a number of girls. But she took good 
 care that no one should ask which girls these were, 
 and whenever she thought of the alternatives, she was 
 relieved and happy again. She and Phanor had wor- 
 ried a great deal about getting Amos married to the 
 right person well, they couldn't have found any one 
 they liked better, even if they had picked her out 
 themselves, than Constance Winterbourne. 
 
 Phanor had been " fortunate enough " to " hold 
 open " a place for Amos in the Wilton Mills; it was a 
 position with Mr. Hungerford, who had recently been 
 promoted to the superintendence of both the East and 
 West Mills; Amos had refused it, to be sure, when it 
 was first offered, but Phanor " had reason to hope " 
 that this was but a temporary decision. And so it 
 turned out. When he had brought the matter up 
 again, at the close of school, his faith had been re- 
 warded by the boy's complete acceptance. 
 
 Amos worked hard and devotedly, and he had been 
 granted a raise in salary at the beginning of the year. 
 He saw no reason, then, for further delay, for he did 
 not dare all himself to question the wisdom of marry- 
 ing Constance, and he told her that they could be mar- 
 ried whenever she chose. She chose the first of June, 
 but that was rather too close, and could not be made to 
 fit in with Amos' vacation at the Mill, and he put it 
 off till the fifteenth of July.
 
 322 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 
 
 He had hunted for a house, and succeeded in finding 
 an upstairs apartment in Elm Street, nearly opposite 
 number 97, where he had been born. Constance had 
 always wanted to live in Wilton, and was delighted with 
 the arrangement of the rooms, and with the furniture, 
 which they had been able to gather from stores and 
 from the stocks of cast-offs in the garrets of the En- 
 days and the Winterbournes. It was ready for them 
 by the day of the wedding, and they went away for a 
 brief honeymoon with the delicious sense that they 
 were coming back to a regular home in an orderly 
 world. Constance knew that this was exactly what 
 Amos needed though he was not always willing to ad- 
 mit that it was what he wanted and she sat about the 
 task of giving it to him, from the very moment of the 
 wedding. 
 
 Everything went off very well indeed. The arrange- 
 ments were all made by people who had themselves 
 been married, and it soon became evident that things 
 were going as they should. The most unpleasant pos- 
 sibility was in respect to Mr. Winterbourne, who had 
 been carefully trained in the task of walking slowly 
 enough to maintain the time of the Wedding March; 
 but he justified the labor spent on him, and did not once 
 overbalance. In every direction, special precautions 
 were taken against unpleasant occurrrences. 
 
 Following the actual ceremony, there was a period 
 of twenty-two minutes for hand-shakings, congratula- 
 tions, and kisses; then the bride and groom withdrew. 
 As they appeared again, the carriage drew up at the
 
 THE PARLOR BEGAT AMOS 323 
 
 door. Constance wept for a moment on her mother's 
 shoulder, and received a blessing and a kiss from her 
 father; then they made their way down the steps, 
 through the nearest and dearest, gathered in the door- 
 way, and climbed into the carriage, which had been 
 standing in the sun so long that it resembled an oven, 
 and drove away. 
 
 In the quiet and darkened bedroom, where Phanor 
 and Isabel went to get their things, he turned to her 
 with a sigh. 
 
 " Crickey! " he said. " I can't help feeling relieved 
 that it's all over." 
 
 " It has been hard," Isabel agreed. " But, thank 
 Heaven, it came out all right in the end." 
 
 THE END
 
 323 SO.SPRINGST. 
 
 
 
 A 000128979